06
We were in a small patio room, too small to accommodate twelve charged and sexually frustrated teenagers with time to kill. I stood next to the quietest one, a shy girl who in the muggy room looked crabbier by every uncomfortable second.
The proximity we shared excited and annoyed me. I was just as sexually frustrated as everyone else and being so close to people who shared my main problem created a bit of spark, a jolt. Or maybe a fire caused by the friction our chafing moods. Whatever the cause, I wanted to do something with my hands, needed to something, so I did what I didn’t have to think about and came to me instinctively: dance.
Grabbing the shyest girl by the hand, I made a fool out of myself in front of everyone else.
“Eddie, you’re so silly,” she said, but she couldn’t help smiling.
“We gotta dance when we gotta dance I said,” and I felt a vague sting on my back. I spun her around to look.
Sitting closest to the door, dark blue eyes perpetually half-glazed, was a boy I disliked. He appeared medicated as usual, added to his plump, pouty lips, he looked like a proud hospital patient on anesthetics.
I fought a grimace.
We met before at a racetrack, bad house party, other friend’s get-together, and several other times when I was high and every time I looked at him—sober or not— I felt a pang of annoyance as crisp as a sharpened blade.
He was tamed, calm, and the lack of circles under his eyes and clear skin translated what people quickly discerned: he was comfortable with himself. Confident but not presumptuous, bright enough to sort what mattered to him and ignore the rest. The fact that we were opposites made me angry.
And then I noticed that while I was looking at him, he wasn’t looking at me—and this bothered me. Like twilight slipping through bloody clouds, it dawned on me that my dislike was a product of a paradox: I actually liked him. Too much, maybe.
And he wasn’t remotely aware.
I stopped dancing and walked to him without trying to mask my interest, which was still a combination of disdain and attraction.
“You look different,” I accused.
He looked up and I watched his eyes absorbed my height from where he sat.
“Oh, I dyed my hair black,” he said. His mouth always moved faster than his eyes.
“Why?”
“I was bored,” he said hesitantly, finally noticing something was awry.
“It makes you look really Italian,” I said, my top lip curling.
I walked outside to hug my cousin playfully. The calm rustle of grass on my feet and moonlight felt fresh, fitting. Like a change of heart.
An hour later we left to another friend’s house and I sat next to the boy. We talked, about inane things, and I let my guard down. Made a genuine joke, talked to him without fighting my instinct to hurt him. And he fawned when I talked to him, wanted me to like him a little and this pleased me.
But more than petty pleasure was vague hurt. Between us sat a girl and almost immediately his hand traveled around her shoulder. She moved it, uncomfortable, and I was glad. More bluntly, he felt a similar rejection I felt talking to him.
Like a fly gravitating to a computer screen, toying with the idea of making contact with the aggravated hand trying to squash it, I continued to talk to him until I felt entirely sure of his disinterest.
Painful or not, I felt alive then. Charged, annoyed, like a predator, but alive.
When the night ended I decided to sleep over the house we were in. Everyone left in a group besides two of us. They all said their goodbyes except the boy. I was relieved at my disappointment.
Then, at the end of the hallway, before the door closed, I heard a voice say,
“Bye, Eddie!”
I sighed. I just didn’t like him at all.
