Page 49 of My Own Kind of Person

“You do stand-up?”

“I do.”

He does a little jump. “You must be so good.”

“You never think I’m funny.”

“I don’t laugh when you’re going for a cheap joke, but I think you’re hilarious when you’re being yourself.”

I…blush?

“Do you have any shows coming up?”

I inhale. I blink. “I do. This Thursday.”

“Can I come?”

I struggle to exhale. “Sure.”

The bell rings, but neither of us moves. Everything is quiet except for the sound of teachers talking far away.

“I want to be more like you,” I say.

“I feel the same way about you.”

Then he blushes, and it makes me bite my cheek to keep from smiling.

It’s like the opposite of dissociating. I arrive in my body and look at the face of this person in front of me, this boy, who is looking at my face, a person in front of him, a boy—unless we are both men, which we almost are. Two young men regarding each other with a tenderness I didn’t know was possible, let alone permissible.

It’s a moment that requires some kind of communion or confirmation, but I don’t know what that would be.

I speak quietly. “I understand it’s time to walk away but I’d rather not walk away.”

He gets quiet too. “Could you send me the info on the show you’re in?”

“I forgot my phone this morning.”

He looks at the ground, smiling. “Then I’ll have to get up the courage to ask you again tomorrow.” He turns to leave, then turns back. “Or—” He opens his notebook and leans on nothing, on the air, as he writes. He passes me the paper, unfolded, a whole sheet. It’s his phone number.

When we walk our separate ways, I am not returned to the feeling of being alone. I remain surrounded by a sense of connection, by the feeling that he’s close, and that I’m able to be how I am when he’s close, which is myself.

Chapter 15

I stop home after school, holding out Elijah’s number like a compass that leads to my phone on a pile of dirty clothes. I want to message him right away but I’m already almost late for work, so I get in the car and rush to the library.

Warren Williams stands behind the front desk, tucking his tie under a V-neck sweater.

“One minute early, Sean. Love the enthusiasm!”

“Getting right to work!” I grab the cart of books and wheel it toward the elevator. “Bye!”

Once I’m safely hidden in the back corner of the second floor, I pull out Elijah’s number and my phone.

The lock screen is filled with messages Andi sent this morning while we were driving to school.

I am not someone who hopes or tries, they wrote. I take things as they are and that’s that.

But seeing your set last night, you were reaching