Chapter4: No Perfection is Absolute that Some Impurity Doth Not Pollute.
I knew English class would be great when I saw what the professor had written on the board:
I have put too much of myself into it.
Once the class had officially begun, the professor addressed the class.
"Who can tell me the origin of this quote?" he asked. My hand shot up. If there was one thing I knew, it was books.
"It's from Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray."
"Very good. Any you are…" he paused, waiting for my name.
"Henry, sir."
"Well, Henry. Do you know what this quote means?"
"It's about the painting, sir. Basil—the artist—believes that he painted Dorian in such a way that he reveals his soul."
"Precisely. And can you tell me the irony of Basil's fear?" I thought about it for a moment.
"It wasn't Basil's soul but Dorian's that was in the painting?" I guessed. He made an unsatisfied sound, like there was a more correct answer he would have preferred.
"Not quite. Anyone else want to take a shot at it?" he asked. The class was silent for a few moments. "Come on, I'm not a sphinx. There's not a punishment for being wrong." Rose hesitantly raised her hand.
"Is it about how Wilde's like Basil?" she asked.
"Yes," he seemed pleased. "And you are?"
"Rose."
"Rose, could you explain to the class more about that?" Rose seemed a bit uncomfortable being put on the spot, but she began her story.
"Well, Basil is, like, this older guy who's in love with Dorian, but he can't do or say anything about it because being gay's, like, not allowed back then. So, when he paints him, he emphasizes all the beautiful things that made him fall in love with this boy, revealing his gayness and the true nature of himself. And Oscar Wilde is kind of like Basil. He also likes younger guys, most famously this guy he nicknamed Boisie. So, when he writes books, the gayness kind of, like, bleeds into them."
The professor gave Rose a grin. He seemed pleased with her answer, but she wasn't done. Evidently, the homosexuality of Oscar Wilde was a subject she was well informed upon and she intended to finish her story.
"Actually, he had to censor a lot of the gayness from the original story so the publishing people would publish it. Then Boisie's dad finds out that his son has this whole forbidden gay love affair with Wilde and sues Wilde for being gay, so Wilde" Rose paused to give a short laugh, "says the dad's a liar and the dad goes to jail for slander. He gives a rant trying to explain what Boisie meant when he wrote about 'the love that dare not speak its name' in a poem, talking about super close guy friendships like David and Johnathan because, you know, Bible and stuff. But then later, they prove that Wilde's gay and he goes to jail and the dad gets out. He gets back with Boisie once he's out of jail though, but then he dies a few years later."
I gave Rose a look, using my eyes to ask her why she knew all this. She just shrugged.
The Oscar Wilde conversation continued, with the professor asking questions until he found an answer that suited him. Sometimes this took a while, as many students had not, it seemed, even read the Picture of Dorian Gray. Sorority girl Stella, who is apparently in my English class too, asked if Dorian's painting could be considered a horucrux.
…
"Nate? Timmy?" I called when I got back from classes for the day. No response. Where was everybody? I knocked on Nate's door. No answer. I knocked on Timmy's door. It had not been shut properly and opened slightly. Should I snoop?
Before I even gave it much thought, I found myself standing in Timmy's room. Not the messiest, but not the cleanest either. It could certainly use a bit of febreeze. Then I saw it. A minifridge under his bed. Jackpot. I opened it to see what kind of snacks he kept separate from our stuff in the main fridge. Actually, I don't think I've ever seen him put food in the main fridge. What did he eat?
I was blown away by the abundance of post-it notes all over everything in the fridge. These weren't your average "don't eat this food, it's Timmy's" notes that might make sense, had the food been in the main fridge. Instead, these post-it notes detailed the nutritional information such as the calories, fat, and carbohydrates contained in various fruits and vegetables. What in the world?
Why would anyone care how many calories are in carrots? They're carrots. That's the whole point. Like, ice-cream I can understand, if you're into watching your weight and stuff, but this kid couldn't weigh much more than 100 pounds.
Then I could feel it. He used to love food, and would go on binges. I could feel how much he used to hate his body, how he lost a lot a weight, but it didn't make him feel much better. The binge eating continued, and he ate very little outside of that. It was a penance.
I could feel how annoyed he got when his family members remarked about how skinny he was and how he should eat more. That's not the problem, he thought. I'm eating too much. He stopped eating the food at family dinners and restaurants. Everything was too unhealthy for him, he complained. His parents complained that he would only eat salads most meals. He was a growing boy, they argued. He needed protein, especially since he kept going to the gym to work out. He started adding almonds to his salads and adding protein powder to his water to pacify them.
I could see him staring at his body in the mirror, looking for any imperfection that he could fix. He did fix some, but then he would notice new ones. It was never enough. Nothing he did was ever enough.