THEY ENDED up broadcasting my entire interview on the school’s YouTube channel.
All of it. Language, breakdown, and all.
I’d insisted that they do. I wanted the entire school to see and hear the whole thing, the good, the bad, and the really, really ugly. Feeling suddenly bold, I told Laura that if they didn’t broadcast the whole thing, they couldn’t use any of it.
Laura understood why I needed her to do it. And she stood up for me when the time came.
After it showed, things seemed to change a little at school; the mood shifted a tiny bit. The jerks went on being jerks, and the hard-core jocks went on being hard-core brainless jocks, but somehow the tension seemed to break, sort of like when a thunderstorm finally explodes with thunder and lightning and rain and after that there’s a sense of calm.
It kind of felt like that.
People seemed to get where I was coming from. They were more relaxed around me. There was more smiling and nodding and less pointing and giggling and ignoring.
Laura and I started hanging out together at school. Lunch mostly, or we’d meet in the computer lab to look at college websites and try to narrow down our choices.
Along with all this going on, I also had to deal with what was about to happen next: graduation and college.
I had no idea what I wanted to study. Or where I wanted to go. I just knew I wanted to go away. Far away. Away from what had happened.
I needed to go somewhere where it hadn’t happened. And wouldn’t happen.
Somewhere safe.
Although deep down I knew that there is really no such place.
So there was school. Watching soccer practice. Freezie Treats with Ziggy. Hanging with Laura. And hiding away in my room.
My life.
But I was slowly beginning to change. Or things around me were beginning to change.
I’m not sure which.
The school counselor told me that while my grades were good enough to get into any of the schools I was trying for, I needed more extracurricular activities, especially since drama club was no longer happening. I needed something, he suggested, that would show I cared about something outside of school, and something that would involve me with my community.
Apparently, getting shot wasn’t going to be enough to show my involvement with my community and help me get into the college of my choice. So on the days when Mom wasn’t at the LGBT youth center, I went myself.
It cut seriously into my weed/Freezie Treats/slushie/vodka time with Ziggy, but three afternoons a week, I went by the center.
Honestly, I didn’t do much. I’d check in with the tough feminine lesbian chick Nancy who ran the place, to make sure I got credited for my time. I’d go in, down a couple vodka-free Cokes, nod to the people I knew, make sure to give Jeremy a smile, and listen.
Just listen.
Because really, what else could I offer them? Despite the applause they gave me, I was still a mess and I knew it.
I still wasn’t sleeping well. I still wasn’t eating much. I still wasn’t interested in dating. Or in sex in general.
It still felt like I was sleepwalking. Like I was still in a dream. Or a nightmare. One that I still couldn’t shake myself awake from. Terrified that any moment I’d be back in the club. On that night.
I was getting by. I can say that much. But barely.
At least, I told myself, I was reaching out more. Talking to other people more. And even, at the center, thinking about other people’s problems and not my own.
But it felt like an act.
Inside me, I was still at Pacific Coast.
And Nate was still dead.
And try as I might (or maybe I wasn’t even trying or just wasn’t trying hard enough), I still couldn’t get past that.