Page 65 of My Own Kind of Person

“But I think you guys can guess.”

A few kids laugh.

“He had a giant tail! What did you think?”

More kids laugh. Have they all been drugged? I need to graduate and move.

Jay goes on to recount the years of “antics” he and his friends got into, and how this dog was there through it all. What he isn’t saying is the story I thought everyone knew, but judging by how entranced they are, they must not. This is the same dog that Jay once jerked off to completion. On camera. And then shared online repeatedly. Every few days he’d put it up again. ICYMI, here’s my dog ejaculating on the front lawn.

Jay quiets his voice like he’s so moved it’s hard to speak.

“We just found out Giant has cancer—they call it canine leukemia. But he’s taking it like the soldier he’s always been.”

Mr. Mazzei closes his eyes. I’m almost certain he’s rolling them but doesn’t want anyone to see.

“But I’m not worried,” Jay says. “You know how I know he’s gonna beat it?”

The room listens with rapt attention.

“Because we never got him neutered. This dog has balls. The balls to live.”

People burst into applause. Steph Rooney cries. Jay waves from the stage like he’s a celebrity.

Mazzei turns to me. “You have a story prepared?”

“I do.” My voice cracks again.

“And it’s better than that one?”

“It’s hard to follow a story about a sick dog.”

Mazzei nods slowly. With a long groan, he walks up to the stage and adjusts the microphone, letting out another screech. He asks everyone to share critical feedback and people respond by talking about their dogs. Mazzei massages his temples and explains the categories to consider when scoring, including story arc, thoughtful use of language, and emotional depth. He asks each person to shout a score when he points to them, and he asks Steph to average the scores together.

Every student Mazzei points at gives the story a ten out of ten. He skips me and points to Elijah.

Elijah answers calmly, “Eight.”

“That’s an average of 9.9!” Steph calls to immediate cheers.

“I guess I have to print those rubrics,” Mazzei says. “Next up—”

“Wait,” Jay says from his seat. “Do you have any feedback?”

“That story was about your dog and the assignment is to tell a story about yourself,” Mazzei says, and when Jay tries to respond, he says, “We’re moving on. The next storyteller is Sean O’Brien.”

The crowd does not necessarily applaud this abrupt shift. The only sound comes from Jay, who shouts, “Let’s do this, O’Brien!”

When I step onstage, the eyes of the audience shock me into performance mode. I’ve done this before and I can do it again. I walk with long steps to the mic. Mazzei is still adjusting it when I arrive.

“I got it,” I tell him casually.

“I can do it,” he grunts. He pulls on the stand and the microphone screeches and cuts off. He stomps off behind the curtains.

“I don’t even need a microphone,” I call to him. I project my voice to the room. “Can everyone hear me?”

No one replies. Mazzei calls from offstage, “Hold on!”

I give a calm, everything-is-fine smile to the audience who aren’t looking at me anyway. They’ve left their seats to crowd around Jay to see photos of his dog. I don’t look at Elijah. Mazzei returns with a new microphone. He removes the old one and pops in the new one, tapping it to make sure it works.