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.
