A Sample of Mia's Work:
Cool
by Mia Siegert
Tolerance is one thing, acceptance is
another. That was the closest thing to an explanation Frank gave when I
asked why he didn’t tell me he was gay. I didn’t understand it, and he wouldn’t
explain further. Maybe he just couldn’t. Sometimes it was hard to tell the
difference when it involved Frank. It was harder to tell when I became part of
the equation.
Frank’s
my best friend. He always is my best friend, at least when I talk to other
people about him. Things weren’t supposed to change just because of differences
in perspective. He liked guys. I liked girls. It should have been cool.
We
were having a guys night in: Jake, Tex, Frank, and me. Everything was cool. We
were raiding the fridge and playing Sonic
and Knuckles on the old Sega Genesis. Jake was kicking Robotnik’s ass, I
remember, and in the midst of a bonus stage, Frank blurted out, “I’m gay.”
Jake
stopped playing. The end stage sound came. I kind of blanked before Jake and
Tex started to crack up. Frank looked ill; his face got greenish.
“Hey,
we’re cool,” I said, patting him on the back.
“Yeah.
We’re cool,” he answered.
Later
that night when Jake and Tex were asleep, I asked Frank about it. How he knew,
what it was like. He just shifted toward the right side of the bed. “Could you
really explain being straight?” he asked me.
I thought things were cool the next day at school but by lunch
I realized I hadn’t sat next to Frank in a single class or exchanged any form
of dialogue with him other than “Hey, did you do your homework?” But those
talks ended up chopped, strained.
“Hey
Frank,” I said a week later as we walked to the movie theater. “Did you ever
like me?”
He
was quiet, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “I guess.”
So
that was it. The tension I sensed, that force driving us apart. I actually
smiled, feeling a faint hint of relief. I gave him a hug. Things would go back
to normal.
But
the hedge between us thickened. This guy, Eddie, edged his way into our group,
filling the indent that Frank had left. I barely noticed Frank at school,
didn’t acknowledge him even as we walked past his table after going to the
lunch line. I didn’t even know who he was sitting with, or whether he was
alone. One time, he saw me at the mall. Stood awkwardly outside of the men’s
room. “Are we still cool?”
“Yeah.
We’re cool,” I answered.
Three
months until I left for college. I began cleaning out my room--papers in the
garbage bags, donations in the cardboard boxes. I reached under my bed and my
fingers touched leather. It was a dusty baseball mitt, the name “FRANKIE”
written on the wrist in blue permanent marker. I tried fitting my hand in it,
but it was too small. How long had it sat there collecting dust?
People
say after the fact, you always feel remorse. I ditched my closest friend
because he looked at boys the way I looked at girls. I didn’t even realize I
was doing it, that I didn’t go out of my way to call him, or ask if he wanted
to hang out. I convinced myself that Frank had avoided our group--he must have.
We couldn’t have been the ones who ignored him in the halls, who sat next to
other people on the bus, who didn’t see his ass getting kicked at the baseball
field while we walked past, sipping Slurpees from 7-Eleven and doing nothing.
That when it was Valentine’s Day and he came to my locker with a rose and
asked, “Are we cool?” I didn’t laugh.
I
ran down the steps, taking them two at a time. My boots crunched through the
thick snow leaving several wide-spread imprints behind me. The cold air felt
refreshing, and my body felt so light. I felt like making snow angels even
without wearing a coat. That could wait. Frankie could not.
***
Frank’s house was boarded
up, every window nailed with plywood. Graffiti was sprayed on the siding,
initials written in hearts alongside DIE FAGGOT.
As I stepped closer to
the house, I remembered my dad trying to talk to me.
“Frank’s moving away,” my
father had said.
“Uh
huh,” I replied, not glancing up from Assassin’s
Creed.
“His
mom called and said Frank’s been having a hard time in school. Maybe you could
give him a visit before he goes. I’m sure he’d like that.”
“Sure.
I’ll call him tomorrow.”
“I’ll
tell his mom. I’m sure he’ll really look forward to that,” Dad had said as I
reached into the bowl of popcorn.
“It’s a wreck, isn’t it?” Eric, Frank’s next door neighbor,
said as he walked up next to me. “Kids really trashed it.”
“How
is he?” I asked.
“Frankie?
Not sure, really. His mom wanted him to stay but he got in a few fights too
many.”
“Do
you know where they moved?”
“California.
Pretty close to San Francisco, I think. I’m not sure. They didn’t leave an
address.”
“Their
mail will just be forwarded by the post office, right?”
“They
stop doing that after a year.”
“A
year? When’d they move?
“It’s gotta be going on
eighteen months.”
I walked back home
through the wet snow, shivering with Frank’s mitt clutched to my chest,
remembering Little League games and pizza parties. I said, “Are we cool,
Frank?” But I didn’t hear his voice when I imagined him answering, “Yeah, we’re
cool,” back. I couldn’t remember it at all.
