She Thinks…

Christopher T. White

Duke_Ellington 111

Photo Credit: US Department of Education (CC-by)

…I give a fuck. She’s wrong. She thinks I’m gonna get up and spaz on her; I won’t, even if I have every reason in the world to do it. She thinks my feelings are hurt and that I’m going to cry or storm out or fall into a corner somewhere huddling in the fetal position, but it won’t happen. What will I do? How will I respond to her showing the entire class those text messages: the ones where I told her the biggest secret I’ve ever had, the ones where she promised I could tell her anything and that she would never tell a soul? Stare.

I’ll stare at her with these watery brown eyes; I’ll freeze my face into the blankest, most unfeeling expression I can muster. I’ll breathe deeply, sit back in my desk, fold my arms, and stare at her. I’ll stare until she’s forced to look away, call me names, or demand that I give her what she wants, a huge reaction. You know what I’ll do then? I’ll stare. She doesn’t know that I’ve come to peace with this a while ago. She doesn’t realize that I only told her I was gay because I wanted someone to know because I wanted someone to practice coming out to. She doesn’t know that her little stunt, standing in front of the class with her gaudy gold jewelry and sticky brown hair, and over-painted, pimply face, has done her more harm than she thought, more harm to her family, because while I’m staring at her, I’m going to get mad, and then I’m going to get even.

I’ll wait until she’s finished trying to make this scene, then I’ll stand and say to her:

“I’m sure this is funnier from where you’re standing, but I’m more certain your little brother isn’t going to take too kindly to you trying to embarrass his boyfriend in front of everyone.”

She’ll look at me with a weird expression, insulted, confused, and probably a little angry. Ok, well maybe a lot of angry, but I won’t care. She’ll try to deny it, tell me I’m a liar, threaten to ruin me or kill me or whatever little girls desperate for attention do these days. I won’t care. I’ll stand up, pull my phone out and show everyone our lovey-dovey pictures and texts. You’re probably thinking, “You’re going to out your boyfriend? Why?”

It was going to happen anyways. This is just days ahead of schedule. We planned it. He would talk to my sister, and I to his. We’d see how they felt and prepare ourselves for their responses.

After proving my point, the bell will probably be just about to ring if not already ringing. I’ll grab my books, walk to my next class, and text Jake to let him know what happened. He’ll be mad, but more at her than me. And I’ll be fine. Why? Because I don’t give a fuck.

pencilThis is Christopher T. White’s first publication. Email: ctw0808[at]

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