The Year I Stopped Being Invisible - 4. Chapter 4

I was surprised, not just because Mr. Maxwell had called me "Ricky," which no one ever did, but because I was baffled as to how he might know me at all.

"Rick, sir," I said. "Rick Spivey. It's an honor to meet you."

I held out my hand timidly for a shake, and that's when Sylvester Maxwell, famous Formula 1 driver and father to Taine, did something really surprising. Instead of shaking my hand, he moved in closer, wrapped his gigantic, muscular arms around me and pulled me to his powerful chest in a fierce bear-hug.

Bewildered, I felt his large hand patting me on the back. My ribs felt as if they might break, but for some reason, I hugged him in return. After a moment, he released me, his hands easily encircling my thin arms as he held me away for a better look.

"Taine told me about you," he said. "You reported that asshole coach so the security could grab him before he hurt my boy any more than he did."

Strangely embarrassed, I nodded. Taine told him about me. The thought gave me goosebumps.

"I want to thank you for what you did for Taine," Mr. Maxwell continued. "He tells me you two are friends, and he's lucky to have a friend like you."

"No, sir," I demurred, smiling. "It's me who's lucky."

Mr. Maxwell stared at me for a moment, and my heard started pounding, wondering if I'd given a "tell." To closeted kids like me, a "tell" was letting on that your interests in another boy went beyond acceptable social boundaries. Inwardly, I gave a huge sigh of relief when he smiled at me, his bushy black eyebrows raising as if he'd just had a good idea.

"Call your folks," Mr. Maxwell said. "Let them know I'll be picking both of you boys up in front of the school at 3:45. You're having dinner with us tonight."

Without allowing an answer, he bear-hugged me again and walked off, leaving me standing there in complete confusion. Taine had told his father about what I did to help him, even though my guilty conscience said that I hadn't done enough. That was one thing, but he'd also told him that we were friends! And we were having dinner together with his dad!

My heart danced with joy as I went to the bank of pay phones across from the office to call Rex and tell him I wasn't going to be home for dinner.

That was when Vice-Principal Wells appeared at the end of the corridor and pointed straight at me.

"SPIVEY! I told you to get to CLASS!"

Oh, brother.

* * * * *

My next class was Drama 1, and Mr. McRory was understanding about my tardiness, but told me not to let it become a habit. He was pretty cool from what I'd seen so far, and seemed more interested in teaching us to act than going on about stage-lights and some Elizabethan b.s. like the curriculum notes had indicated.

He had told us on the first day that he didn't believe in "the Method," the popular approach to acting developed by Konstantin Stanislavsky which urged you to use your past experiences and bring your own inner life to the character. First of all, he said, we were teenagers and didn't have all that many relevant experiences from which to draw just yet. Secondly, the Method often led to what he called "guys standing off in a corner and mumbling to themselves," or girls weeping uncontrollably and going out of character in a torrent of "emotional diarrhea."

"That's not acting," Mr. McRory stated. "It's not about you. It's about the character. 'The play's the thing!' Know who your character is, what your character wants. And for God's sake...if you're going to act, just get up there and act!"

I was fortunate that Mr. McRory felt that way, because if he'd been a proponent of Method acting, all of my characters would have been hopelessly and utterly obsessed with someone whom he had never met. I smiled to myself, imagining Mr. McRory's puzzled expression when Romeo -- the character I'd been given to play in my first acting scene -- suddenly broke from the script and began rhapsodizing about Taine Maxwell.

"What are you grinning about," came an insinuating voice to my left. I turned to see Kirsten, smiling at me through that strawberry lip-gunk and a face a bit ashen from overly zealous application of pancake makeup. As usual, she wore a thin, fluffy angora sweater, which made her ample bosom appear even more enormous. She was a rather forward girl.

"Oh," I said, "nothing. Just looking forward to doing our first scene."

What I was really looking forward to was dinner at Taine's house, and the rest of the day passed as slowly as molasses. We broke into groups and rehearsed our scenes until the bell rang, and then I went straight to gym.

* * * * *

As I came into the locker room, I saw Taine in the coach's office with Coach Briggs, his note from Principal Towers sitting on Coach's desk.

Briggs said something and rose from his chair, shaking Taine's hand before excusing him from the class. I glanced back briefly, hoping to catch Taine's eye, but he was already gone, so I went to my dressing bench and changed into my Polk High shorts and t-shirt.

We played touch football that day, which didn't seem to be for any educational reason other than to let the coaches scope out our skills in case they wanted us on the freshman team. Our quarterback was Billy Higgs, a fit young kid with wavy, dirty-blonde hair which reached his collar. He had cut off his Polk t-shirt just below the ribs, so as to better show off his tanned, rippling six-pack of abs to the girls' P.E. class running around the track. The girls weren't very well supervised, and Billy pointed my attention to Kirsten, who was walking well behind the running mass, smoking a long, thin cigarette and looking over at us.

"That girl really digs you," Billy said.

I pointed at his tight belly. "I think she digs that."

"We'll see," he grinned. "Go out for a pass and we'll see who she's watching."

I lined up at tight end, my long legs easily juking and confusing the hefty Rolando, who had stupidly decided that he was guarding me that day. I ran ten yards past him, then hooked to the sideline as Jerry Klimler -- who was playing DB -- got off his receiver and headed my way. Billy launched a wobbly, loose duck of a pass, which actually worked to my advantage as I was a little out of position.

I grabbed it, spun, and was off to the races as Jerry dove right at the spot where I had been a half-second before. I spiked the ball in the end-zone, and looked back to see my teammates cheering and Billy grinning, tilting his head toward the track. Kirsten stood there, smiling at me coolly while French-inhaling thin tendrils of whitish smoke from her long cigarette.

"Told ya," Billy laughed, as Kirsten theatrically gave me a small golf-clap before turning to follow the track.

I grinned and followed Billy and the rest of the boys back inside to shower. It was funny, I thought as I lathered up under the steamy mist. A week ago, I would have been scoping out all the wet dicks, glistening butts, and slippery legs in the large communal shower area. Today, my mind was on the only person who had been excused from this bizarre bathing ritual.

I pictured him in study hall, slouching at a desk while all around him, the other kids whispered, passed notes, planned parties. I wondered if he even wanted to be a part of those activities, or to attend those parties. I smiled while imagining him giving me a disdainful smirk for even having that thought.

Yup, I admitted, Taine Maxwell was in my head to stay.

* * * * *

I finished my shower early, dressed, and made my phone-call to Rex about my plans for dinner. He was already half in the tank and merely mumbled his displeasure about having to feed the birds himself. We had a bird-feeder and birdbath in the back yard, at my new mother's insistence, and I was expected to fill the feeder with seed and change the water in the bath at 4:15 sharp, a few minutes before she got home from her secretarial job at the local Air Force base.

"I'm just messing with you, kid," he slurred. "I'll feed the damn birds. Have a good time."

I thanked him and hung up the phone. I didn't have History class on Mondays, so I went straight to Biology, where we were dissecting and labeling rana pipiens, the Northern leopard frog. That was when I got another surprise.

Ms. Ogretz, our 26-year old Biology teacher, was secured to her desk with ropes as if she was being held hostage. Her face was red and there was a single tear rolling down her left cheek.

I was rooted to the spot, not knowing whether to help her or run screaming from the room. That was when my lab partner, Greg Arroyo, pushed past me, set his books down on our lab table, and went to stand in front of Ms. Ogretz's desk.

"He got you again, didn't he, Betty?" Greg grinned.

I stared at the scene, only relaxing when I realized that Ms. Ogretz's red face and tears were due to frustrated laughter. Greg flipped his shoulder-length black hair from his eyes and went around the desk to free our teacher.

"I am soooo gonna get him, Greg!"

"Get who?" I asked, rushing to help. I glanced at Greg, noting his tight black t-shirt emblazoned with scenes of demons and carnage topped by a red logo for the heavy-metal band Iron Maiden. As he loosened the ropes from our giggling young instructor, he grinned to acknowledge me and pointed over my shoulder.

I turned to see my equally young History teacher, Mr. Arispe, chuckling in the doorway behind me. He winked mischievously and moved away down the corridor.

"They're always pranking each other," said Greg, removing the last of Ms. Ogretz's bonds as amused students began piling into the classroom. "I think they're sweet on each other."

"Which you wouldn't know if this wasn't your second go-round with me, Gregory." Ms. Ogretz was trying to get back into teacher-mode, but her giggles gave away both her youth and romantic delight at Mr. Arispe's attentions.

"Hey," Greg retorted as Ms. Ogretz gathered her thoughts, "you need someone like me around to untie you. One of these days I'll be a sophomore and you'll be stuck there all day."

I shook my head and took my seat with a smile. High school certainly was...uhm...different.

* * * * *

When Biology was over, and I had washed the frog-gunk from my hands in one of the stainless-steel sinks at the side of the classroom, I got my books and headed to my locker. I hurriedly dumped my book-bag inside, then rushed to the parents' pick-up area outside the school. I saw Taine and went over to him. He had taken off his cap and held it in one of those perfect, perfect hands as he ran the other through his soft, silken shag.

Seeing his face turned to the afternoon sunlight, his eyes closed in obvious relief at the end of another school day, he looked so angelic and peaceful. I took a deep breath, trying to get oxygen back into my lungs, because looking at his beautiful pale face in the sunshine had taken it all away.

By the time I reached him, the cap was back in place, as he stood facing the road with his book-bag resting by his Jegs-clad feet. He must have heard my approach, as he turned and faced me, again with that adorable smirk playing on his sweet lips.

"Hey," he said by way of greeting.

"Hey, Taine," I replied. I went to stand next to him, also scanning the road. I half-expected his dad to pull up in a Formula 1 car, although I knew logically that the thought was ridiculous.

"Your dad picking you up?" he asked.

"Nope," I grinned. "Yours is! Didn't he tell you?"

Taine looked at me as if I had lost my mind, so I filled him in on my run-in with his father after lunch.

"I guess he was grateful or something," I concluded, "because he's taking us both to dinner."

Taine absorbed this information, and I was crushed to see the dejection in his stance and voice as he replied.

"That sucks," was what he said.

I couldn't help it. My lower lip began to quiver. My nose started to run, and my eyes began filling with tears.

"I don't have to go if you don't want me to," I sniveled.

Taine looked up at me, startled at my reaction. Then it dawned on him.

"No..." he said gently. "It's not you. I want you to come. I just hate restaurants. I can never find anything on the menu I want to eat."

I looked back at him nervously, feeling like an idiot.

"Really?" I asked shyly.

He didn't smile, but very seriously shook his head in the affirmative. Abashed, I composed myself as I saw his father through the windshield of an approaching Mercedes. Mr. Maxwell pulled the car to a stop in front of us and popped the door locks. Taine got in front and I sat in the back seat directly behind him. Mr. Maxwell grinned at me in the rearview mirror.

"How ya doin', Ricky?" he called jovially.

"It's Rick, dad," Taine said, quietly but firmly correcting his father.

He lowered his head and I thought this amazing, incredible kid is embarrassed by everything. It's like he's ashamed to be human.

"Rick it is, then," said Mr. Maxwell amiably. "You like Sizzler, sport?"

"Yes, sir!" I replied enthusiastically. I loved Sizzler, but the only restaurant Rex ever took us to was Luby's cafeteria, every Thursday night like clockwork. Even Taine seemed a bit cheered by the prospect.

"Sizzler is the only restaurant where Taine actually eats," Mr. Maxwell explained. "So I thought we'd give 'er a go."

He put the car in gear and began driving toward the restaurant. Taine turned toward the window and I focused on the soft, wispy hairs on the back of his slender and graceful neck.

And that was when the truck hit us.