How They Met, and Other Stories(18)
Author: David Levithan

“Why not?”

There are so many things I could have said. “I’m still in love with Nina,” for one. Or that old standby “I want us just to be friends.” Or “I’m not ready for another relationship.” Or “I feel weird doing this with the driver of this limo sitting five feet away, with his rearview mirror aimed at us.” Or “Can’t we talk about this first?” Or “That would be against my God.” Or, I don’t know, “I have the biggest cold sore right now.”

Instead I said, “Look…I’m g*y.”

It just occurred to me, and I said it, and the minute I said it, I couldn’t believe I’d said it, because at that point I didn’t even get it. It was like my subconscious saw an empty moment it could take for itself and went for it.

Glinda the Good Witch sagged before my eyes. She said something like “Oh, I see,” and retreated into her dress, to her side of the backseat.

And I sat there on my side, thinking I had just told a lie, when it was actually the truth. I wish I could say that I suddenly realized it was the truth, that the minute I said it out loud it became real to me. But right then I didn’t see the reasons I said it. I only see them now. I can tell you this, though—after that moment, the reasons were much harder to ignore. I thought I was making up an excuse, but it was actually the beginning of the end of excuses.

I knew none of this then, and Sally knew even less. I told her I was sorry. I asked her not to tell anyone. I said I wanted us to be friends—and that, I think, was the only real lie I told.

She didn’t scream or yell or cry or anything. She just let the limo driver take her home. Who knows—maybe she actually knew more than me. Maybe the moment I said it, it made perfect sense to her.

When the limo got to her house, I told her I’d had a good time, all things considered. And in the first real moment of spark she showed the whole night, she said she’d had a good time, too, all things considered. I watched from the backseat as she walked up her front steps, as her mother opened the door. I felt sad for us both. And also relieved.

Of course, Theresa called the next day to ask what had happened. It wasn’t until my first month of college that I started to figure things out and told her the truth.

“So the first person you came out to was Glinda the Good Witch?” she asked me. “That is so g*y.”

And I laughed, because we were okay. And I cried, because we were okay. And I thanked Sally Huston for being so wrong about me.

the escalator, a love story

When I was born, my mother loved me. That was love—

the pain and such and my head snapped into shape

by a nurse. (Of course, I’m being overdramatic. Of course

I don’t remember this—I don’t remember any of the times

when I was very young and everyone looked at my little body—

so chubby—and loved me instantly. Why would I want

to remember such pure love?) Certainly, my family will always

love me—it’s part of the package, the unwritten pledge. But

what was my introduction to earned love? Well, I fell for

Emily Mercer in kindergarten. She had red hair, freckles,

and my heart. It didn’t work out. I broke a few crayons.

Maybe I’ve been harmed because my best friends have been

girls—I grew up seeing both sides of love and why guys were

slime. That was always the word. Slime. So I had to prevent

myself from doing slimy things, because I wanted to be in love,

sometimes with my best friends. (Now there’s a complication.)

Sure, I had crushes in elementary school. But mostly I watched,

gossiped about who would be getting valentines signed “Love,”

and who would send Love and get nothing in return.

Even in junior high—what did I know? I had an early inkling

that the boyfriend/girlfriend stuff wasn’t love, just a way to fill

the space next to you. Love was long run and nothing

would ever be long run in junior high.

Now I’m in high school, wanting to fall in love

if it’s not inconvenient. Do I want to be in love? Yes

and sometimes no. Do other people want me

to be in love? Hell, yes. That’s why I am here now,

wandering around the mall with Mandy. Such a name, Mandy.

Not the kind poets have fun with. It’s a plain name and she’s

pretty plain herself. This isn’t to say I don’t like her. I do.

I like her, she likes me. We leave it at that. When you’re in

high school, love is rare and like is enjoyable, so you just take

what you can get. And I got Mandy.

We’re here in the mall, looking for a birthday present.

It’s assumed we’ll be giving a present together—that’s what

couples are supposed to do. After a while, you become part

of a proper noun. We’re Daniel-and-Mandy. It makes people

happy and jealous. I feel it, too, when I look at other couples

with something real between them. I look at their eyes, the way

they know each other’s paragraphs, and something seems right.

I doubt people see that in me and Mandy, but I hope they do.

We might as well make them happy and jealous.

Mandy and I are walking through the hall, holding hands.

That’s about as close as we usually get. We’ve kissed,

and that’s about it. We don’t really hang out on the fast track.

Our friends say we fit, and I imagine us as Legos. My mother

once told me that you really know someone when you know

their parents. I think this was her way of telling me to invite

Mandy over to dinner. I never have, although I guess I should.

I’ve only been over to her house a few times. I still haven’t met

her father, although I think my father knows him. (I’d remark

here that it’s such a small world…but the truth is that

it’s just a small town.)

What do I know about love? Not much—that’s the safe answer.

Even when I think I have a grasp on it, something comes along

to make me realize I don’t know anything at all. It’s just a

concept to me. It’s the thing that all the songs are written about,

the thing that makes smart people act stupidly. If I can make love

a concept, it makes me a better observer. And it also leaves a

place inside of me hollow. Sometimes I can actually feel it. To

reach down inside that part—I wonder how it would feel, to

touch a void. That nameless empty.