Read Online Openly Straight by Bill Konigsberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bill Konigsberg
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hear a story?” I asked. “You’d be the first to hear it.”
“Sure,” he said, looking a bit concerned.
So for the first time since I’d come to Natick — the first time ever, really — I explained what I was doing. And you know what? It felt pretty good, having a confidant. Letting my secrets go. Having a secret feels exciting at first, but it seems like it always winds up being more of a weight than anything else.
Mr. Scarborough listened intently, not taking his eyes off mine as I explained what label-free meant to me, and why I’d felt the need to try to start anew.
“Interesting,” he said, once I was done.
I blinked expectantly. Wasn’t he going to have any advice for me? I wouldn’t mind, I realized, some sage words from someone older and wiser and not my parents. Who, I knew, would be less than thrilled if and when they heard the details of my plan. I’d beenevasive with them every time we’d spoken, and that wasn’t going so well. My folks were not fans of evasive.
He broke into a grin when he saw that I expected him to say something.
“Sorry, Rafe. I don’t know what to say other than I’m glad you told me. You’re on an interesting ledge, and I’m curious to hear about your explorations. So no GSA for you, I suppose?”
“Nah,” I said.
“What about the literary magazine? You’re obviously interested and talented.”
“Soccer,” I said, shaking my head. “Sorry.”
He waved off the apology. “Do what you need to do,” he said. “And as for your experiment, please feel free to write about it. Okay? In fact, that’s what I’d like you to do. Your journal. That’s your assignment this semester. Write about why you’ve done what you’ve done.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” I said.
“Start at the beginning, then,” he said. “We have all semester.”
I thought about what it would feel like to write everything out. I wasn’t sure he was going to like everything I wrote. “Sure,” I said.
He smiled again. “I’m reminded of the ancient Chinese proverb — well, in fact, the origin is unclear: May you live in interesting times.”
“Thanks, I think,” I said.
He tapped his orange coffee mug and stared intently at the handle, lost in deep thought.
“I guess we should be happy that you have the choice today,” he said. “Ten years ago? Twenty? I’m pretty sure this situation wouldn’t happen. That’s something, isn’t it?”
“Up to five now!” the kid with the black do-rag yelled. His face was red, his eyes unfocused, and I felt like I might as well be looking in the mirror because I was seriously doused too.
I picked up the shot glass, got myself set so that I didn’t fall over onto the kitchen floor, and looked around the room. Everyone was a stranger, and for a moment I wondered where the hell I was. And then I remembered. Saturday after the first week of classes. Shawn Something. A Joey Warren kid, aka a townie. Parents out of town. Whole soccer team there.
And I was leading the way.
It was a tradition. Every Natick School class would find a way to get in with some of the kids from Joey Warren. They didn’t exactly love us, but they tolerated us, especially if we’d bring alcohol to their parties, which we always did. Every few years, a new kid inherited the long-standing fake ID business at Natick, so getting booze was never a problem. And I’d been told the girls liked the Natick School boys. A lot. Almost every year, there was some sort of scandal in which a Natick boy got a townie girl pregnant.
It was unlikely to be me.
Steve was my partner for the drinking game we were playing. He’d passed four with flying colors, and now I got to do five with him as the pour man.
They called it Spinner, which sounded like Spinnah to my ears. The interesting thing about hanging out with the townies was that I finally heard that Boston accent that everybody jokes about — Pahk yah cah at Hahvahd Yahd . The Natick School kids didn’t
“Sure,” he said, looking a bit concerned.
So for the first time since I’d come to Natick — the first time ever, really — I explained what I was doing. And you know what? It felt pretty good, having a confidant. Letting my secrets go. Having a secret feels exciting at first, but it seems like it always winds up being more of a weight than anything else.
Mr. Scarborough listened intently, not taking his eyes off mine as I explained what label-free meant to me, and why I’d felt the need to try to start anew.
“Interesting,” he said, once I was done.
I blinked expectantly. Wasn’t he going to have any advice for me? I wouldn’t mind, I realized, some sage words from someone older and wiser and not my parents. Who, I knew, would be less than thrilled if and when they heard the details of my plan. I’d beenevasive with them every time we’d spoken, and that wasn’t going so well. My folks were not fans of evasive.
He broke into a grin when he saw that I expected him to say something.
“Sorry, Rafe. I don’t know what to say other than I’m glad you told me. You’re on an interesting ledge, and I’m curious to hear about your explorations. So no GSA for you, I suppose?”
“Nah,” I said.
“What about the literary magazine? You’re obviously interested and talented.”
“Soccer,” I said, shaking my head. “Sorry.”
He waved off the apology. “Do what you need to do,” he said. “And as for your experiment, please feel free to write about it. Okay? In fact, that’s what I’d like you to do. Your journal. That’s your assignment this semester. Write about why you’ve done what you’ve done.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” I said.
“Start at the beginning, then,” he said. “We have all semester.”
I thought about what it would feel like to write everything out. I wasn’t sure he was going to like everything I wrote. “Sure,” I said.
He smiled again. “I’m reminded of the ancient Chinese proverb — well, in fact, the origin is unclear: May you live in interesting times.”
“Thanks, I think,” I said.
He tapped his orange coffee mug and stared intently at the handle, lost in deep thought.
“I guess we should be happy that you have the choice today,” he said. “Ten years ago? Twenty? I’m pretty sure this situation wouldn’t happen. That’s something, isn’t it?”
“Up to five now!” the kid with the black do-rag yelled. His face was red, his eyes unfocused, and I felt like I might as well be looking in the mirror because I was seriously doused too.
I picked up the shot glass, got myself set so that I didn’t fall over onto the kitchen floor, and looked around the room. Everyone was a stranger, and for a moment I wondered where the hell I was. And then I remembered. Saturday after the first week of classes. Shawn Something. A Joey Warren kid, aka a townie. Parents out of town. Whole soccer team there.
And I was leading the way.
It was a tradition. Every Natick School class would find a way to get in with some of the kids from Joey Warren. They didn’t exactly love us, but they tolerated us, especially if we’d bring alcohol to their parties, which we always did. Every few years, a new kid inherited the long-standing fake ID business at Natick, so getting booze was never a problem. And I’d been told the girls liked the Natick School boys. A lot. Almost every year, there was some sort of scandal in which a Natick boy got a townie girl pregnant.
It was unlikely to be me.
Steve was my partner for the drinking game we were playing. He’d passed four with flying colors, and now I got to do five with him as the pour man.
They called it Spinner, which sounded like Spinnah to my ears. The interesting thing about hanging out with the townies was that I finally heard that Boston accent that everybody jokes about — Pahk yah cah at Hahvahd Yahd . The Natick School kids didn’t
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