He
had lips that looked they were good for kissing, the kind you see on women in
the movies. Although he was Mexican he
had this pasty skin like a desert gecko that looked as if it had never been out
in the sun. I don’t why for sure but my stomach wanted to heave whenever he got
within a yard or two. Every day in class I tried to be as invisible as possible
and did everything I could to avoid making eye contact. 
One
way was to spend most of my time flying jet airplanes outside in the wide blue
yonder. I could be Chuck Yeager or some fighter pilot doing loops and flying
upside down while Earnestine and Alex and the other poor ordinary-humans in my history
class were in their seats—attentive—slaves to his gooey words and scary eyes.
Not
me. I was free. Sometimes.
Sometimes—not.
When he yelled my named it was like getting hit by a missile and downed behind
enemy lines. So much for my flight of fantasy.
I didn’t mind the fact that all the other kids were staring at me—I was used
to that by now. It was something in the way he stared at me that literally sickened
me. He smirked with a grin like the Cheshire
cat about to eat the head off a mouse. I shivered and slunk down in chair
feeling like he had caught me half-naked in the janitor’s closet again—only
this time he gloated as if he had been the one who undressed me and I was
his cat-nip.
I
didn’t like Brother Michael. I broke from his yucky gaze by pretending to
read the textbook. I had no idea what page we were on—heck I had no idea what
chapter we were in. The other kids seemed to like him—not me. He would walk up
and down the isles with his soft-pasty-skin and brush against my chair as if
trying to send me a message—and look—and grin.
I
prayed against my vomit superpowers—and prayed to have them at the ready.
He
walked back to the front of the class and made some gross sexual innuendos
about how Catherine the Great died—American History or not, this his favorite
story year after year. It was above my pay grade. He talked about a horse or something and laughed and got excited as he watched the other boys laugh. He seemed to take more pleasure in it all than he should have.
Gross, right?
Am
I right?
Was
I wrong to feel this way about this priest-type-person, a Catholic Brother—whatever
the heck that means?
I
never read the textbooks—I was too busy flying jet airplanes and daydreaming
about Andrea.
You and I must
make a pact, we must bring salvation back
Where there is
love, I'll be there
I'll reach out
my hand to you, I'll have faith in all you do
Just call my
name and I'll be there.
It was here at Saint Mo’s I thought I would find out the meaning of love. I didn’t know. We didn’t use the “L” word in my house. Never heard
my mother say it. Never heard my father
say it. I wanted to know and I hoped Andrea would save me before I become a completely numb to human emotions—a Zombie. Don’t leave me Andrea—make
a pact with me—save me. Show me what
love is. Help me. Help me discover what it means to love and to be loved.
And oh - I'll be
there to comfort you,
Build my world
of dreams around you, I'm so glad that I found you
I'll be there
with a love that's strong
I'll be your
strength, I'll keep holding on - yes I will, yes I will.
Andrea
don’t you know that I’m too stupid, too small, too insecure. I don’t want to lose
you—hold out your hand—look over your shoulder—say something. Take
initiative and rescue me—I’m here and I promise I'll be there.
Still talking to my textbook, the room was empty and the class had been
over for who-knows-how long.
Stupid!
I
sat and stared at Andrea’s chair. Puberty had hit. Hormones were exploding my brain cells and I wanted her to show me what love was. I wanted to
feel it. I wanted tender human contact. I wanted someone to say the word to me. I wanted to know that it existed in the
universe and that it was real—like I belonged here on this planet—like earth was my home.
It
was World’s Finest Chocolate day. School was over and I had a ginormous box
of fundraising chocolate we were forced to sell.
Two
of the kids who were at least a foot taller than me—the guys who had gone
through puberty in the sixth grade and sporting mustaches in the seventh grade—caused
a ruckus at the bus stop. It was the 3 Lincoln taking all of us Saint Mark kids
back to Venice and the Saint Gerard kids back to Culver City.
These prideful jerks played football and were prejudice against
water polo players—especially water polo players with blonde hair.
Pride and Prejudice. No two ways about
it.
Towering over me, Ricky poked me in the chest, but I stood my ground because Marilyn and Theresa and Julie and Andrea were there. Pshaw, I don’t think Ricky knew that I had to fight just about every single day at home against the Wolf-Pack. He had no idea that I had to take on two, three and sometimes four at a time. He didn't know that I bested an alligator and a veloci-raptor. He didn’t know that I a condition and lacked the ability to feel physical pain whenever adrenaline set in.
I set my box of chocolates down and hoped that
I didn’t kill him if he attacked me—it would be his fault. I would probably go for the head like I did
with “Cursey” in the fifth grade. Big guys hate it when you jump on their head.
He
did that lame thing where he acted tough by thrusting his chest and head forward in my
direction. I didn't flinch. I tried to keep the
inner Pit-bull at bay. I looked him in
the eye. I don’t think he liked what he saw and he walked away making some
snide remark that all the kids laughed at—at me. Big deal. I was used to it. Lie. You never get used to it. I spun
around to pick up my box of chocolates and it was gone.
The
whole thing was a ruse. Jim had slipped away with the box when I was being distracted. I stood there and
looked like an idiot. Zombie-like I got
on the bus and made sure not make eye contact with anyone because I had been
played for the fool.
