Page 64 of My Own Kind of Person

They have forty different monotones and this one means they want to change the subject.

But don’t I want to be asked about things, even when I don’t want to be asked about them? Don’t I like to know someone cares? Don’t I like to connect, to share the things I’m initially uncomfortable with sharing?

“Are you—”

“No.”

Between classes, I walk with the herd and replay this morning in my mind. Tony was kind but didn’t understand me at all. Andi talked generally about gender and sexuality but didn’t want to get personal. What’s wrong with me that I can’t keep things casual and cool? I’m struck by the certainty that I will always want more than someone else would like to give.

I find myself wandering a hallway I rarely go down—

And I walk straight into Elijah. And all my ridiculous anxieties disappear.

He’s wearing a gold T-shirt with the sleeves folded up, there’s light stubble above his lips, and he whispers, conspiratorially, without even saying hello, “Can you believe no one here knows where we went yesterday?”

He goes on to talk about how he drove home with the windows down, and how he can’t seem to care about any of his classes today. He lists the things he cares about more than his classes. People pass around us, and I don’t care about any of these people. He gossips, he rambles, he waves his hands through the air. I could listen to him for hours. I could look at him until I go blind.

When he asks what story I’m telling against Jay in the auditorium later, I’m suddenly certain what it will be.

“It’s a secret.”

He leans in. “But can I know the secret?”

The one-minute bell rings.

I smile. “Soon.”

Chapter 21

The patterned carpet in the Paumanok East auditorium hides years of stains, but nothing can hide the years of smells. The room is big enough to hold a crowded pep rally or a sold-out musical, with tall brick walls and row after row of fabric seats. Mazzei stands at a series of light switches on the side of the stage, flicking from dark red to electric blue and settling on bright white everywhere. He shouts for everyone to sit up front but they spread out around the room. It’s after lunch and everyone is excited to be in a new space and do nothing.

I pace up and down the aisles, my stomach growling.

Elijah smiles as I pass him in the first row. “Are you doing the chemistry study date story?”

“I think a different one?” My voice cracks like I’m thirteen.

Mazzei takes to the stage and clears his throat. He turns on the microphone and a high-pitched screech silences the room.

“Jesus!” he says. The mic cuts out. He looks at the bottom and twists the wire, releasing another screech.

Everyone covers their ears.

“There we go.” His voice blares. “Nobody touch this microphone.” He holds up a quarter. “Heads, Sean O’Brien goes first. Tails, Jay Romero. After each storyteller shares their story, the audience will score them out of ten based on the rubrics that…” He frowns, likely trying to remember whether he gave us rubrics, which he didn’t. “We’ll call up the first person and take it from there.”

Elijah turns and looks around. I wave to him from the back wall.

Mazzei flips the quarter, catches it, and opens his hand. “Tails. Jay Romero.”

Jay jogs up the side steps to the stage, chewing his tongue like it’s a piece of gum. Mazzei adjusts the microphone for him and walks down to the back of the auditorium, near me.

After the few guys who are loudly cheering stop, Jay sets his jaw and begins, “For Christmas when I was five years old, I got a dog.”

Steph Rooney lets out a gasp and says, “I love dogs.”

“I named him Giant because, well, actually, it wouldn’t be appropriate to say what part of him was giant. Don’t worry, Mazzei, I got you.”

Mr. Mazzei doesn’t budge.