After I run away from Spencer I have time to sit and think in my lessons – its not as if I ever paid attention anyway – I think about Spencer. She's always what I think about. Now I'm feeling guilty for how I acted earlier, but I feel even worse from dragging her into my world. My very gay world.
Spencer sees me at lunchtime and metaphorically latches herself onto me – not that I mind. She starts to tell me about her parents' and how weird they were being.
I fight the urge to make a comment about people in her family acting in a "queer way".
"I wish my parents weren't acting like complete freaks. Suspicious, controlling," She sighs, as we stop in front of her locker, "I wish I didn't care."
Have I mentioned how unbelievably gorgeous she is looking today? It's like she's trying to tease me, knowing what she does to me and deliberately flaunting herself. Challenging me to do something about how I feel. Ordinarily I would have fucked her and forgotten about her by now, that is if she were any other girl. But Spencer isn't any other girl. She's one of a kind, and the thought about using her for my own perverse reasons makes me feel ashamed of myself. She deserves to be cherished, like a porcelain doll or priceless work or art, put in a glass box and cordoned off with red velvet rope for the entire world to admire her beauty – but not to let the evils reach her. Leaving her untainted by life. But I'm too late for that, and already she wears invisible scars.
I'm starting to fear that soon she'll bare witness to her parents divorce; she doesn't deserve that. She doesn't deserve to have all of their crap thrown at her.
"You have a lot of experience in this area, it's not you, its totally them," I watch her nod along, "parents are not rational people, something happens when you get older," what I'm saying seeming to make perfect sense, though in actual fact could all just be bullshit, she looks genuinely interested though. "I think it's hormones." And by the sounds of it, they've got a lot of crap going on.
You should always question perfection, because at the end of the day, it's a lie. A false image, a mirage concocted by your own brain, desperately wanting to find something so good to hold onto, to emulate.
The lie of pristine smiles and, Church bake sales is what Spencer was raised on, and she's going to see it all unravel. She'll see that her mother who spouts chunks of the Bible practices what she preaches whilst she defies the religious laws she holds close to her heart – the tangible symbol of God and Christ she wears around her neck will soon suffocate her, weighing down on her lungs and her heart. Her lies no longer containable.
And my precious little Spencer will have to watch, she'll be forced to decide which parent she loves more, ultimately choosing her father, saying it was because he did no wrong, he wasn't the party at fault. She'll say it and she wont believe it. But neither will any of her family. The place in her heart reserved for loving her mother will be replaced by a hollow resentment for a hypocritical woman who tore down the family she built up.
I wont be able to stop it, I wont be able to shield her eyes from the sight, or cover her ears, dulling out the shouts and screams. All I'll be able to do is hold her, to rock her back and forth and soothe her sobs. In the same way no one ever did for me.
I'll do all I can to take her pain away; I'll stay by her side day by day, her ever-loyal best friend. And I'll lock all my carnal desires in my mind, and hide all of my inappropriate love for her. I'll love her as a friend and no more. I'll protect her from the harshness of the world; I wont invite it in.
"They focus on you so much that they don't have to focus on themselves and all their crap."
She smiles at me and tilts her head to the side in that oh-so characteristic way of hers, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest – knowing that she didn't smile at me, but for me, "Thanks."
I return the smile and watch as she reaches out for me, her arms tightening around my shoulders, her hands sit high on my back, one works itself into my hair and holds my neck. Her chin is resting on my shoulder, the proximity is driving me crazy – all I want is to touch her, to kiss her, but I know I can't. I want her, I purely and physically want her, and she's holding me as a friend, her arms displaying open affection – the type I'm unaccustomed to.
I feel like a sleaze for wanting to fuck her right against these lockers, when she's showing me friendly gratitude. But what's worse is what would be in store for her if I did do something, the hypocritical glare of society shunning her. Marring her, metaphorically tattooing the word "dyke" on her forehead, whispering cruel comments, not seeing her for her. Not appreciating the unique wonder that is Spencer, but tarring her as another freak.
I hear my breath catch in my throat, the audibility of my feelings of unease, guilt and discomfort. She continues to hold on. I can't take it anymore and push her away muttering and stuttering, "I have to go."
As I practically run away I'm aware of how cold I feel – in the midday heat of the Los Angeles sun – without Spencer's arms.
Oh fuck!