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I noted her language, the forceful sound of certain words.Harass. The boys.As if she wasn’t as student herself. “Yeah. Bobby shoved me in the hall and called me a faggot.”
Sorina’s voice was dry when she said, “How original of him. Boys like that will be bullies their whole lives. The strongest thing a man can hold inside of himself is compassion, empathy. The most beautiful men are the quiet ones. At least, that’s what I believe.” Her blue eyes pinned me to her headboard. It’s the most I’d ever heard her say. And I wanted to tell her I wasn’t scared of Mike or Bobby. It wasn’t about that. Some part of me felt like I could rip them to shreds. The way I felt inside rarely matched my slim frame. I felt caged.
I looked at Sorina then and didn’t tell her about my fears. Didn’t tell her about the rage bubbling beneath the surface. I asked her a question. “Do you have a boyfriend back home?”
Sorina’s brushing stopped, and she looked at me in the mirror. “I’ve never had a … boyfriend.” The word sounded foreign on her lips, just as the other words had.Harass. The Boys.
“Bullshit.”
“I’ve kissed boys and I’ve had … sex with boys. But never one to keep.”
“How old are you?” I asked, wondering why I was drowning like a river near her. I didn’t grasp, just yet, why I was asking such a thing.
But that time I didn’t think about it, and I asked a version of the question haunting me.
“I’m not ready to answer that question, Nicholas Hemming.”
“Fine,” I said, my tone stating plainly between us it wasn’t.
“Would you let me read what you wrote for the class?”
“I don’t have another copy of it. I turned it in.”
She turned in her seat, holding out her hand. “Let me see your notebook again.”
“Okay,” I answered, sliding off the bed. I walked to her, and once again, when I handed her the notebook, I let my fingers touch hers. “Would you like to come over to the lamp?” I asked. The lamp was closer to the bed, to where I was.
“No, I can see fine.”
I walked across the room, climbing onto her bed again. After a few minutes of her silent page turning, I asked her questions. She never told me to be quiet. She answered as she poured over my poetry a second time, more slowly. Morehuman.
“Where were you born?” I asked.
“By the sea.”
“Do you miss the ocean?” I asked.
“Every day.”
“Do you believe in God?” I begged for a no.
“Yes.”
“Are you done yet?” I teased.
“No.”
“What are you most scared of?” My heart beat fast.
“I’m not scared of anything.”
Her answer felt like a lie, but as I watched her read, eyes roving slowly, almost performative, I let it stay between us. Finally, I spoke again, unable to help myself with her. “There’s a school dance in a few weeks. I’m thinking about going. Are you going to go? I’ve never been to a dance.”
Sorina stopped reading. “You should. It would be good for you.”
I didn’t like the way she said it, like I was a pet. Or a child. “If it’s lame we can just walk home.” I looked away, embarrassed that I’d used the wordwe, and my eyes caught on a quill on her nightstand with a glass jar of ink next to it. Next to the lamp sat a large notebook, black leather. A red string stuck out at the end.
Sorina closed my notebook, pulling my eyes to her as she stood. She didn’t move for a moment, and if I blinked, I would have thought she disappeared, that I was in a dream state. She shook her head, then walked to the other side of the bed, crawling onto it. She didn’t lean on the headboard like I had so brazenly done, instead she leaned against one of the posts at the end. After a long sigh, she stretched her legs out, resting them on my lap. I didn’t move.
