Caterpillars Can't Swim Page 7

  “I was at the clinic today.”

  “Oh. Are you sick or something?”

  “No. At least not the way you mean, I guess. My mom makes me go see this counselor guy named Charles, who’s trying to get inside my head. Because of what happened.” He shrugs a little, looking as uncomfortable as I’m starting to feel. I don’t think this is going to be about math.

  “At the river?” I ask, even though I know that’s what he means.

  “Yeah. He wants me to admit that I was trying to…hurt myself. That it wasn’t an accident.” His voice is low, hesitant, as if the words are having trouble finding their way out of his mouth. I wish they’d stop trying. I really just want to go back to silent math. I don’t want to talk about this.

  “Did you? Admit it, I mean?” I ask him. He looks at me quickly, eyes all wet and red. He sniffs loudly and rubs both hands over his face, scrubbing like he’s trying to wash something away. He’s quiet again for so long that I think maybe the conversation is over and I’m off the hook.

  “No. I don’t even know if there’s anything to admit. It was kind of an accident.” He hunches up his shoulders, both palms facing the ceiling as if he’s wondering if it’s going to start leaking.

  “What do you mean?” He accidentally walked into the water with his mother’s skirt on?

  He sits back a little. “I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t even know if you want me to.”

  No! I don’t. Let’s just do math or talk about TV or play a video game. Something normal.

  “Sure. If you want to. I mean, I can listen. I don’t think I can help much.” I shrug, and my bum shoulder actually manages to move without screaming at me. Progress.

  “I snuck out of the house early that day, before anyone else in town would be around. At least I thought no one else would be around.” He looks at me, and I try an encouraging nod.

  “Anyway, I took my mother’s skirt because I just wanted to see how it would feel. How I would feel.”

  He stops talking and closes his eyes. Is he imagining himself twirling around again in the flowers? If he is, that makes two of us.

  “You’re the only one who knows that I’m…gay. For real that is. I mean, there are rumors at school. I don’t know how they got started…”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “I know. I think that out of all the different ideas people had about me, that one stuck. Partly because of how I look.” He stares at me for a second. I don’t know exactly what looking gay means but I guess Jack doesn’t look like a football player. Like he said before, he’s short and pretty thin. He has curly hair that he wears kind of longer than most guys around here. But other than that, I don’t see that he looks all that different from anyone else.

  “You look normal to me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Shit. I said that wrong. I just mean, you look like anyone else at school. I don’t know what there is about you that looks gay or anything else.” I’m tripping over my tongue here. Why did I say he could talk to me? I suck at this.

  Cody never talks about anything but swimming, skateboards, or girls.

  “If I dressed the way I wanted to, everyone would definitely know!”

  “The skirt.”

  “Yeah. I like skirts and dresses. Always have. And jewelry. Makeup. Not every day or anything, but it’s just…fun to dress up sometimes. It feels…I don’t know…nice. Sometimes I try my mom’s stuff on when I’m sure no one is going to catch me. I like the way it looks on me. I like how I feel when I’m wearing it.” His cheeks are turning bright red.

  “Okay. That’s your business, right?”

  “Right! My life. My business. Except…” He shakes his head and closes his eyes.

  “Except what?”

  “Except I can’t actually live my life. Not here. I can’t put on a dress and makeup and head down to the Supe. I don’t think anyone would be cool with that. Your swim-team friends would likely help Matt kick the shit out of me if they saw me like that.”

  I want to tell him that he’s wrong. That people would eventually accept him whatever he decided to wear or put on his face. That no one would care if he fell in love with a guy or a girl. But I’d be lying if I did.

  “Are you a transvestite? Or a transsexual?” There’s a lot about equal rights on TV and the Internet these days. The city where my CP doctors are has a Pride Parade every year. There’s even a town near here that has one now. I think our town is a few years away from anything like that.

  “No. I don’t think so. I don’t want to be a girl. And I don’t need to wear dresses all the time or anything. I just wish I could when I wanted to, you know? And fall in love with whoever I want to. I don’t know why I need to label myself. I’m just me. But apparently that isn’t enough, and I don’t understand why.”

  He seems shocked that all those words spewed out of his mouth. He looks at me, wide-eyed and obviously expecting me to say something.

  I’m trying to find an opinion. I’m not sure that I’ve ever thought about this before.

  A guy in a dress would be big deal around here and probably a lot of other places. I know this is true but I realize in this exact moment that I don’t know why, either.

  “I guess it’s just different,” I say lamely.

  “Yeah, well different can get you hurt.” He’s right about that, but I don’t bother agreeing out loud.

  “Do your parents know?”

  “No!” The word shoots out into the room, startling us both. He shakes his head a little. “I can never tell them I’m gay. My mother’s über-religious and my dad thinks that real men play football and kill things. He’s like every stereotype on TV of the intolerant man’s man who thinks he’s right about everything. He’d likely decide never to talk to me again if he knew…which might not make much difference to me because I’ve barely seen him since the divorce anyway. But my mother would cry for three weeks straight if she found out and try to take me to church so I could get fixed.”

  I think about Jack’s mom sitting endlessly by the window in his hospital room, her eyes so tired that they couldn’t stay open.

  “Your mom really loves you.” He looks at me for a second and then nods slowly.

  “That makes it all so much worse. She would be heartbroken if she knew so I have to hide it forever. My mom does everything for me. She’s the best. I can’t stand the thought of hurting her. I’d rather…” His voice trails off as he puts a hand over his eyes. He sits like that for a long time.

  “I’m so tired of having to pretend to be someone else. I’m so tired of being…ashamed of wanting to be myself. I’m so tired of being scared someone will find out. So tired.” His voice disappears on the last word.

  I don’t have any idea what I’m supposed to say to him. I can’t think of a single word that would make it better.

  We sit there quietly for a few seconds. Eventually Jack speaks.

  “So, I went to the water that day to see how it would feel. Just to be…me, you know? Just for a few minutes. And at first, it felt great. Dancing, spinning. The fabric twirling around me like I was some kind of diva dancing on a grand stage. I felt like I could do anything. Be anything. I felt like I wanted to just stay there forever where no one would call me names and I wouldn’t have to tell anyone who I am and deal with them hating me or making fun of me. Or not wanting me anymore.”

  He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

  “I couldn’t stay at the water’s edge all day dancing because people were going to come and see me and then they’d know. Everyone would know. So I had to go home and put my mom’s skirt back and go to school like I do every other day. Pretend to be whoever everyone else thinks I am…like every day.”

  “Did you see me on the bridge? Is that why…?”

  “No! No, I didn’t see you. I only saw the water. It looked so calm a
nd quiet. Safe somehow. I could imagine how it would feel to just walk in and let it kind of wrap around me. Just let everything disappear—float away. It seemed like it would feel so nice. Make life better for a while.”

  His eyes are closed, remembering.

  “I walked in and the water felt nice and cool, like I could breathe better than on dry land. So I kept going, one step at a time, just feeling everything drift away as I got in deeper and deeper. It started to seem like the pain was actually going to disappear forever if I could keep going. I just wanted to keep going until I couldn’t feel anymore.” He smiles slightly for a second, shaking his head. “And then it all went to hell. It was like I had been dragged under a giant wet blanket and I couldn’t breathe. My heart felt like it was going to burst and my lungs felt like they were going to explode and turn my ribs into sawdust. I couldn’t find my arms and legs. Everything was black and painful. It was horrible. And then there was this big splash right before I blacked out, which I realized later was you almost landing on my head.” He folds his arms, hugging himself.

  “You see? I can’t tell the counselor I was trying to hurt myself on purpose because I wasn’t. I was trying to make the hurting stop.”

  Twelve

  “So, Jack is looking a little better today,” Mom says to me as I enter the kitchen after Jack has left.

  I didn’t know listening to someone could make me need sugar the same way swim practice makes me need carbs. Lots of sugar.

  Except that my mother is standing in front of me so I reach for an apple instead of raiding the cupboard for cookies.

  “Is he? I didn’t really notice.”

  “I think you’ve been good for him. He seems…lighter somehow.” Lighter? She obviously didn’t see him leave after what was probably the heaviest conversation I’ve ever had in my life.

  “I don’t think that’s because of me. He goes to a counselor every week.” I say it like it’s some sort of obvious fact instead of something I just found out myself.

  “I know that. His mother told me when I called her to see how she’s doing. But I still think he values his friendship with you. I just want you to be…careful.”

  I chew the mouthful of apple I just bit off and look at her, trying to figure out what she means. Did someone tell her about the dumpsters?

  “Careful of what exactly?” I ask, swallowing before I talk so she doesn’t start a lecture about manners.

  She pauses for a few seconds and then breathes out a sigh.

  “It’s just that…well, I am proud of you. For saving Jack that day and for trying to be his friend afterwards. I wouldn’t have wanted you to do anything differently. It’s just…I’m worried about Jack and the severity of his issues, and I’m not sure that he can handle a new friendship right now.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense. How do you handle a friendship?” What does that even mean? What is she talking about?

  “I’m not explaining this well. I’m trying to say that my responsibility…my concern…is for you. Of course I want the best for Jack, and I desperately hope that he finds his way through this time with his body and soul intact. But I also want the best for you. And being friends with someone as…troubled as he is might not be in your best interest.”

  I have my apple heading toward my mouth for another bite, but her words stop it halfway there. Seriously, what is she talking about? My mother has spent my whole life lecturing me about being kind to others. Being tolerant and understanding. Accepting everyone for who they are. Not being judgmental. Being loyal and respectful. The list goes on.

  And suddenly I’m supposed to ditch someone because he hates his life?

  “It doesn’t hurt me to hang out with Jack.” It makes me uncomfortable sometimes, sure. It scares the shit out of me occasionally too. But I’m not going to tell her that.

  “Does he talk to you about that day?”

  “He talks about lots of stuff.” Why is she asking me about this today? Was she listening outside the door? Ricky and I have always had a theory that our mother is a serial eavesdropper. Either that or freakishly psychic.

  Either way, Jack’s personal life is none of my mother’s business. He has his own mom. And his own counselor.

  And I guess now he has me, too.

  Oh, and of course he has Cody to keep his shit from being kicked out of him.

  “Well, if he ever says anything to you that makes you uncomfortable or upset, please tell me.” She’s looking at me intently, trying to reach in there and read my mind. Mom radar. I hate that.

  “Sure. Whatever. He’s not dangerous or anything, you know. He’s just screwed up, like most kids.” My voice sounds whiney and defensive, which I’m sure is really helping here.

  “Most kids don’t end up in the river.”

  “I did.”

  She smiles and ruffles my hair.

  “I know. And you know that’s different. You’re quite a guy, you know that? I love you. Just…take care of yourself. Okay?” She bends down and gives me a kiss on the forehead and heads out of the room. I look down at my apple, which is still halfway to my mouth. It doesn’t look the least bit appetizing.

  I head over to the cupboards, which are all low enough for me to reach, compliments of one of my dad’s DIY projects. I have to dig through three of them before I find the cookie stash. I think Ricky hides them so he can have them all to himself. I grab a bag and put it beside my leg and head back to my room so I can shove some sugar down my throat and try to do some work so I don’t get in shit tomorrow during class. The novelty of my hero status wore off with my teachers about three seconds after I came back to school, and no one seemed too interested in any excuses I came up with for falling behind in my classes.

  The cookies give me a sugar high that lasts just long enough to get my work done before I come crashing down to earth. It’s only ten, but I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open so I head into my bathroom to get organized before coming out and shifting onto my bed. I sit on the edge and take my braces off, massaging each leg and foot so I can relax enough to get myself to sleep. My legs tend to work in opposition to the rest of me. When I’m really tired, they like to spring into action, tightening up and pulling my muscles into weird shapes until the cramping is so bad I can’t even think about sleeping. If I’m careful, I can launch a pre-emptive strike, using techniques my physio taught me to loosen them up and force them into some kind of submission so I can rest.

  I’m tired, but my brain feels wired, wound so tight there’s no way I’m going to fall asleep even if my legs behave themselves.

  I wonder if Jack is right about how his parents would react if he told them the truth.

  I’ve never really thought about any of this shit before. I’ve heard about it, I guess. I mean, I’ve heard guys on those reality talent shows tell stories about how their parents kicked them out because they’re gay or whatever. I never thought much about it though. They were just stories that happened to other people.

  I’m thinking about it now—thanks to Jack. Thinking about how hard it is to be different from what people want you to be.

  I’m sure I’m different from what my parents wanted me to be. I don’t think they wished for a kid who couldn’t walk. But they’ve never made me feel that they would want me any other way—that they’re disappointed in how I turned out.

  My mother told me she’s proud of me. She tells me that a lot. She also tells me that I should take pride in myself. My accomplishments. Even my “disability.”

  We had all of these talks at the rehab center about how having a disability, being different, shouldn’t be seen as some big problem in your life. That you have to own it instead of fight it.

  Like the X-Men. Mutant and proud.

  I’m not exactly proud of the fact that I can’t walk. But I’m not ashamed or embarrassed either. It’s just me.

  To be ho
nest, my neon hair embarrasses me more than my chair ever could. It’s just me too, but I still think I’m going to dye it when I move away some day.

  I know most people are surprised, even amazed, when they find out I’m on the high school swim team with guys who can walk. I am proud to be on the team. But I think everyone who made it feels that way. I’m not sure I feel any better about it than they do just because I roll into the water instead of dive.

  There’s this expression I’ve heard that goes something like, “you can’t miss something you never had.” Which I assume would imply that I can’t miss walking because I’ve never been able to do it, and therefore I’m completely cool with the way things are.

  The expression isn’t true. At least not for me. Or maybe it just needs to be changed a little. I think you can miss something you wish you had. I wish I could walk. It’s not that I sit around feeling sorry for myself all the time. It’s just that sometimes l feel like I’m missing out because I live in a chair.

  For example, girls might look at me differently than they do now if I was standing up instead of sitting down.

  Some girls stare at my chair instead of my face when they meet me. Other girls try so hard to pretend it isn’t there that it turns into the mysterious, invisible wheelchair that apparently only I can see. Then, just to make it interesting, still others act like they’re doing their community service hours every time they see me, trying to help me instead of trying to get to know me.

  It’s hard not to wonder what it would be like to have a girl just look at me, without my wheelchair blurring her vision.

  Maybe someday that will change and I’ll end up in a place where I’m so proud of myself that I don’t want anything to be different—like Cody. He actually thinks he’s perfect. Although, he might be alone in that opinion.

  I don’t know. Maybe I’m just using the word wrong.

  Proud. Filled with pride.

  Pride. Like the parade. The one that Jack would probably like to march in if he ever got the chance.