I motioned at Susie and Gina. And they saw her, and we all nodded to each other. So we moved toward her and stood next to her. Gina was standing right next to her on one side, and I was standing on the other. She kept her eyes focused on the casket as the pallbearers carried it out of the hearse. It didn’t even seem like she was aware of the fact that we were there. But then I felt her take my hand and hold it tight. And I noticed she was holding tight to Gina’s hand. “When you are standing all alone,” she whispered, “the people who notice—those are the people who stand by your side. Those are the people who love you.”
She kissed each one of us on the cheek—and she did it with the grace of a woman.
Nine
Dear Dante,
Before every school year begins, I feel like crawling under my bed and staying there. I don’t know what it is about the whole school thing that makes me feel anxious. I always feel like I’ve thrown my summers away—well, until I met you.
And this summer has been amazing. Touching you and feeling your touch. Summer will always be Dante Season.
I don’t know what the hell I’m trying to say. I don’t.
But one thing is for certain. This will be the last year of my schooling season. And then the college seasons will begin.
I guess I don’t want my Dante season to end.
And I’m afraid.
Maybe this season will be the season that will change everything. I am almost excited. But mostly I’m afraid.
Let’s map out the year, Dante. Let’s write our names and chart out some paths. And go see what we have never seen. And be what we have never been.
The night before the first day of school, Dante called me on the phone. He didn’t even say hi. “Did you know that our word for ‘school’ comes from the Greek word meaning ‘leisure’?”
“No, I didn’t know that. And that doesn’t make any sense, does it? And hi, Dante. How are you? Fine? I’m fine too, by the way.”
“I was going to ask.”
“Sure you were. And I was just kidding.”
“Sure you were. And leisure does make sense if you lived in Ancient Greece. If you have leisure time, what do you do with your leisure time?”
“I think about you.”
“Nice answer, Aristotle. What’s the real answer?”
“Well, other than spend time with you, I run, I read, I write in my journal.”
“I’m not leisure time.”
“You’re right. You’re a lot of work.”
“Wrong. For your information, I fall under the category of pleasure.”
“I knew that.”
“Sure you did. Now back to your answer. You run, but that falls in the category of exercise—and that’s not leisure time. But reading and writing do come under things that you do with your leisure time. So that is exactly what the Greeks thought. If they had leisure time, they used that time to think, and to have what might today be called ‘educational purpose.’ So, if we looked at school as leisure time, then maybe we’d have a different attitude about it. And we would be all the happier.”
And I said, “ ‘The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.’ ”
“Are you mocking me? You’re mocking me.”
“I’m not mocking you. I’m just remembering. And I happen to be smiling, and it’s not an I’m mocking you kind of smile.”
“Then I have another thought to make you smile. Tomorrow, the very first day of school, is the very last first day of high school that we will ever have. And after this, there will be no more first days of school for Aristotle Mendoza at Austin High School and no more first days of school for Dante Quintana at Cathedral High School. It is the last first day of school, and every event that has anything to do with school, we can now say with smiles on our faces that it is the last time we do whatever the hell it is we’re doing at that event. And that should ease our burdens.”
I started laughing. “I don’t hate school that much—and neither do you.”
“Well, I like the learning, and you have finally admitted to yourself that you like the learning too. But the rest of it sucks the big one.”
“You’re funny. One minute you’re talking as if you’re so fucking sophisticated that, if you lived in London, you’d be speaking BBC English. And the next minute you’re speaking like a ninth grader.”
“What’s wrong with ninth graders? You don’t like ninth graders?”
“Are you on something?”
“Yes, most definitely. I’m high. I’m high and on top of the world because I am deeply, profoundly, ecstatically, entirely, and most emphatically in love with a guy named Aristotle Mendoza. You know him?”
“I don’t think so, no. I used to know him. But he’s changed into someone else. And I don’t think I know him. Lucky guy, though—I mean, all that love that’s deep, profound, ecstatic, entire, and emphatic, well, that’s some kind of love aimed at that Aristotle guy.”
“Oh, I’m lucky too. I have it on good authority that this Aristotle Mendoza that you claim not to know has the purest and sincerest form of love for me. And, if you see him, tell him—well, no, you won’t see him because if you do see him, you won’t recognize him. Because you used to know him, and now you don’t know him—so it isn’t any use to ask you to convey a message to him.”
“Well, you never know, I might run into him at school and there’s a chance I might recognize him, and if that happens, I will be more than happy to convey your message to him—only I don’t know what that message is.”
“Well, if by chance you should be lucky enough to run into him, tell him Dante Quintana used to be a boy who didn’t have any real friends. Not that having no real friends made him unhappy, because he was happy. He loved his parents and he loved reading and listening to vinyl records and art. He loved to draw—and he was liked well enough at school, so yes, he was happy.” And then there was silence on the other end of the phone. “But, Ari, I wasn’t happy-happy. I was just happy. I didn’t really know happy-happy until the day you kissed me. Not the first time. That first time I wasn’t happy-happy. I wasn’t even happy. I was miserable. But the second time you kissed me, I knew what it was to be happy-happy. And I guess I just wanted to thank you for adding that extra happy to my happy.”
“Well, I had an extra happy lying around, so I decided to give it to you.”
* * *
Everybody went to school early on the first day of school. Just to have time to feel things out. As I was about to enter the front doors, who did I see? Cassandra. And Gina. And Susie.
I got their attention with that old catcall whistle that no one used anymore but that my mom and dad laughed about.
“Is that whistle supposed to sexually objectify us?”
“I don’t do the sexually objectifying thing. I’m not even sure I know what it means.”
“The hell you don’t.”
Of course, I wasn’t sexually objectifying them. I was gay. But it was a good game to play, and people would overhear us. And we’d sort of argue because the whole school knew that Susie was a feminist—even though that seemed like such a dated word, but Susie had set me straight about that one when we were sophomores—and I really do have to stop using that expression, set me straight, even if I was just thinking it.