Page 90 of My Own Kind of Person

The alarm goes off.

Elijah picks up my clothes and holds them out to me.

I don’t take them. “I’m fine with meeting your mom. I’d like to meet your mom.”

He places the clothes on the bed. “I didn’t invite you to meet her.”

I put on my underwear, jeans, and T-shirt. I think of the stack of books I bought from the LGBTQ+ shelf at Housing Works and then left untouched in a tote beside my bed.

Am I lying to myself? Am I not accepting that I’m gay?

I would like to be certain of who I am. I would like to be proud of who I am.

I would like to be many things that I’m not.

It’s only when I get outside that I remember I don’t have my car.

“Bummer,” I say, and start walking.

Chapter 29

My heart almost doesn’t hurt, because I’m so startled by how much it hurts.

Chapter 30

Something unexpected greets me when I get home: The living room floor is shining and the couch cushions are fluffed. The dark spots on the coffee table that I assumed were part of the wood have been cleaned away.

Cat Cat is sitting outside Mom’s closed bedroom door.

I gently knock. When there’s no answer, I open it a crack.

Mom is on her bed, cross-legged with headphones on, typing on a new laptop. All around her are things I’ve never seen. There’s a large printer, stacks of envelopes and rolls of stamps, hardbound notebooks, and an expensive-looking camera in a haphazardly opened box. Crumpled papers with printed text are scattered around.

“I don’t want to know,” I mutter, and step back into the hall before she notices me.

Maybe this should be my new set. My boyfriend rejected me for not admitting I’m gay. My mom is on a manic spree. It’s all material. Comedy is tragedy plus time. And hasn’t it been enough time?

I take off my shirt and jeans and drop them in the living room. I make it to my bedroom but can’t make it to the bed, so I lie down on the carpeted floor.

It’s a good night to watch porn but a bad night to find something that makes sense. I search for bisexual men but the results all involve more than two people. Where are the couples politely fingering each other in pleasant lighting?

I put on Joe’s third special, Average Joe. It’s his mainstream hit. He’s in a giant theater with great lighting. He tells the first joke and I’m so bored by it that I’m embarrassed I ever thought this person was good.

I try reading Audre Lorde’s Zami. I try A Boy’s Own Story and Transgender History. I turn to the first page of the enormous James Baldwin biography. It should be soothing to read these voices, the seriousness in them, but they make me feel unserious, almost idiotic in comparison. These writers share their wisdom and I’m still dumb because I don’t know how to hear it.

I open a blank document to write down…I don’t know, these feelings? But I don’t care enough to type the words.

I do type one thing:

I no longer believe in the ability of art—neither putting it out nor taking it in—to help me. I am too stupid to be helped.

“That’s a good line,” I say, but there’s no one around to hear.

Chapter 31

On the morning drive to school, I’m squeezing all the muscles in my face to relieve the pressure. When Tony offers to take the wheel, I say, “Yeah.” When Andi asks if I’m okay, I say, “Nah.” During the announcements, I intone the times and dates of club meetings like the pointless words they are. Mrs. Farmer says, “Maybe you should head home,” but I go to class. And the classes all day go well. The only problem is I can’t think of a way to quiet my head that doesn’t involve smashing it open.

By the time I get to English, the speakers in my brain are blown out. My eyes squint. My lips twitch. Mazzei is absent and we have a sub. Elijah is seated beside me but he’s miles away.