Another few days pass by, and in Minnesota it starts to snow heavily, every day. School is never canceled, so every morning, I drag myself to hockey practice and then to classes, blinking blearily against the bright white snow and dreary grey sky.
My marks are still improving, because I don't leave my bedroom except for the required hockey and class. At four each afternoon, I lock the door to my room and know no one will disturb me, because the only other person with a key doesn't want to live here with me anymore.
Connie's stopped visiting, because I've stopped answering her knocks. When she looks at me, I can see the sadness and fright in her eyes, so I stop looking for it and stare at the ground when I walk. I still eat lunch alone in the library, and I still do schoolwork for at least six hours a day, late into the evening; it's become busy work, most of it – recopying my notes even when they don't need to be recopied, revising essays four or five times.
There's nothing else I can think to do. My play on the ice has become sloppy, and handling a puck no longer brings the same joy. Adam doesn't pass me the puck anymore, and Adam doesn't speak my name, not even to tell me a play or cheer when I happen to accidentally do something well, and Adam doesn't even look at me, won't even glance my way.
I can't even call Mama anymore, because I can't think of anything I want to say.
I know I'm handling everything completely unhealthily, but I can hardly muster the strength to do anything anymore. I know it's getting to the point where everyone wants to say something to me, wants to find a way to help, is thinking that it will soon be too late...but no one does say anything, and I know I would push them away if they tried.
Luke calls me every night, on Mama's request, probably. Sunday to Sunday, at nine o'clock sharp, my telephone rings, and I answer; I don't know why, but I can't ignore him. Luke always wants to talk about professional hockey teams or his classes or my classes or the latest movie he saw or this hilarious conversation he overheard while grocery shopping. He never brings up Adam, and of course, neither do I.
One Thursday night, though, he cuts right to the chase and says what has probably been on his mind since Thanksgiving.
At nine o'clock sharp, I pick up the telephone. "Hello?" My voice is dulled and pained, all at the same time.
Luke sighs. "I'm sick of this perfect bullshit, Dwayne. You're not perfect; Adam isn't perfect. How is it that he realizes that about you, while you can't realize that about him?" I don't answer him, but he plows ahead anyway. "Isn't there anything about Adam you hate? Isn't there anything about him that pisses you off, that drives you up a wall?"
"Of course there is."
I actually have the gall to be shocked at my own immediate answer.
"And you don't think irritating habits are imperfections?"
"No. They're just...they're part of who he is. They're part of the perfect whole."
"Dwayne...what do you hate?"
"I...I kind of hate the way he wears the collar of his polo shirts popped up." It's the first thing that pops into my head, and I realize with startling clarity that it's the truth. I hate it; it's pretentious and prissy and obnoxious.
"Interesting. Not quite exactly what I was going for, but I think it's a start."
"What were you going for?"
"Well...see, Miranda has this laugh. It's kinda cute on her, but I think I only say that because I'm in love with her. She actually...you've never met her, I know, but...she's so little, like, five-foot-two, with curly blonde hair and brown eyes. And she's so small and cute, but...her laugh. It just doesn't fit, it's so...ugly. She kind of laughs like a horse."
"A horse?"
"Yeah, you know..." And he demonstrates as best he can. I pull the phone away from my ear and laugh hysterically for a minute or two – and lately, it's been a completely foreign sound, I've almost missed it, the ability to laugh and feel mirth – before composing myself.
"That's horrible," I say, when I can.
"I know it is. I know. I think if I laughed like that, I would actually physically try to change my laugh. You know, how some people change their handwriting or their annoying mannerisms? I think I would forcibly adjust the way I laughed. But Miranda...doesn't. I think she's oblivious. It's one of the annoying things about her...one of those little imperfections that makes her human. I love her anyway."
I understand where he's coming from, and I understand why popped collars don't quite fit the bill.
"Well..." I stop and think again. I kind of hate Adam's polo shirts in general. And I hate the way he can wear peach and think it's normal. These are so trivial, I almost want to laugh at myself.
But...wouldn't the perfect person know peach looks absolutely ridiculous and that polo shirts aren't exactly the most becoming style?
Of course, not. Adam is still the embodiment of what's perfect; he's still what everyone wants to be, these perfect qualities, all rolled up in one human being.
But I pause for a second here, my train of thought suddenly derailed. I just, for the first time in so many years, questioned Adam's perfection.
Before I can ponder that for too long, a fresh thought enters my mind: I hate the way Adam gestures wildly when he talks about his latest hockey play.
From there, the ball just doesn't stop rolling...I hate the way Adam's closet is messy but that he can pretend to the world that he's neat and tidy. I hate the way he writes his sevens. I hate the way his bed has hospital corners and that he likes to sleep in a freezing-cold room. I hate the way he's so cheap and bargain-hungry. I hate the way he eats pretzels with honey mustard and the way he scratches his wrists whenever he's nervous. I hate the way he talks while he's brushing his teeth and drools toothpaste onto his chin. I hate the way he does exactly seventeen push-ups in the morning right after he gets out of bed and the way he always ends practice by skating half a lap backwards then slamming the ice with his stick.
Adam has these little habits that drive me crazy, and I always considered them part of his charm. They still are, really, and these revelations don't make me hate him, or even love him any less.
Because there are always the things I love about him, too. I love the way he can solve a math problem that takes a page and a half and he considers it nothing. I love the way he squints his eyes and scrunches his nose when he's trying to remember something that's just at the edges of his consciousness. I love the way his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth when he's concentrating. I love his corduroys and the way he smooths imaginary wrinkles out of his pants.
I love the way he'll turn on the heater because he knows I like to sleep in warm rooms, and I love the way he'll stop everything to explain something to me. I love the way he moves on the ice, how he glides so effortlessly. I love the way he can tell a completely stupid joke and then laugh at himself, even when no one else is. I love the way he eats Tic Tacs in threes and will only eat a sandwich that's cut diagonally. I love the way he sighs in his sleep and the way he murmurs sometimes but will deny it if you ever point it out.
I love the way he says my name, and the way he looks at me, and the way he pretends that he's not looking at me. I love the way he's never said he doesn't love me back.
And I love the way that he wouldn't start anything before we were on the same page, before we were on a level playing field.
I love the way he only said no...because he thought that was best for me.
"Dwayne!" Luke's voice finally registers, and I realize he must have been shouting for the past five minutes. "Are you still there?"
"Yes, yes. I'm sorry."
"I'm guessing you started to think about what I was saying?"
"Yeah...yeah, definitely."
Because everything I hate...they're just mars on his personality, little – well, yes – little imperfections that I always overlooked or dismissed or considered 'perfect-in-their-own-way,' in my quest to keep Adam in his exalted position. I emphasized the positive, the things I loved, to the point where I convinced myself that the negative didn't matter.
The negative still doesn't matter, at least not to the point of making me fall out of love...but these hated things matter, because they're still small parts of who Adam is, still parts of this boy that I want to be with.
I think I thought of Adam as perfect for so long that I didn't understand how to treat him any differently. First impressions mean a lot to me, and I had myself convinced that I had just met the perfect boy when I was thirteen. And nothing could make me change my mind.
He was so different from me, and I was so wrong, so imperfect, that he could only be my so right and so perfect, my opposite. He was intelligent, whereas I struggled to maintain a decent GPA. He was proper and polished while I was naive and down-home. He was a rich boy while I was a good-ole-boy. He was cool and sophisticated, and he belonged no matter where he went, and I was the goofy one that looked out-of-place everywhere.
And once he found out where I was coming from...I had kind of already taken my stand. I wanted to be with this perfect person, because I was so miserable, so messed-up, and he was so different that he had to be the thing that could save me.
I didn't know how to convince myself otherwise, and he couldn't convince me, either. Not for the longest time.
Adam is still intelligent and proper and rich. He may be my opposite in so many ways, and he may have been happy when I was sad. But we're also very similar. We're young and generally full of life,and we love hockey and stupid jokes and late-night talks. We hold the same basic values and the same understanding of the world. We're both gay and we understand the idea of hardship, though on different levels for the both of us.
He's still my opposite, but he's also my match.
He is still the thing that is saving me.
And I still want to be with this imperfect person.
Because these little bits of imperfection still add up to one whole, amazing person...one whole, amazing person who is perfect, to me, for me...forever.