Page 23 of My Own Kind of Person

“I—”

His eyes don’t look away from me. His brow is relaxed.

My voice gets low but not quiet. “I don’t think people get me, but I don’t think that’s their fault. I don’t ever show myself. I don’t even show myself to myself, so I don’t know if I get me either.”

My brain replies, Stupid idiot, stupid idiot, stupid—

Elijah touches a hand to his chest. “Mm.”

I blink.

He looks at the ceiling. “There was a guy at my old school…” He shakes his head. “I thought he saw me, but he didn’t. I was out of the closet, I’ve been out since I noticed there was a closet people thought I was in. He knew I was out. He saw that. He saw my body, but he didn’t see me.”

My heart pounds.

“I never considered that he didn’t see me because I never showed myself to him.”

“It’s scary to let yourself be seen,” I say.

“Sometimes it is.” He looks at me. “But sometimes it’s not at all.”

“Your attention up front!” shouts Mazzei. “Thoughts? Reactions?”

I place my pencil under my nose and smell the wood. I rub my thumb across the desktop, feeling its smoothness as well as the rough edges of nicks and graffiti. I move my tongue over the roof of my mouth, letting it curl and flatten back down, tasting my own spit.

When the bell rings and the period ends, Elijah passes me and, without making eye contact, drops a folded piece of paper on my desk.

I open it and read, in perfect handwriting, You seem like your own kind of person.

When I look up, he’s gone.

Chapter 8

I think about the note on the drive home as Tony debates with himself whether the humans on the Pokémon planet are refugees or colonists. I must have read the note wrong, though, because it’s not me but Elijah who seems like his own kind of person.

When I get home I stay in my car and open it again. I didn’t read it incorrectly; those are the words Elijah wrote. I don’t think he was trying to make fun of me. Maybe I duped him. I tricked him into seeing me kindly. I fold the paper and put it in my back pocket. Inside, I make myself a peanut butter sandwich. He’s wrong, I want to tell him. Or he’s right, I am my own kind of person: I’m a fool. But even as I have these negative thoughts, the good feeling stays. A positive feeling that’s stronger than my negative thoughts?

I close my eyes in the kitchen with the sandwich in my hand. I feel a fondness toward Elijah that I don’t know how to name. An appreciation. I want to get to know him better.

An even more curious feeling rises up as I consider the possibility that not only might he have meant what he wrote, but that he might be right.

I take out my phone, do a quick search, and press to call the number for Captain’s Comedy Club.

After a beep, a very Long Island voice says, “Thank you for calling Captain’s. Our box office is closed but you may leave a message by pressing zero now.”

I press zero.

“Hello. My name is Sean and I’m a comic. Maybe this is absurd, but I was wondering if there are any slots left in the Joe Johnson competition. I’ve loved Joe ever since he said boys don’t cry but they do squeeze their faces and angrily shout, ‘I wish I could cry!’ Although for me it’s less of an angry shout and more of a quiet mumble. So if you’d like a sad guy who’s so good at pretending he’s funny that some people think he’s funny, please let me know.”

I end the call with my number and put my phone on the kitchen counter, blinking, bewildered by my own bravery. I still have the sandwich in my hand.

The phone rings with a number I don’t recognize.

“Hello?”

A gruff voice says, “This is Sal.”

I hesitate. “Hi.”