Scared Little Boy - 1. Story

How are you feeling today?” the man asked, uncrossing his arms. He’d always had to make a conscious effort to keep them uncrossed when listening to patients. Crossing anything was the body language equivalent of ‘shut up’.

“Terrified,” was all that the Boy said. Today, he looked it.

“Have you thought about why you feel that way? You said the same thing last time, and –,” the man was cut off.

“Everyone expects something from me. Everyone. All of my friends, and my entire family,” the Boy said, eyebrows furrowed.

“I thought that you weren’t very close to most of your family.”

“I’m not. My mom is the one I’m closest to, but still, it doesn’t matter if I’m close to them,” the Boy said. When the man raised his eyebrows and leaned forward slightly, he went on. “I’ve told you that I don’t, well, I just don’t want to disappoint anyone. It hurts when people are disappointed, even when it shouldn’t.”

“It’s good that you recognize that it shouldn’t hurt you, you know. Those other people don’t have any power over you.”

“I know, I know, but telling myself that doesn’t really work.”

“I understand, and like I’ve told you, I don’t think it will work until you understand that your self-image is inaccurate. From what you’ve told me, you’re always so down on yourself, even when you’re doing quite well compared to anyone around you. You let yourself transfer your feelings about situations, ideas, and other people onto yourself. That’s not something that can be easily fixed, it’s a conscious effort,” the man said. Normally he didn’t talk this much; therapy isn’t supposed to be about advice, it’s supposed to be about leading someone to the proper conclusion.

“I get that. It’s just not so practical sometimes. Most times, actually. And how am I supposed to deal with people if I’m supposed to not let them have any power over me? I can’t face people who are disappointed with me, or don’t approve of me, or whatever else and not let it hurt.”

“Well, we’re already a minute over our time today. Tell you what, think about that and next time we’ll talk about what you think about it. I’m sure you’ll think of some constructive things. You know, you’ve already come so far, I’m proud of you and I’m sure that you’ll keep up the progress,” the man said.

The Boy winced as he left the office. It was time to find a new therapist again. This one hadn’t been listening at all. He expected something, something the Boy was not ready to be held to that way. He walked outside and lit a cigarette. He looked at the way the smoke billowed out, furled over itself a few times, and then rolled away into nothingness in the breeze. It was almost beautiful, the way that within seconds it was gone. A horn honked, and he dropped the half-smoked cigarette to crush it under his shoe.

“How’d it go?” his aunt asked as he hopped into the white SUV.

“I need a new one.”

“Already?” she asked. He nodded.

“He doesn’t listen to what I tell him.”

“How do you figure?”

“I told him that I feel like everyone’s expecting something from me. Everyone’s always telling me how smart I am, how much I can do, how much potential I have. It feels like they expect me to do something awesome, something to outshine everyone else. I told him I’m afraid to disappoint them, and then he told me he was proud of me,” the Boy said. His aunt pulled into the parking lot of his dorm, and turned to look at him.

“Honey, you’re misunderstanding us,” she said. She looked at him solemnly, almost gravely; her eyes were wide open, focused exclusively on his own. He almost raised his eyebrows out of habit. It always made people feel like he was listening, but now it was more of a charade. “We don’t ‘expect’ anything from you at all. We’re cheering you on. Those words, those phrases, all of that stuff about potential and how proud we are of you, those are our pom-poms. We want you to know that we’re supporting you in whatever you want to do. If you don’t really want to be a doctor, then don’t be a doctor. If you want to be a ditch-digger, or a mouse-caretaker, or whatever the hell else, you dig the best damn ditches and take the best damn care of mice you can, and we’ll be right there smiling and cheering you on. It doesn’t matter to us as long as you’re happy.”

“I know,” he said, nodding and breaking the eye-contact as he opened the car door.

“Are you sure? I don’t know that you do,” she said. He looked at her and smiled.

“I’m sure. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said just before the car door swung shut.

***

“I hate breaks,” the Boy thought as he stood by his grandmother’s bookshelf. He didn’t have anywhere else to stay for the one week between the spring and summer semesters. Breaks tended to give him too much time to think, too much time to wonder what had gone so wrong, what might go so wrong. The bookshelf wasn’t helping.

Stick a Geranium in your Hat and Be Happy. Could you get any more saccharinely annoying? Not to mention the synopsis. This woman was a self-appointed master of raising spirits; of course she was, after she’d made it through life losing a son to “the homosexual lifestyle”.

“Bitch,” he thought, then chided himself for that thought. She was just as much a person as he, and evidently had many more issues. No sense in condemning her for that. He heard noise from the TV in his room.

Ellen DeGeneres was on. Ellen was a lesbian.

“Lesbian in the eye,” he thought to himself. “If I could, I really would give him lesbian in the eye now.” His Roommate and he had picked on each other using that threat. Any time one threw a friendly insult at the other, they were threatened with doom, death, and lesbian in the eye. Just imagine having the permanent image of a nude lesbian (or maybe lesbians?) imprinted on one’s retina.

“Thanks for the over-use of free association, shrinks,” he thought. Everything reminded him of his Roommate now. Roommate wasn’t even applicable anymore; they would never be roommates again. The Boy thought of his Roommate as his best friend, confidant, and would have had him as lover if he hadn’t been rejected countless times. He didn’t regret it; at least, he didn’t think he did. He had tried everything he knew to do, been the best man he could be, even lost weight and gotten “hot” according to his other friends. Nothing worked. His Roommate claimed it wasn’t his fault, and that could be true, but sometimes the Boy wondered. He wondered a lot now, since he would likely never see him again unless they happened to cross paths on campus. A mutual friend asked about the Roommate one day toward the end of the semester.

“Why isn’t he with you? I thought you guys were BFFs or something,” the Friend asked. The Boy paused before answering.

“No, we’re not friends. He’s just my roommate,” he said plainly. The friend looked puzzled but didn’t pursue the subject.

The Boy turned back to the bookshelf, shaking away the results of too much thinking. Every time it happened it left his chest feeling like he’d suffered a stab wound and brought tears to his eyes. At eighteen, he shouldn’t still be crying. He was just scared.

The next book that caught his eye would once have made his blood boil. Now it just added to the stab wound. Why Same-Sex Marriage Is A Bad Thing. Way to come up with a catchy title, but the titular rhetorical poverty didn’t help the Boy’s feelings much. The propagandist filth still stood in the same place on the bookshelf, no matter how poorly written. He picked it up, walked back to his room, shut the door, and began to read.

The next day, while his grandmother was at church, he took the book outside with him and stood over the small, blackened area of grasslessness far away from the house. The Boy ripped the first page from the book, the first real page, anyway. It was the introduction, just after all of the copyright and publisher’s information. He held his lighter to it, and smiled as tears came to his eyes.

“Fuck you. I’m perfect the way I am, so fuck you,” he said aloud as he burned the next page. He didn’t leave that spot until he’d burned the entire book, no more than two or three pages at a time; all the better to relish the small triumph. All of it was a lie, and the Boy was so tired of lies.

***

The Boy sat in the cemetery where his grandfather was buried and looked at the headstone. It had a Bible verse on it, but it was one of the few areas of the Bible that was tolerable. Psalms was inspirational, not judgmental or ignorant. The sky was oddly overcast. The clouds floated by above in little clumps, making a harlequin lightshow across the ground alternating between light and dark. It was even more apparent when the light glinted off of one the metallic grave markers or the newly polished and expensive granite of some. He heard the crunch of oak leaves (can’t have the indigenous pines covering the headstones in pollen, not where they bury all the rich folk) and lifted his head. He saw her coming toward him and gave an unfeigned smile through his slowly falling tears.

“Hey Boy. What ya crying for?” she asked. He laughed, the boyish sound cascading across the sweetly cool grass.

“Nothing, just thinking about some things, Girl.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“God,” he replied. The Girl blinked.

“I thought you’d decided you were an atheist,” she said.

“Yes, and you’re Catholic. I forgive your religious indiscretion if you forgive my bitterness toward the divine,” he said with a smile. The Girl let out a laugh and reached to gently pick a spider lily from the side of the road before coming to sink down onto the grass beside him.

“I forgive you, hon. You wanna give it to him, or you want me to?” she asked. He took it from her, their fingers touching lightly. Hers followed him slightly, just like they always did. The lily kissed the headstone gently as the Boy set it on the grave. “So what kind of stuff were you thinking about, regarding God?”

“That maybe there is a God, but it’s not right to call him God,” he started. “I mean, I do think there’s something, but I don’t know if it’s what other people call God. I damn sure don’t believe in some all-knowing, all-powerful puppeteer mofo pulling marionette strings from the sky. It’s not omniscient or omnipotent, but it is omnipresent. It’s what… it’s… it’s truth, you know? It’s love, beauty, trust, friendship.” He looked at her and smiled with the last word.

“I know exactly what you mean, Boy. I agree, too. Yeah, I’m Catholic, but the Bible is a load. It’s stories, myths, glorified nursery rhymes put together to teach lessons; it’s not what it’s been made into. God is what you said it is, and it’s indefinable, but it’s those things… well, it’s the stuff that builds, makes people grow, makes people feel good, you know?” she asked. The Boy nodded, sighing relief as he splayed himself out on the grass.

“I love you, Girl,” he said. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met that I’m so close to; no one else has such similar ideas or emotions. Everything I do you preempt, and I do the same to you all the time.”

“Ain’t it creepy?” they both asked at the same time, and then gave each other a knowing smile.

“I love you, too, Boy,” she said as she laid her head on his shoulder. “That doesn’t really answer the original question, though. Thinking about God isn’t all you were thinking about.” The Boy was quiet for a moment. He picked up a blade of grass, held it up to his lips, and made it whistle.

“What if no one ever loves me?” he asked as he ripped the blade in half and tossed it away. He picked up another in the same motion.

“What do you mean? I love you.”

“I know. You and my mom and a few other people, most of which are obligated to love me. Will anyone else ever love me, though? I don’t understand why everyone I try to get close to just leaves me. I’m a good friend, right? I mean, I know I can be weird sometimes, and needy every now and then, and sometimes I make mean jokes and I cuss a lot, but I’m still a good friend. I’m loyal and trustworthy and caring and…” he trailed off.

“Boy, listen to me. It’ll be okay in the end, okay? You’re perfect the way you are, and if anyone else can’t see that then it’s their loss. You’re my best friend. I don’t want to push what I think on you, you know that, but, well, I just think that if you don’t get the love you expect in this life, well… I think you’ll get it in the next, hon.” She looked at him as he squeezed together his eyebrows, trying to decide whether or not to accept the comfort. Finally, he hugged her.

“Thanks, Girl.”

***

“One day, Mama, I’ll bring home a boy. If there’s not an invitation for my boyfriend at Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner with that side of the family, then I won’t be there. I’ll be married one day, Mama. I want to have kids, I want a family, and I refuse to make any concessions for anyone. I’m fine, I’m good just the way I am, and if they can’t take that then it’s their problem,” the Boy said angrily as he puffed on the cigarette he held. He probably blew the smoke right into the cell phone’s microphone, but he knew his mother wouldn’t get annoyed by it.

“I understand, honey, and that’s okay. Just don’t expect them to all understand like I do. I know how you feel, and it’s okay,” she said. “How have you been feeling? You seen your Girl lately?”

“Yeah, she met up with me at the cemetery the other day. We talked about God, and how I’m not sure that I believe in it. I think we settled on something, but I’m not sure at all. It’s confusing the hell out of me, Mama, but I know that if there is a God then it’s not what they think at all,” the boy said. His paternal grandparents and that entire side of the family were religious, something he loathed and rebelled against as much as he could.

“I know, baby, but I have to tell you that I am most definitely a believer,” she said.

“I know, you always have been. You just didn’t force it on me like everybody else tried to,” he said.

“Well, you were talking about having kids just a second ago. I live for my children, you know that. I love you all so much, and if you ever wanted to hurt me all you’d have to do is let something happen to one of you. I’m just telling you that one day you’ll be holding that precious, adorable newborn in your arms, and you’ll look at your baby’s face, and you really will see the face of God.” The Boy was quiet for a moment.

“I think that’s exactly what I believe in, Mama. I’ll talk to you later, I love you,” he said.

“Okay, call me before you go to sleep so I know you’re okay. I love you more.”

“Nuh-uh,” the Boy said before hanging up quickly.

***

The Boy slid into a seat in the second row, and looked up at the stage. It was a fake proscenium arch, and the place had better acoustics than most of the other theatres on campus. He slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and put it on silent so it wouldn’t disturb him during the performance, then sat back in the seat. He was dressed nicely; name-brand, fitted tan slacks with a blue shirt. His tie had given him a bit of trouble, but he’d finally managed to make it even and straight, with a not-too-big and not-too-small knot. The shirt had a bit of shimmer to it, enough to offset his eyes with eyelashes most women had to paint on or buy.

The lights faded, and the chatter followed soon after. A hush fell as the curtain rose to reveal the Girl standing center-stage. Her white dress was strapless, and as pale as she was it gave her skin all that more presence and color. Crystalline blue floated down to shine a spotlight all for her.

Heaven was the name of her song according to the program the Boy held. He held his breath for her. His hazel eyes met her blue and held fast as he grinned. She smiled as the piano behind her played the first quiet notes. Her mouth opened, and she began to sing. She was beautiful. Every word held him rapt, and he listened as the music rolled across him, filling him with the ecstatic perfection that flowed from her voice.

“Oh, once in your life you find someone
Who will turn your life around
Pick you up when you’re feelin’ down.
Now nothing could change what you mean to me.
There’s a lot that I could say, but just hold me now
‘Cause our love will light the way.
Baby, you’re all that I want,
When you’re lying here in my arms.
I’m finding it hard to believe
We’re in Heaven.
And love is all that I need,
And I found it there in your heart.
It isn’t too hard to see
We’re in Heaven,” she sang. Her voice hit a perfectly smooth but powerful crescendo on the last lines, and he felt goosebumps rise. As the song ended, he stood to clap, and was the last one to stop. The Girl blushed while she looked at him, but never stopped smiling.

He stood smoking outside, waiting for the Girl to come outside. When she did, the white dress was in plastic over one arm, replaced by jeans and tee. She smiled at him as he tossed his cigarette and took the dress from her to carry it to her car.

“You sang like an angel, Girl,” he told her. She wrapped her arms around him and held fast.

“Thanks, Boy.”

***

“Hey Girl,” he said as she walked up. There were no oak leaves to crunch on this time of year, and there were no tears in his eyes. A letter lay on the grave, not a flower.

“Hey Boy, what’s up?” she asked. She sunk down beside him, and he tackled her from the side while giving a pitiful roar. They wrestled for just a moment, laughing and giggling as they tried to tickle each other. When they calmed down, the Girl spoke through his laughter.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” she asked.

“I don’t know if I should tell you!” he said, mockingly. She smacked him playfully on the head.

“Tell me, whore!”

“I’m in love,” he said. The Girl’s heart skipped a beat, and her back straightened to a stiff upright.

“With whom?”

“Aww, you used proper grammar! This is why you’re my best friend,” the Boy exclaimed.

“Next time you call, ask me for me and I’ll answer with ‘this is she’ if it makes you that happy,” she replied. “Now who is it?”

“The guy I met from Texas, you remember meeting him, right?”

“Yeah, but I thought he was just a random friend.”

“He was, but we got to be really good friends and we’ve been dating. He wants to marry me. Well, you know, not legally since we can’t here, but he wants to be with me,” the Boy said, grinning.

“Oh, wow,” was all the Girl could say.

“Yeah, I know, right?”

“Yeah. That’s awesome, Boy, I’m so happy for you!” she said. He hugged her tight, and they talked for a while. They filled each other in on what had been going on over the last year, all the little details. With him going to med school and her getting her doctorate in music theory, there wasn’t so much time for them to talk, much less visit each other.

“You know what’s the best thing, though?” he asked her. She shook her head.

“I’m not scared anymore. I’m finally in control, finally realizing that I really am perfect just the way I am, finally living my life for me. I’m not afraid of tomorrow, terrified of failure.”

“That’s fucking great, Boy,” she said. Her smile was truthful, and her hug tight before they parted ways.

The Man walked away, shut his car door, and waved through the window. She stood beside her own car, pretending to fiddle with her cell phone. She looked back at the grave, and walked toward it. A day long ago came to mind as she touched the granite.

“It’ll be okay in the end, okay?” she told herself. “If this life doesn’t give you the love you expect, there’s always the next.” She shed only two tears, and then smiled. Her Man was truly happy for the first time in a long time, and she had no reason not to be herself. She hummed a little as she walked back toward her car, but stopped short. She picked a flower, just one of the tiny purple ones that spring up everywhere during the summer, and went back to the grave. She placed it there softly, still smiling.

“This one’s not for you, even though I’m putting it here. It’s for my Boy, the one I used to know, who held me up while I held him up. I hope you’re as happy for him as I am.”

The Woman walked back toward her car and got in this time. She cranked the car, and drove away. She had a song screaming to be written, no time