The Music of What Happens - Bill Konigsberg Page 0,61

just sat on my legs. I’m, like, bigger than him. By a lot. I remember thinking: Amateur hour. He may be older, but he’s never gonna get it, because this is some basic shit, stuff you don’t do. Anyone with half a clue would know that.

Then he inches up until he’s sitting on my calves, pushing down in an uncomfortable way. I have to laugh. He doesn’t laugh. I’m waiting for the camera. He’s punking me. This isn’t happening.

But I don’t move. It’s like I can’t. And at the same time a part of my brain is thinking: Move, Max. Get the hell up. Get out of here. This is stupid.

I don’t know why I don’t move. It’s like I can’t. Not like he drugged me, but like the brashness of his actions has frozen me. His stare is boring into my eyes, and I avert mine. I think of alpha dogs. How sometimes Chihuahuas can be alpha over Great Danes. It’s weird but it’s true.

Kevin tweaks my nipple. I don’t like it. I should punch him, I think. Pin him. Pick him up by his armpits and put him against the wall and stare him down ’til he apologizes. I don’t.

He leans in for a kiss, and all I’m thinking about is that he called me Arabian. I don’t kiss back but it doesn’t stop him from kissing enough for both of us. I feel dirty. I hear voices. Voices from people in my life. My dad. My mom. Random shit like this joke my dad told me once about George Bush thinking that Brazilian is a number, like bazillion. This time my mom got food poisoning on shrimp.

He reaches for my shorts and I say, “Naw, dude.”

I am not looking at him. I am not watching. He is intent on getting me naked, and I don’t know this feeling. I don’t get it. I can’t understand why I’m still here. Because that means I want it, right? I’m bigger and I don’t leave.

And then it’s like I do leave my body, but only in my brain. My body stays put, frozen, and I float to the top of the room. I see the rest from up there. I do.

I become keenly aware of the dandruff in Kevin’s faux-hawk. I see Kevin’s tired, glassy eyes for what they are, and I feel this odd compassion for him, as I’m a rag doll and he is doing things to me, things I don’t want. I want to hug him. I want to tell him it doesn’t have to be like this, that there is a better way, which is a hilarious thought to have, and I know that, and yet I think it anyway. And time stretches like bubble gum, and loses its taste, like bubble gum, and I find myself repeating this litany as I watch the thing happen, from above, as I watch and feel nothing, nothing I should feel.

I’m not here. I’m not here. I’m not here.

I do not move. The whole time. I do not move. I do not look at him. We could be pushed up against each other on the bus. It is the most personal yet most impersonal experience of my life, and I know, as it’s happening, that this is not normal.

And after, as Kevin goes down the hall to clean up in the dorm bathroom, I recline on the single bed, and an emptiness settles into my chest and breaks one of my ribs.

I feel it. A broken rib. Pushing in toward my heart.

And then Kevin comes back, and he collapses next to me, in silence, and I think that if he touches me, I’ll scream. And yet I also want him to touch me. Is this crazy? Am I going crazy?

My eyes flash open, and I know. I close them tight. I don’t want to know. I don’t want this. But I know.

My heart pulses. I think of my dad. Boys are not supposed to allow things into their bodies. You can be gay, but guys don’t do that. And I don’t believe that, exactly, but some part of that stays with me, and I am filled with slush again and I cry out, which also boys don’t do. I smile — it’s always worked before. Just smile, Max. The pain cannot be stronger than a smile.

But it is.

“Max? You okay?”

It’s my mom, right outside my door. I clench up and my heart pulses fiercely. I say something to my