Page 19 of My Own Kind of Person

“Yesterday I learned…”

I guess I want to tell them that yesterday I met someone who seems really great.

My brain goes blank.

After a few long seconds, I make my face smile and I nod.

“Profound,” Tony says. “Yesterday, I learned.”

“Ugh.” Andi opens their door.

“It’s like a haiku with only one line.” Tony stays still. Andi leaves and Tony says quietly, as though sharing a secret, “I got us two tickets to the Joe Johnson competition at Captain’s. I wish you were in it, but it’ll be awesome to see a show in a big club.”

I find I’m unable to reply.

“Do you think he’ll be there?” Tony asks. “Do you think he’s the one deciding who wins?”

I find I’m barely able to open my door.

I pay attention to myself during the morning announcements and the first few periods of the day. I have not magically transformed into someone who speaks strictly in sensitive truths. My public persona remains the same, like I’m a computer programmed to operate a certain way and yesterday with Elijah was a momentary glitch. Maybe that’s fine, though? Wouldn’t it be weird if I were quietly recounting my deepest emotions during a lesson on parabolas? Would it be weird?

At the beginning of English, Mr. Mazzei writes VOICE on the whiteboard. His bald head looks even more bald than when I was a freshman in his humanities class. He has a neat gray beard, shiny possibly-fake-tan skin, and today wears a gray blazer and leather slip-ons. Some kids make fun of him, and always seem to add, unprompted, that it’s not because he’s gay. How does anyone know how he identifies? Either way, he’s probably the only teacher who’s taught me how to read and think.

“Hello again,” Elijah says as I sit down next to him. He’s wearing another loose T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, today in muted yellow.

“Morning!”

He points at my shirt. The tips of his fingers are flat, almost square. “This one doesn’t look like a Walt Whitman reference.”

I look down and see my cartoon of a baby T. rex in space. “It’s from one of his really rare poems.”

“I see.”

“ ‘Song of My T. rex.’ ”

He shakes his head. “That’s a terrible title.”

“It’s a worse poem.”

“But a great shirt.”

He smiles wide. It’s not a laugh but it feels even better.

“We have a lot to get to today!” Mr. Mazzei says as he closes the door and passes a stack of handouts to each row. “Our first major project begins now.”

My probable-nemesis Jay Romero sits in front of Elijah. He’s wearing a tight red polo and his slicked-back hair is extra slicked. It’s buzzed so neatly on the sides that he must take care of it almost daily.

“Isn’t it like the first week of school?” Jay says.

“It is like that, Jay.” Mazzei doesn’t look at him. He sit-stands against his desk and crosses his feet. “You will be putting your voices to use in this oral storytelling project. Is anyone here familiar with the organization The Moth? They have live shows, a radio show, and a podcast.” Silence. “Well, this is like that. Each of you will have five minutes to tell a true, personal story here at the front of this room.”

“So, like, stand-up comedy,” Jay says.

“No.”

I savor the silence Mr. Mazzei leaves here.

“We speak differently with our friends than with our parents,” Mazzei says. “We write differently online than we do in essays. My main question is: What is your truest voice?”