October 23, 1982
Dressed all in purple, she prances down the halls. I wonder if she knows how ridiculous she looks, sliding down the odd banister with her skirt hiking up and boys slapping her rear end. It's not as though anybody really appreciates her presence, but everyone likes having someone to make fun of. This sophomore is an ideal candidate, and even as she walks through the halls, people comment. Gossip follows her everywhere she goes. From what I've heard, her name's Maureen, but even that is unreliable. It takes a lot for real information to make its way from the sophomores to the seniors, and even more for it to get to one sole senior, a loner, disliked by many for his color, his sexuality, and the fact that this is his third attempt at senior year. Going for four, Collins? I'm asked. Well, it'd be nice.
This girl, though, makes her way through the halls as though she has no idea what people say about her. I almost admire that in her, except that ignorance… well, it's poison, at our age. If she doesn't know what the rumors say about her, chances are they'll get worse. When I was in sophomore year, I was already well-versed in these things. It's almost tragic to know that eventually, her heart'll be broken when she catches a snippet of ill-timed gossip, or a rumor in which she is a slut. Somehow, I can't see this girl taking these things well. I almost want to protect her.
It's not romantic, be sure of that. I like guys. Girls are fine, but just as friends. Which appears to be what I'm looking for with this Maureen-creature. Or maybe she's really not Maureen. For all the reliable information I have, her name could be Jane. I hope it's not, though. Then I'd feel even worse for her. Nothing against Janes, that is, but really – this wild-haired free spirit could never be a Jane. Maureen. That fits pretty well. I can see her as a Maureen. But then again, this is coming from a nineteen-year-old who can't even see himself as Tom – always Collins. Perhaps I'm not as good a guesser as I thought.
Today, she's wearing a purple skirt that spins as she twirls through the halls, and a nearly-transparent lavender shawl tied expertly around her upper body, serving as a shirt. Purple appears to be her favorite color, and I'm fine with it. I'm rather preferential to brown, but everyone's entitled to their opinions. Purple's a color lots of girls like – it might not even be her, but an attempt to conform.
Wow. The fact that I even managed to use that girl and conform togetheris kind of absurd. Anyone can see that she doesn't care about conforming. I mean, she walks up to people and serenades them. And not with an ounce of tact, either. If she doesn't like someone's hair, she clearly has no qualms about singing some song about a bad hair day. She has yet to approach me with that soprano of hers, but should she ever decide to, I'd love to hear what she has to say about me. Ahem – what she has to sing about me.
As if having read my thoughts, here she comes, dancing down the hallway. I meet her eyes, which are the color of cinnamon, and she scans my face for a split second before moving on. I watch her, transfixed at how utterly unforgettable she is, and stick my head into my locker to hide my blush. I don't like her. I'm gay. But she seems like a great person nonetheless, and I'd love to know her.
My chance comes one day after school, when I'm waiting for it to be dark before I walk home – just don't ask, okay? – and a certain brunette strolls by. "You walking?" she asks me brightly, looking for a companion. I nod wordlessly, speechless for the first time in my life, and she snatches up my wrist and starts ambling along with me. "I'm Maureen. I've seen you in the halls."
"Collins," I reply. "Tom Collins. You can call me Collins."
She smiles charmingly. "I'm honored," she tells me with a sweet smile. "So, where do you live?" I tell her, and she shrieks with glee. "I'm going in that direction, and then some. I can walk you."
This being my first encounter with a girl before – not romantic, of course – I don't know what to say. Are girls supposed to walk guys to their houses? Isn't it usually the other way around? But of course, gender roles have never been a big concern of mine, because if a guy can be the submissive partner in bed, he by all means can be walked to his house. Or in this case, apartment. "Great," I tell Maureen.
"Hey, what grade you in?" she asks me, giving me a curious look.
I blush. "Senior. But I was held back – twice, actually. So I'll be twenty before graduation – that is, if I graduate this year."
"That sucks," she replies. "What'd you do? I can't see you flunking."
I grin. "I didn't, actually. Just some 'severe disciplinary problems,' to quote our lovely principal. You know, I'm really honored she takes time out of her busy day to yell at me about whatever shit I've pulled lately. You'd think that after running naked through the halls, she'd just want me out of the school, but apparantly not." With an even bigger grin, I add, "Maybe she just likes watching."
Maureen giggles. "Maybe, but I had her pegged as a dyke."
I almost want to ask her if she'd have a problem with someone who was, but something gives the the feeling that this is not the time, and it'd seem bizarre in this situation. So I don't. Instead, I ask her, "You're a sophomore, right?"
"Ugh," she groans. "Don't remind me."
I chuckle. "I remember my sophomore year," I tell her, and then frown. "Okay, sorry, I sounded really old there for a minute."
She laughs. "Nah, it's okay. I like older men."
Fuck.
When she sees my alarmed expression (obviously not as hidden as well as I'd hoped), she sighs. "Shit," she mumbles, and before I can ask her what's wrong, she explains, "I bet this kid that you weren't gay. Are you?"
"Yes," I reply, because I have no problem with telling people that, and because I highly doubt she'd bet anyone any such thing. No offense to her or anything, but I don't think anyone likes her. Except me, that is. And of course, just as a friendly little disclaimer, it's platonic. In case I didn't assure myself of that enough times already.
She sighs. "Could you pretend you aren't?" she asks with a playful smile. "I could take a picture, and then I wouldn't owe Matt fifty bucks."
"Kind of stupid to bet fifty bucks on someone being gay," I chide her. She giggles.
"I need the money," she protests lightly, and without waiting for my permission, she leans up and brushes a nonexistent leaf out of my hair. Feeling hopelessly awkward, I take a step back.
"If you're going to do this," I tell her weakly, knowing that it would be futile to attempt to stop her, "please, for god's sake, don't make it romantic."
So holding an ancient camera to the side, she swiftly presses her lips to mine. I start to back up after that, hoping she won't ask for any more unbearable favors, and assume that she'll let me carry on home now, without the presence of a girl who obviously has feelings for me. It's just weird.
"Oh," she says mournfully, "I don't know if I got the picture, see? The flash wasn't on, and it's kind of dark already."
With a loud groan, I let her torture me again, and then inquire – perfectly politely – "Can I please just go now?"
Maureen giggles. "Silly," she tells me, "didn't I say I'd walk you home?"
For a second, I feel incredibly self-centered, and I double-take. "Oh," I say abashedly. How the hell am I going to explain this? I mumble, "I thought you just did it to build up to, um, to that kiss thing."
"That kiss thing?" she laughs. "No. I told you, it was a bet. Although it'd be nice, if you swung that way, but… what could I do? Anyways, can you move on, or do you insist on acting like it meant something?"
Relieved, I allow her to lace her arm in mine as we walk towards my house.
Girls? They're fine as friends.
And it's a comfort to know that friendship seems to be Maureen's intention.
"I'll call you," she promises, chatting idly as we walk. "Here's my number – " here she presses a sweaty Post-It into my hand – "and you'll call me maybe twice a day, or three times if you really have to, but don't sound desperate and don't let my parents think you're my boyfriend. Unless you decide to switch sides, in which case you should definitely let me know." With a wicked grin, she claps me on the shoulder. Realizing that we're on my doorstep, I slowly step out of her grasp.
"Sure thing, Maureen," I tell her with a roll of my eyes. "You don't talk enough, anyone ever told you that?"
Yeah. This is going to be the start of a pretty interesting friendship, to say the least.
