Eleven: Rigid Beliefs.

“Only two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe.”

-Albert Einstein

I was really looking forward to seeing you again; it was what carried me through the school day. Even when Carson took my sandwich at lunch and smeared it across the pages of my library book, I was undeterred. (Although I did have to pay a ten dollar replacement fee, and that was kind of a downer).

I waited in the teashop for you after school with my tea and econ textbook spread out before me. There was a test in two days, and I was probably taking it less seriously than I should have, but econ is my best subject and I could handle a C.

What's with you? I asked myself as I sat there, waiting. Since when have you been willing to settle for anything less than an A?

Since I met you, I figured.

I'll admit that I got a nervous feeling in my stomach when I heard the door jingle and you rushed in, a piece of paper in your hand and your rain-frizzed hair falling into your face. I watched you call an order to Jenny at the register, then storm over to the table and dumped your bag heavily on the ground beside you. You glared at me, obviously angry.

I stared, wide-eyed, as you slammed that paper onto the wooden surface. It turned out to be a newspaper, and I couldn't see the title of the article because your hand was covering it, but whatever it was, it had you fuming. Your furious, jerky movements drew stares from around the teashop, but that was nothing new and you didn't seem to care.

“What is it?” I demanded, alarmed. The damp newspaper was leaving a dark water stain on the pages of my textbook, but I didn't move it. And you didn't move. You stood there, teeth clenched, palm pressed against newsprint.

“Ellery?”

You didn't relax, but you shifted, robotic, to reveal the heading of the article. “Gay Oregon Teen's House Vandalized.” It was the front page story of the tribune, and the fine print said that it was written by someone named Max Galleger.

I understood that it was wrong, sure. No one's house should be vandalized. But I didn't understand, at first, why you were so upset about it. I guess I just kind of stared at you for a few seconds, because you stared back and then you made a kind of angry, frustrated noise and slammed into your seat.

“This boy,” you snapped, “came home from school yesterday, and the word faggot was spray-painted across the front of his house. Some idiotic, rotten pieces of shit came to his house and put that terrible word on it just people that boy likes guys instead of girls.” You stabbed a finger at the article, and people were watching now, really watching, but you didn't even notice because you were angry, so, so angry, more angry than I ever thought I'd see you.

“Ellery,” I began.

You cut me off. “Why would somebody do this? Why would any human being ever wake up in the morning and say, 'hey, I think I'll go vandalize a gay kid's house today, because that is totally an acceptable thing to do'?” Your eyes became slits, and I leaned away. “Whoever these idiots are, they are worthless pieces of trash. Trash, Sam. I can't even explain how stupid this is. This is the kind of ridiculous thing that makes kids kill themselves.”

You trailed off, into a heavy breathing silence. Jenny brought your tea, and I guess she must have heard your outburst because she looked kind of scared. She looked how I felt. Everyone was staring now, everyone within hearing distance, and that was everyone in the shop because it was that small. And their eyes were on you, not me (they probably didn't even notice me), but I could still feel them and it made me want to shrivel up into a ball and hide.

In a quiet, pathetic voice, I tried to reason with you. “Ellery, calm down. It's okay.”

You slapped the table, screeched between your teeth, and leaned closer to me. Your voice dropped to a hiss.

“Is is not okay,” you ground out. “Nothing like this will ever be okay. Do you know why my family moved here, Sam? Do you know why we picked up and hauled ass all the way across the freaking country?”

Your hands were shaking; your bottom lip was trembling. I shook my head quickly. Right, left. No.

“It's because eight months ago, my brother was this boy. This”—you snatched up the paper, scanned it quickly—“Joe Bergman kid was my brother, except his name was Greg. And he was gay. Openly, because he wasn't afraid of the label or of himself. My parents are super Catholic, and maybe they didn't love that but they loved him, so they were okay. I was okay. My other siblings were okay. But the kids at his school were not okay, and they tormented him to the point that he didn't want to be here anymore. He didn't tell us, but they were teasing and bullying him and it tore him apart until it was too much. And by then, it was too late for any of us to do anything because he was already gone.”

A sob. A choking sob to end your sentence, and your hand flew over your mouth. And then there was silence. It was the worst silence I had ever endured, because it was painful and heavy and full of unspoken words.

“Ellery, I—”

“He was fourteen, Sam.” You were pressing your nails into the palm of your hand. “He was only a freshman in high school, and he killed himself because idiots like these wouldn't let him alone. And then we left, we just left, because none of of could stand being near the people that had made him do it.”

Your eyes, they were elsewhere, far away, and it was scaring me. Ellery, I wanted to say, come back. Please. But when you did return your focus, there was so much pain in your green irises that I just wanted you to look away again. It hurt me that you were hurt, and it was more than just that automatic human compassion instinct. I cared about you. I hardly knew you, but I cared about you, and I didn't like how upset you were.

“I don't understand,” you whispered. “I don't understand how people can do things like this”—you waved the article—”and be okay with themselves. It's disgusting. And wrong. And it needs to stop, but I know it never will because this is just human nature and that's never going to change.”

You were on the verge of tears. I could hear it in your breaking voice; I could see the moisture shimmering, the tiny teardrop that slipped to the corner of your eye. Inside, I was panicking. I didn't know how to handle a normal girl, much less one who was crying. But you were trying not to cry, I could tell. You'd finally realized how many spectators you had, and you were biting down on your hand to keep away the tears.

I wanted to say so many things to you in that beat of silence, and if I was able to organize my thoughts better, I swear that I would have. I wanted to tell you that I knew how you felt; I knew how much it hurt to lose someone and I would listen to you because sometimes pain hurts less if you share the burden. I wanted to tell you that I knew this was wrong, because fourteen-year-olds should not be killing themselves and kids with spray paint should not be vandalizing boys' houses for being different.

And I wanted to say that I knew, that I understood, that a boy could love a girl or a girl could love a girl or a boy could love a boy because it was love, and that was what truly mattered. People didn't see it like that a lot of the time, and I ached to tell you how that made me sad, how it made me sad to see that it made you sad too, and really I just wanted to make you feel better more than anything.

But words don't come to me like they come to you, and all the thoughts in my head were a mess. Such a mess, always a mess. For once, it had nothing to do with the fact that you were a pretty girl, it's just that I couldn't sort out my feelings because these were emotions and I wasn't any better than those than I was with words.

I looked at you, sitting there doe-eyed and quivering, collapsing under the weight of your rigid beliefs, and I wanted to say all those things so badly. But I couldn't. I'm pathetic. I could only reach across the little table and gently pull your clenched fists away from your face and lay them down on the wood.

“I'm sorry,” I said, my palms on your fingers. Your hands were cold, shaking. “I'm so sorry.”

It was weak. I could apologize all I wanted to, but I knew that it wouldn't matter because this wasn't my fault. I knew because that's how I felt a few years ago when I was the one that people were saying I'm sorry to.

Your eyes dropped, dimming slightly, and your lips curved slowly downward. Disappointment. You were disappointed in me.

I didn't blame you. I was disappointed in me, too.