I do not own I Think We're alone Now.
It is just absolute perfection and I love it.
Home Becomes You
Grace is Human Being, So Is Del
Her father was a pastor.
She was with a boy when it happened.
"It was awful. I almost thought I had a poison vag or something, like that girl in the tv show. Except it hadn't happened to the other boy I'd been with."
She starts talking.
"But I did think God was punishing me. For sinning."
Out of the blue.
"I tried CPR. Called 911. Nobody answered."
Because it had occurred to her.
"I tried to call my mom, my dad. His parents. My best friend."
Because that's who Grace was.
"I couldn't get anyone to answer."
And Del was . . .
"And then I realized I could hear sirens. Alarms."
. . . the person who listened.
"And when I went to go find help . . ."
And didn't try to stop her.
"I thought I was stuck in a nightmare. Sometimes I still do."
Because she was a living, breathing human being.
"That's why I let them . . . do what they did to me. I thought . . . I thought if I could make the bad thoughts go away . . . I could feel better."
And he was beginning to feel more like one.
"But I couldn't. It just . . . it just made me feel worse."
Because of her.
"Like I was crazy. I couldn't remember what I wanted to remember, remembered I didn't want to remember it. Couldn't remember why."
Crying now, Grace is, big, wide eyes red and full of pain.
Del, unable to bear her grief without action, unable to shut himself off from his emotions as he had done in the past.
Hands her a Kleenex, listens to story.
Wishes he could stop her grief.
Even though he realises she needs to revisit it, clean herself out of it all over again.
And so he lets her.
"i'm not crazy."
Because she's a human being.
"I don't think I ever was, crazy."
And he loves her.
When he had been younger, teenager mostly, he had started dreaming of girls.
Black, white, ethnic, plain as vanilla.
Curly hair, short hair, long hair, straight.
Made-up and glamorous, fresh-faced and dewy eyed.
Tall, short. Slender, voluptuous.
White t-shirts and shorts with sneakers.
Flowing dresses and bare feet, short skirts and heels.
Feverish nighttime dreams, wandering, hungry daydreams.
A typical boy with typical hormones.
And lots of different kinds of girls to dream about.
It hadn't really mattered to him.
He hadn't really had a type.
He just liked girls, any girls, all girls.
He used to watch them secretly in class.
Out on the ballfield.
Inside stores and on the lake.
There in the library.
Not stalking, per se, just . . . looking.
Like any other guy. Or girl.
Might look at something or someone who appeals to them.
But he wasn't like any other guy or girl in town.
He was him and no quiet encouragement from his mother would change that face.
He was him and they were them.
And no one was ever interested in a freakish little dwarf with a lumpy face and mop of straggly brown hair.
So with added bitterness and resentment and carefully honed stoicism, he had put that possibility away from himself.
Resigned himself to solitude, trained himself to take comfort in it.
If one was alone and to oneself, one could not be harmed, ridiculed, mocked, annoyed, something something or any of the other myriad of interactions that plighted the condition of man, especially a dwarf man, when living amongst the normally heighted denizens of the human race.
He has still looked from afar, hidden glances, from time to time.
Moved on.
And concerned himself with other matters.
Trained himself to be without human contact or even yearn for it.
He had gotten very good at it, telling himself it was better that way.
And it had, for him, been.
Until she had . . .
"I have to tell you something. About where I came from."
. . . kissed him.
"What is it?"
And he had kissed . . .
"Whatever it is, you can tell me."
. . . right back.
Peter Dinklage is gorgeous.
And probably knows it at this point.
But Del doesn't know he is.
But he is.