Home is a Fire Page 3

  “She’s a waitin’ fer ya,” Mabel said, pointing a crooked finger down towards the back hallway. “Just swing that gate open and head on down the hall. First office on the left.”

  “Thank you, Miss Mabel,” I offered. “It’s a pleasure seeing you again.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, young man. But not too far with me. I got too many other things to do.” And with that she turned back to her computer.

  The door was open, but I rapped on the frame lightly, as a sign of respect. Bammy was on the phone. She gave me that “one second” look with her eyes and pointed to a chair. I still couldn’t get over the feeling that I was in the vice principal’s office, as if I had gotten caught for something and I was about to be punished. Do we ever really outgrow the fears of high school?

  “Yes, Mrs. Carter,” Bammy said into the phone, nodding her head as if the recipient could actually see her. “Yes, Mrs. Carter. I’m afraid that’s the decision, Mrs. Carter. Yes. One week suspension. No. No, that’s not possible. There is no jury, Mrs. Carter. There is no appeal. This a decision we are sticking with. Mrs. Carter? Mrs. Carter.” Her voice grew more stern. “No, it is not something we can just overlook. Chip exposed himself to the entire lunchroom, Mrs. Carter. Yes, I understand. Yes, boys will be boys, but Chip will have to sit this week out. I’m sorry you feel that way. I need to excuse myself now, I have an important meeting to attend. Yes, of course, your husband is welcome to call. No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. No ma’am. You, too. Good day.” And with that, she placed the phone back down on the receiver.

  “What the what?” I asked.

  “Bless her heart,” she said, exasperated. “And believe me, Derek, Chip Carter is not the kind of guy anyone could overlook. Those freshman girls he exposed himself to are going to need a lot of counseling in their relationships if they expect their future husbands to be Chip Carter-sized, if you catch my drift.”

  “Oh, my…” I laughed.

  “You have no idea.” Bammy reached for her iced coffee and sucked on the straw, eyebrows raising.

  “I was walking in here and I thought, ‘When did all these kids suddenly look like adults?’ Did we look like this?” I asked. “Because I remember feeling small and scrawny and immature and awkward. It looks like a boy band convention in a fancy gym out there! Those kids are styled. Like, they are ready for a photo shoot!”

  “I have no clue,” she said. “One day I was a French teacher, inspiring young minds to travel the world, and the next day we were invaded by catalogue models, rock stars and the fashion forward elite. Did you catch some of the athletes, by any chance? My god, I hope they don’t ever test those boys for steroids. Lord, have mercy.” She put her iced coffee down and rolled her eyes to the heavens.

  “I blame the Internet,” I said. “And porn. Unrealistic expectations. Years from now when the aliens invade they’ll just laugh at us.”

  “I’d keep that to yourself in the interview, babe,” she offered, wisely.

  ■ ■ ■

  It turned out that my conversation with Principal Bellman was only a formality. Miss B., the former theatre teacher, was an institution at Parkville High School, having taught there for well over 40 years. The school year had just started that week, and Miss B.’s sudden decline in health dictated a swift retirement. Principal Bellman remembered me from years ago, and the conversation was over and done with before I realized it. Before I even had time to think, I accepted his offer of employment. In a few days I would start my new life as a high school teacher teaching acting and speech classes, as well as overseeing the Theatre Arts Club.

  Bammy had warned me to not throw “the gay thing,” as she called it, in his face. After so many years in New York, I refused to be closeted, but the topic never came up, and I didn’t wave my rainbow flag. We have a very simple way of dealing with the subject of sexuality in the South. Basically, we don’t deal with it at all.

  We don’t talk about it to our parents. We don’t bring it up in church. We don’t discuss it with our school counselors or elders. Honesty, we don’t even really talk about it with our friends. And gay men never discuss it with their wives. Yes, you heard me right. Their wives. Southern men are expected to get married and have kids and attend church and be good, upstanding citizens, even if that means hiding the fact that you’d prefer to be Jim and Edward, rather than Jim and Edna. There were the occasional whispers and gossip. Of course we knew so-and-so preferred the company of men, but nary a word was spoken out loud, or anywhere where they could hear it, at least. It just wasn’t polite.

  “Let me give you a tour,” said Bammy, leading me from the office. “Not that anything has really changed, but I’ll show you the teachers’ lounge and the private bathroom. Oh! And we have a new coffee machine. Exciting, isn’t it? Not as good as your fancy New York espresso bars, but we take what we can get, right?” She pulled my hand and led the way through the halls, full of super jocks and models in expensive outfits, with the occasional academic overachiever trying to hide among the masses. Things hadn’t changed that much, actually. In fact, my heart was pounding as if nothing had changed at all.

  That’s when I saw him, walking straight towards us. And suddenly, I could feel my sweat glands shooting jets of water under my arms, like a magical fountain in Las Vegas at midnight. But without the colored lights. At least, I hoped.

  Luke Walcott. He had gone to school with Bammy and me. Captain of the football team. Captain of the track team. Captain of the swim team. Homecoming King, three years in a row.

  Luke Walcott. Dirty blond hair, 6’2’’, blue eyes, and rugged jaw. A freakin’ walking GI Joe. Voted Most Athletic, Most Popular, and Best Looking guy of my high school class.

  Luke. The ultimate dream man of every female student in school, and a few of the guys, too.

  Fucking Luke. I hated him.

  “Derek, do you remember Luke Walcott?” Bammy asked me. “Luke, I’m not sure you remember Derek Walter. Derek is joining us as our new theatre teacher, replacing Miss B. Luke is our head coach for football and track.” And she just stood there, smiling.

  Did I remember Luke Walcott? Is she fucking kidding me?! Bammy, how have you suddenly forgotten entire chunks of our friendship? Has the vodka finally eaten your brain? Ah, yes. That’s right. I’ve been out of the game too long. We’re being “Southern.” We are ignoring the unfortunate moments in our youth that make it uncomfortable when meeting again as adults. I had completely forgotten some of these games. It was high time I brought myself up to speed.

  Well, yes Bammy, I do remember Luke Walcott. Unfortunately. How could I forget? He terrorized me, ever since he transferred here in eighth grade from Savannah. I remember the day he arrived as the new kid in class. Always the same. They start off nice, charming, and friendly to everyone. Making their way through the herd, calculating the best path to super stardom. Popularity is everything when you are twelve. Within a week, he was in with the jocks and cheerleaders. After a month, he was their king. By the time we were in high school, he was the supreme leader over everyone athletic and good-looking. One approving nod from him and you were golden. A smirk? You were toast.

  And me? Best. Toast. Ever. Elbowed into lockers, tackled mercilessly during flag football, thrown into the showers fully clothed, all to the growing cheers of my fellow inmates. And not just once. Repeatedly.

  It wasn’t because I was gay. No, we didn’t mention that. Kids are far too simplistic for that, actually. It was simply because I just didn’t fit in. I didn’t fit with the “fits,” and I didn’t fit with the “misfits.” And people like Luke Walcott demanded that the weak be devoured. Survival of the fittest, in action.

  “Derek, was it?” he said. “Hi. Nice to see you. Welcome.” Luke extended his hand to shake mine. I froze for a second. All those years. All that torment, and here I am faced with the moment where I can finally say what I have been wanting to say to him for years. It’s not like I practiced it in a mirror about a million times, or anything,
but here goes. Get ready, Luke. I hope you’re prepared for this onslaught, because here it comes, Big Man on Campus!

  “Nice to see you, as well,” I said and extended my hand, smiles all around.

  Pardon me. Has anyone seen my balls? I seem to have misplaced them.

  6

  THE LUNCH ROOM

  A high school cafeteria is the perfect setting for a reality show. And a shoot out.

  Week one was over, and I was getting settled into my new role. Bammy and I carried our trays towards the teachers’ tables and found a spot near the end. It felt very strange to be sharing a space with so many of the blue hairs who had left their indelible prints on the psyche of my youth. Mrs. Miller’s fingers and tongue were still blue and green from the dry erase markers she used on the overhead projector in her geometry class. Good to see that some things haven’t changed. At all.

  “How does it feel so far?” asked Bammy. “Weird, right? That’ll pass.” She was focused on deconstructing a slice of pizza from the school cafeteria, carefully pulling the cheese and pepperoni off the soggy bread underneath.

  “I had forgotten how much fun it was to drink chocolate milk from one of these tiny cardboard boxes,’’ I said, trying desperately to open the spout without destroying the entire carton. These things are definitely not made for adult fingers and thumbs.

  “So,” she ventured, “did I notice a bit of tension between you and Luke Walcott last week when we had our tour? What’s up with that?” She scooped some pizza cheese onto her fork and started eating, oblivious to the verbal dogs I was about to unleash.

  “Bammy, are you kidding me?” I said. “That guy tortured me when we were kids. I had nightmares about coming to school, I was so freaked out about what his gang of followers would do to me.”

  “Honestly,” she said, putting her fork down and reaching for her diet soda, “I don’t remember it being that bad. Yeah, kids are jerks, but are you sure you’re remembering it right?” She looked at me with raised eyebrows and took another sip.

  “Bammy, you were much more popular than me. I mean, we were friends and all, but we kind of ran in different circles,” I said, frustrated that our memories could be so different. “You hung out with all those pretty girls and I was hanging with the drama geeks and band nerds. Maybe I didn’t confide in you as much back then,” I conceded, “but I’m not making up how it felt to see him again. I felt like a teenager, and I hated it.” I couldn’t be that angry with her. I loved Bammy, and I needed every friend I could get right now, but our memories on this subject were not agreeing.

  “Mind if I join you?” The voice came from above. I looked up and saw Luke, decked out in his coach shorts and whistle, his pectoral muscles desperately trying to escape the confines of his Tennessee Volunteers t-shirt. My god, this man was… my enemy. Concentrate, Derek!

  “Uh,” I stared at his chest and looked up into his stark blue eyes, unsure of what to say. Why is he here? Can’t he sit with the prison guards?

  Bammy caught my gaze, wrinkled her brow and gave me that what the hell is wrong with you? look. “Not at all! Grab a seat,” she offered, trying to overcome my awkwardness and casting a firm be nice! glance my way.

  “Great, thanks.” He grinned and took the seat next to me and placed his tray down: two cheeseburgers, a side salad and two cartons of whole milk. “So, how’s your first week been?” He looked over at me with the kind of smile that dentists place in ads on the subway to attract guys like me. And dimples. Did he always have these perfect dimples? I don’t remember those.

  “Uh, fine.” I looked down at my salad, breaking eye contact. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to Luke Walcott. I speared a carrot stick and shoved it in my mouth, casually staring towards the windows, hoping in my mind that he would go away. How do I end up in these situations?

  “I’m sure you’ll do great here,” he said, picking up a cheeseburger. “Miss B. is a tough act to follow, but the school could use some young blood.” He took a bite, then looked at me, thoughtfully. “Say, I’ve been wracking my brain, did we know each other in high school? When did you graduate?” His blue eyes looked straight at me, with no recognition.

  My god. Is this really happening to me? Him, too? How could he possibly not remember me? Was I really so invisible in high school?

  “Um, yeah,” I sputtered. “Well, we did know each other. We didn’t exactly run in the same circles, but yeah, we actually graduated together in the same class.” I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I felt like one of those kidnap victims finally confronting his captor, years later.

  “Really? Wow,” he said. “I mean, I kind of remember you doing plays and things, but I don’t think we actually spoke too much, if ever. Did we?”

  “Not if you don’t count me screaming and begging for you to not throw me in the showers after gym class.” I did it. Be brave, Derek. Stand up for yourself!

  “Wait, what?’’ he placed his cheeseburger down on his plate and focused his eyes intently upon me. He actually looked hurt, as if I had wounded him.

  “Oh, come on, Luke,” I said, my anger cresting. “Don’t play that shit. Sorry, but this is a stupid charade. You were a total dick to me!” I lost it. “How could you possibly forget that? You tormented me!” I stared at him and I could tell I may have gone too far. Was I acting like a crazy man?

  Luke looked at me as if I had just shot his favorite puppy. He raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath. “Whoa. Listen, buddy… I don’t remember that. But really, I’m sorry if I was a jerk. Kids are stupid, and I definitely did a lot stupid things that I am not proud of. I got caught up in the popularity hustle. But if I did something to hurt you, well, I’m sorry, man. Really I am.” His words rang true, and I felt so confused.

  My heart was pounding, my mind was racing, and no words were forming in my brain. I was staring at Luke, dumbfounded. How could something that was so traumatic to me be so inconsequential to him that he actually forgot it?

  “Listen… I should probably get going,” said Luke, knowing when to cut and run. “We’re running extra practices leading up to the big Homecoming game. You two enjoy your lunch, now, hear?” And with that, he picked up his lunch and lumbered slowly towards the tray return. He didn’t look back, and I started to regret my outbreak.

  “Whoa. Intense shit.” Bammy broke the silence. “You okay?”

  “How many more classes until beer o’clock?” I asked. I’d just confronted a demon from my childhood, and it turns out that not only does he not remember being a demon, but he may actually not be a bad guy. Was the demon mainly in my head? Were my memories wrong? Did I blow it all out of proportion? I was so confused, I didn’t know what to think or feel or believe. I know that when I woke up this morning, Luke Walcott was the enemy. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

  And damn. Those dimples.

  ■ ■ ■

  The following week it was pouring rain as I stepped from the car and ran as fast I as could towards the doors of the school, hopping over puddles like a long jumper. The sun was shining brightly, but the skies were opening up above as if Noah himself should clearly take note. When I was a kid I loved rainy days in the South. Mom and I used to sit on the front porch and watch the sky pour down over the neighborhood, listening to the thunderclouds as they retreated or advanced, counting the seconds between the booms of thunder and the flashes of lightning to determine the distance. I used to love to sit out in the street at the curb, legs splayed, the warm rain pouring over me like a bathtub on the pavement.

  Today, I was just thinking about my shoes. Funny how our priorities change as we get older. And gayer.

  The day passed without a Luke sighting. I had mixed emotions after our lunchroom confrontation the week before. Truthfully, I felt like an ass. I mean, I know that deep down I had the right to feel like I did, but maybe I should just get over it. We were kids. Perhaps I colored the memories, making him out to be much worse than he was? Did I just fixate on him? Why not the other guys wh
o were involved? And he couldn’t possibly know what I was going through as a kid, dealing with my parents splitting up, my same sex attractions, my overall awkwardness. Ugh. It sucks being an adult.

  Classes came and went without much thought. After years of working with the various theatre workshop kids in New York, this was a breeze. I had put up a flyer on the bulletin board, the school newspaper and our website for auditions for our first show. We were meeting today after school, in the theatre. Ready for the biggest cliché ever? I chose Grease as our fall musical. What can I say? Pre-questionable sexuality John Travolta still pushed all the right buttons for me.

  I walked outside the main building and under the covered walkway towards the theatre. Imagine my surprise when I unlocked the door to find that it was raining. Inside. On the stage! And no, this was not some exciting music video being filmed at our school.

  “Oh, shit!” I said.

  “Ooooh, Mr. Walter, just cussed!” Kids. Behind me, waiting to get in. I forgot there were kids present. Crap.

  “Never mind me. And just forget I said that. What the heck? We can’t have auditions if it’s raining inside,” I said to them. I had no idea what to do, where to go. “I know you kids are excited and have prepared for this, but maybe we should postpone the auditions.”

  “Well,” offered one of my students, “we could go over to the gym? There’s a piano over there, too.” Out of the mouths of babes. Brilliant!