Best Friends Forever

Freshman Year: September 1996
I get up for school on August 23rd, and one thought is running through my mind: Shoot me in the head. I’ve had the shittiest summer of my life; not only were my parents divorced, but anxiety manifested itself in me, which is the reason why I’m holding back vomit. My stomach aches like someone had mistaken it for bread dough and have been kneading it for preparation of the baked good.
My mom drops me off that morning, which, at my elitist high school, is a splendid reason to pick on someone, especially a freshman.
I really don’t know any of the upper classmen all that well, so, needless to say, I’m extremely nervous as I enter the building. I grip the straps to my backpack, stone heavy with supplies, until my knuckles grow white. My locker is on the third floor, so I have to trudge up two large flights of stairs, which doesn’t help settle my stomach.
I see Tyler as soon as I reach the third floor, sitting in front of a locker with her headphones in. This lifts a massive weight off of my chest, and I can’t repress my grin when I see her. I fight the urge to call her name and wave, knowing that this will prove my dorkiness to everyone. I collect myself and stride over to my locker, emptying out some unnecessary supplies and storing them towards the back. I keep my bag on, because in high school, everyone carries their backpack to all of their classes. It seems like it’ll be kinda fun; it reminds me of field trip days in grade school.
I sit next to Tyler, groaning as I slide to the floor, which, granted, is only a 5’4” drop from my stature, but is still spiritually draining.
Tyler hears me, and pulls one earbud out, extending it to me. “Hey, listen to this, Frankie.”
She hits her play button, and the sound of an unfamiliar song fills my ears. “It’s good,” I decide after about twenty seconds. “What is it?”
“ ‘How Do I Tell A Girl I Want To Kiss Her?’ by Modern Baseball!” Tyler shouts over the music, even though she doesn’t really have to, since it’s only in one ear.
“Faggot.”
I hear the word spat by a passerby, and I don’t have to look to know that it’s directed at me. I take a peek anyways, to see a boy glaring at me. My eyes quickly dash back to the floor, not wanting to have any sort of a conflict.
Tyler leans forward to evaluate me, her eyebrows knitted. She nudges me, worrying,
“Frank? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I manage meekly.
Tyler furrows her brows even further, and I can tell that she doesn’t believe me, and that she didn’t for even a second. But she knows I don’t want to talk about it, so she acts as if she had fallen for it, replying, “Okay.” She changes the song, and I can tell within a few moments that it’s “Helena” by the Misfits.
I’m lucky enough to have three classes with Tyler, and those are vocal, Gifted And Talented, and art. Of course, the three courses that I’d be able to get by without a friend, are the only classes in which I have one. In my other classes, I thank the Lord for the almighty seating chart.
My worst class of the day is indisputably Biology. The teacher drones on like a tape recording listing all the different species of flies, and I’m flanked by complete jerks who just talk over me the entire class period, even openly poking fun at me when they know I can hear them. They mainly make fun of my hair, which was recently cut into a black fringe with shaved blond sides. They also take the time out of their day to participate in prurient gesturing, and my, are they suggestive.
I haven’t come out as gay, but this tidbit of trivial information is so well distributed throughout Ridgeview High School that it may as well be put into the announcements. My mom knows, and even in that situation, she was the one to take initiative and ask me if I was gay. I had started crying, begging her to I. Not tell Dad II. Don’t tell anyone else and III. Not to hate me. She hugged me, and cried some herself. I like to think that it’s not because her only grandchildren will be adopted, but because her son, only twelve at the time, was going through a hard time.
Well, it’s been three God damned years, and this whole homosexuality thing is continuing to cause me grief. Tyler knows as well, and I was actually the one to tell her. I remember walking into her closet in seventh grade, and stepping out and simultaneously coming out of the closet figuratively and literally as I confided,
“I’m gay.”
Tyler had smiled knowingly. “I know, Frankie. I’ve always known.”
I snap back into the present, back into the second lunch wave. Tyler isn’t in it, so I’m screwed as I walk into the cafeteria. I can’t find an empty table, so I sit on the far side of these two greasy haired kids who look like they spend their free time dealing drugs and exchanging each other’s head lice.
The lunch isn’t as miserable as classes had been, but it’s not quite pleasant either. The two have this pungent odor that seems to seep into my food, so I end up dumping over half of it. I keep the milk, saving it for later and storing it into my backpack. I jump up after the bell rings; I’m so desperate to get the Hell out of there, away from them. I don’t like to be judgmental, but I can’t stand being around anyone who stinks. I don’t care if it’s fucking Logan Lerman, if he’s smelly, I’m bailing.
I travel through the halls without a purpose, and when I walk home that day, I feel like every part of me has died.

Notes

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