Prom Fever

I was nervous, so nervous. I’d spent the majority of my five years in the hospital, and when I wasn’t in the hospital, I was at home, and when I wasn’t at home, I was back in the hospital. The closest thing I ever had to any sort of interaction with kids my own age was in the children’s ward, but even then, most of the kids ignored me due to the fact that I was majorly bed ridden. Who would want to play with a kid that can’t even walk? So they’d all play amongst themselves, and from up on the bed, I’d watch, watch them skip, laugh, and play, play like kids were supposed to. Play is a child’s instinct, starting with solitary play by themselves, and eventually ending up in cooperative play. Literally any kid can do it; it’s about as universal as breathing. I was a MASTER IN solitary play thanks to hours and hours of being sentenced to bed rest, toy cars and action figures my only company. But parallel play? Nonexistent. Cooperative play? Never heard of it. It was these milestones that I missed, and it was those lost skills that fucked me over. I remember showing up on the first day of preschool, clutching my mother’s hand as if God and all of the angels depended on it. My mother began to talk with the teacher, and so I stood quietly at her side, gazing around the room. We were early on that first day, and at that young age, the lack of children was unsettling. I felt as though it was not a preschool, but instead some sort of sick trap designed to lure kids into avian fusion experiments, annual sacrifice, or worse, an eight hour long screening of Between The Lions. I wasn’t sure which horrible fate I was going to suffer under, but I was certain that it would be awful. “And who is this little guy?” It was that moment that I peered into the icy eyes of death, the pawn of whichever system organized this disaster. The dastardly villain wore a floral pencil skirt along with a matching red blouse. Her hair was done up into a tight bun, a few strands hanging free. I was quaking in my boots. I hid behind my mother’s legs, gripping onto the fabric of her pants with all I had. My own mother betrayed me, stepping aside and pushing me towards the enemy, exposing her own son to the brutal hands of torture. “This is Frank.” “Frank, we’re going to have fun,” she lied. She’d placed a hand on my back, guiding me towards the so-called play mat, away from my mother. I’d screamed, wriggled, and kicked, eventually smacking the woman straight in the face. My mother came rushing back over, stroking my hair and stammering, “I-I am so sorry, Ms. Stammen. He really is a sweet boy; he’s just having a bit of separation anxiety.” I was proud of myself, having hit the face of death straight in the cheek. I was sure that I was triumphant, that my mother would take me home and things would go back to normal, or, what I assumed was normal. But no, the woman, ‘Ms. Stammen’, merely laughed, assuring, “It’s completely normal; I see it all the time. He’ll adjust in sure time.” My mom had spun me to face her, crouching down to my eye level. “Frankie, please be nice to everyone. I’ll be back to pick you up, okay?” She gave me a final hug before leaving, and I was torn from her grip by Ms. Stammen. My mother was gone by the time I had looked for her, and so I had no choice but to comply. I sat on the rubber play mat, wary still of everyone around me. One of the children approached me, scooting over and sitting next to me. He gave me one of the dolls he had been holding, squeaking, “I’m Gewawd, hi!” “Gewawd?” I repeated. I turned the doll around in my hand, noting the bite marks on its legs. He nodded, dusting his hands off on the front of his overalls. “Who’re you?” “Frank,” I replied. He nodded, mumbling, “Fwank.” “No, no no. Frank,” I corrected. Again he bobbed his head, reiterating, “Fwank.” “Frank?” “Fwank.” I shook my head, realizing it was useless to try to get him to say my name correctly; he couldn’t say his r’s. I tossed the doll to the floor, sighing. “You don’t want to play?” Gerard pouted. I shook my head, instead questioning, “Are you a boy or girl?” “I’m a boy,” Gerard answered, nose scrunched. I reached a hand into his hair, pulling out the butterfly barrette I had spotted. I held it up, telling, “These are for girls.” Gerard shook his head, insisting, “No they’re not. My brother and I wear them all the time.” “They’re meant for girls,” I explained. “Boys don’t wear them.” Gerard stood, snapping, “I wear them.” I too rose to my feet, replying, “Then you’re a girl.” That was the day that Gerard gave me a goose egg. He’d tackled me and I hit my head on the bookshelf, and I started crying, which made him start crying, and the whole thing was just a sobbing mess. The teacher made us apologize, but by that point, we were both ready to. And after that apology, Gerard had given me a matching plastic barrette from his overall front pocket. You better believe that I put that flimsy thing in my hair. And the rest, well, that was history. Gerard and I were inseparable from that day forward. Elementary school was packed with sleepovers and birthday parties, middle school with ballgames, and our first two years of high school were spent mainly at his house and in the school building itself. But this year, junior year? This year is going a little different. We haven’t really grown apart at all; we still hang out plenty, it’s just that... I’ve recently come to grips with the fact that I am in love with my best friend, Gerard Way.

Notes

Thanks so much for reading! please comment, rate, and subscribe!