Read Online Openly Straight by Bill Konigsberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Bill Konigsberg
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pretty comfortable, but there’s a difference between normal comfortable and being forty-something and shaking your backside to a bad hip-hop song in an Illinois restaurant full of strangers.
At the bottom of the page, it read:
B+. See me.
I went to Mr. Scarborough’s office during my free period and sat across from him. I threw the essay onto his desk, maybe a little arrogantly.
He picked up the essay, scanned it, grinned once, and put it back down.
“Good start,” he said. “You are a bit all over the place, but the voice, it’s intriguing.”
No one had ever told me that my writing was all over the place. I could feel heat spread across my face and into my ears. Take away my labels, fine. Take away part of my identity, fine. Just leave me the things I know I am, like being a good writer.
“I was trying to be amusing,” I mumbled.
He smiled. “I got that. The way you started was a bit generic, with that lame AA joke, but, otherwise, quite amusing.”
“At my old school, they loved my sense of humor,” I said, crossing and uncrossing my legs.
He took a sip from his orange ceramic coffee mug and leaned back in his chair. “I liked it, Rafe. To me, a B plus is what it deserves. It’s clever, but I don’t feel this piece ever really comes together the way it would need to for an A piece. You bring up some good questions without really reflecting on them.”
He picked up the essay and leafed through it.
“You say here that you would love to be as free as your parents. What do you think is stopping you from being that way?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my ego still bruised, thinking, What are you, my shrink?
“You don’t need to know the answer. But I don’t think it wouldhurt for you to be a bit more self-reflective about it. Anyhow, that’s actually not why I called you in here.”
“Oh,” I said, reclining in my chair a bit.
“I hope you’ll accept what I’m going to tell you in the manner in which I am offering it to you,” he said. “I don’t think it takes much reading between the lines to know that perhaps you are … well, you’re different. I wanted to let you know that you can be that here. Different. For instance — we have a GSA. Did you know that?”
I took a deep breath.
“I’m the faculty adviser, actually. We have several boys this year.”
“Oh,” I said, taking in those pieces of information.
We stared at each other.
“Wait. I’m different?” I asked.
He nodded, this time with a supportive smile on his face, and I just wanted to wipe it clean off him. Who the hell was he to intrude? What if I was, like, in the closet, deep in the closet, and I didn’t want to be out? Wait. Was I in the closet? No, not exactly. But how was that his business? I gripped the handles of the chair.
“What do you mean, ‘I’m different’? Where are you getting this from? I’ve sat in your class for a week. Are you asking me if I’m gay? Because that’s kind of inappropriate, don’t you think?”
He pursed his lips and looked down at his desk. “Actually, I got that from your mother.”
I raised my voice. “What?”
He cleared his throat. “Your mother called the school about a week before classes. She asked to speak to me, as the head of the GSA. She told me about her work with PFLAG, and I have to say, Iwas excited to have you join us. But … you haven’t joined us, have you, Rafe?”
“My mother called you?” She was way out of line. Way out.
“She did. Nice woman.”
I could feel the veins pulsing in my forehead, the skin pulled tight by the angle of my neck. Why couldn’t she mind her own business, even one time? I sighed, dropped my head back, and studied the ceiling.
“This is so extremely typical,” I said.
He didn’t answer. I stared at the ceiling for maybe a full minute, knowing that at some point, I’d need to say more. Finally, when I was pretty sure I was calm enough that my head wouldn’t burst, I raised it again.
“You want to
At the bottom of the page, it read:
B+. See me.
I went to Mr. Scarborough’s office during my free period and sat across from him. I threw the essay onto his desk, maybe a little arrogantly.
He picked up the essay, scanned it, grinned once, and put it back down.
“Good start,” he said. “You are a bit all over the place, but the voice, it’s intriguing.”
No one had ever told me that my writing was all over the place. I could feel heat spread across my face and into my ears. Take away my labels, fine. Take away part of my identity, fine. Just leave me the things I know I am, like being a good writer.
“I was trying to be amusing,” I mumbled.
He smiled. “I got that. The way you started was a bit generic, with that lame AA joke, but, otherwise, quite amusing.”
“At my old school, they loved my sense of humor,” I said, crossing and uncrossing my legs.
He took a sip from his orange ceramic coffee mug and leaned back in his chair. “I liked it, Rafe. To me, a B plus is what it deserves. It’s clever, but I don’t feel this piece ever really comes together the way it would need to for an A piece. You bring up some good questions without really reflecting on them.”
He picked up the essay and leafed through it.
“You say here that you would love to be as free as your parents. What do you think is stopping you from being that way?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my ego still bruised, thinking, What are you, my shrink?
“You don’t need to know the answer. But I don’t think it wouldhurt for you to be a bit more self-reflective about it. Anyhow, that’s actually not why I called you in here.”
“Oh,” I said, reclining in my chair a bit.
“I hope you’ll accept what I’m going to tell you in the manner in which I am offering it to you,” he said. “I don’t think it takes much reading between the lines to know that perhaps you are … well, you’re different. I wanted to let you know that you can be that here. Different. For instance — we have a GSA. Did you know that?”
I took a deep breath.
“I’m the faculty adviser, actually. We have several boys this year.”
“Oh,” I said, taking in those pieces of information.
We stared at each other.
“Wait. I’m different?” I asked.
He nodded, this time with a supportive smile on his face, and I just wanted to wipe it clean off him. Who the hell was he to intrude? What if I was, like, in the closet, deep in the closet, and I didn’t want to be out? Wait. Was I in the closet? No, not exactly. But how was that his business? I gripped the handles of the chair.
“What do you mean, ‘I’m different’? Where are you getting this from? I’ve sat in your class for a week. Are you asking me if I’m gay? Because that’s kind of inappropriate, don’t you think?”
He pursed his lips and looked down at his desk. “Actually, I got that from your mother.”
I raised my voice. “What?”
He cleared his throat. “Your mother called the school about a week before classes. She asked to speak to me, as the head of the GSA. She told me about her work with PFLAG, and I have to say, Iwas excited to have you join us. But … you haven’t joined us, have you, Rafe?”
“My mother called you?” She was way out of line. Way out.
“She did. Nice woman.”
I could feel the veins pulsing in my forehead, the skin pulled tight by the angle of my neck. Why couldn’t she mind her own business, even one time? I sighed, dropped my head back, and studied the ceiling.
“This is so extremely typical,” I said.
He didn’t answer. I stared at the ceiling for maybe a full minute, knowing that at some point, I’d need to say more. Finally, when I was pretty sure I was calm enough that my head wouldn’t burst, I raised it again.
“You want to
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