Page 50 of My Own Kind of Person

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It made me want to face my fears with MY art, with my whole life

So I wanted to thank you for that.

In the comfort of texts I know you won’t see for a while.

An hour later, they wrote, I too am surprised by the sincerity of these texts

Delete delete

Now I write back, I care about you, friend.

Very much.

Is that weird?

I add, Save save

They don’t reply.

I feel like there’s so much to discuss, I write, and they still don’t reply.

I look at Elijah’s phone number again and go to open a message to him, but I see Tony also wrote to me this morning. He sent a link to last night’s set, adding, When you’re prepared, let’s review.

I position myself at the side of a row of books so I can see if anyone is coming up the elevator or the staircase, and I put in one earbud and load up the video. The lighting is well-balanced, the colors are strong, and the audio is clear. Tony’s craftsmanship has jumped another level. Or maybe he bought a new phone.

There aren’t many laughs. There certainly aren’t as many as for my previous sets. But even the table of unhappy guys don’t take their eyes away.

When it’s over, I watch it again. I’m mesmerized by this version of myself, this person who can say thoughts I didn’t even know I had in a way that makes people applaud.

I watch the video again, but this time I feel far away from the person onstage. Like I was able to be him for five minutes, but now I’ve returned to the real me.

When I play it a fourth time, I keep picturing the disgust on Mom’s face when her friend’s boyfriend peed. I remember how, around that same time, I used to drop my apple cores behind the couch instead of throwing them out even though I knew Mom would have to clean them up. Once, I stole twenty dollars from her purse. Once, at a new school with a group of kids who never became my friends, I made fun of how she always accidentally knocks over her drinks.

Suddenly I’m in a memory of her crying in the kitchen in our first house, which leads to a memory of her crying in the kitchen in the next place we lived, and in the next, and in the next.

I only drift back to the library because I’m so surprised to have been overcome by memories. This doesn’t usually happen.

I message Mom, Are you working tonight?

She doesn’t reply because she’s working now.

I message Tony, I don’t know if I’m ready to discuss but I guess we should

Also you’ll be happy to hear I’m performing in my English class on Wednesday so I can try out the revised set there

He doesn’t reply.

I close my eyes and remind myself I can say things that are honest and true, and people can hear and accept them. I look at the paper with Elijah’s number. I want to message him, but it makes me feel guilty, like it should be Christy I’m emotionally connecting with.

I message Christy, Were you in school today? How are you?

I’m doing okay over here, though I’m being flooded with memories

Like in opening myself up to non-funny thoughts, I’m now unable to close myself off from them.

She doesn’t reply. I don’t know if I’m being needy by burdening her or being generous by sharing with her. Mom didn’t know if she was being reckless for changing jobs or being loving by prioritizing our time. Either way I think she was being brave for trying her best.