Gage. Who is handsome, his black hair contrasting perfectly against tan skin and teeth whiter than pearls. Who is the best student in the classroom, his words leaping off pages and twirling us all into oblivion. Who is athletic, a select soccer player. Who is popular, with a girlfriend and a boisterous posse that chatters and screeches as incessantly as young children. Who fits into the complex puzzle of high school well, seeming just as normal as the next guy in line.
I know his secret.
I see the way he acts with his friends. Effortlessly cool, he saunters through crowds easily without the waves of students washing him away. In debate, his black eyes glitter with competition as he attacks his opponents with an eerie precision. He radiates confidence.
At lunch, he sits at a table with his friends, zealous and throwing food at each other like large primates. His best friend, Jake, with the icy blue eyes and chestnut hair, faithfully listens to stories tumbling from Gage’s mouth, grinning and gasping at all the right parts. Gage tells the punch line, sending Jake into a fit of laughter, yelling, “what a FAGGOT! Oh my god man, that’s hilarious,” I see it then, a flicker of hurt flashing across Gage’s mask of a face. I know he doesn’t find this funny. But Gage, he just laughs and laughs.
The problem with keeping everyone out is that sooner or later, you’ll accidentally bust that lock on your mouth you thought was so strong, and end up vomiting up much more than you wanted to share, to the wrong types of people. I guess Gage trusted Jake’s deep blue eyes and easy, forgiving laugh. He reached far inside of himself and finally unlocked the secret that had been ripping him apart since he was six years old.
“I’m gay.”
It seemed to explode from him, an animal clawing its way out into the open and gasping a breath of fresh air after an eternity spent encaged. But the world is a lonely, lonely place, and slowly, Gage’s once effervescent spirit began to smudge, and fade.
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Jake was always busy now, caught up in homework, or chores, or family, texting last minute apologies for unexcused absences. Gage felt a piece of his heart crumble away.
Maybe it was because of his mother, who tiptoed around any whispers of the word ‘gay’ as if it were poisonous.
Or it might have been because of his father, who, unlike the glass slippers his wife used to dance around Gage, wore lead tipped boots.
Gage. Who is screaming at the top of his lungs and still drowns in silence. Who asks me, tears rolling down his face like fat drops of summer rain, what is wrong with him? He looks at the couples in the hallway and their smiles and their kisses and wonders why people are so cruel. He so desperately wants someone to sew back his shattered heart, to kiss him, to smile, to love. He yearns for friends to approach him, eyes twinkling, sighing “you two are so cute,” But at the thought, people recoil, noses wrinkled in disgust.
Gage. Who draws rosebuds in little red lines on his wrists just to feel something. Who walks alone no matter how vast the crowd is. Who sits on the cold stone bench, long black hair blowing in the wind, and sobs.