That’s how it was with me and Amy. The words were perfect, the intensity was high, the analysis, the intellect, the give and take, the back and forth, was all lockstep. Dead on. She was in the affirmative and had her case down cold, and because I was in the negative and had my case down cold, what it came down to was the stronger argument. She was more confident on the affirmative, and I was less confident on the neg, no matter how hard I tried. Because we were equals, it was going to come down to a loss for me. I tried. I did.
But at the end when we shook hands, I knew. I just knew. Her eyes were confused, brilliant and alive, but perplexed because our emotional connection had deepened enough that she could read me. It made my pants tighten. My free hand twisted to a fist. My jaw clenched. An impulse to pull her into my arms and kiss her almost overrode the sense of polite decency that was expected of us. Besides, I had no desire to get expelled.
“Want to wait together?” she said.
Something inside me gave way. I knew it was over. I knew that I was fourth or fifth, which to my father meant that I might as well have been 1,117th. He would consider me dog shit; I considered myself a king. As we walked back to that quiet classroom, where everything had turned on a dime, before we knew we were debating each other, the hard reality sank in, seeping through every muscle, making me feel like a walking bag of concrete. I’d lost. They didn’t have to announce it for me to know. I’d lost.
My fingers played a mindless beat against my leg, my other hand twisted with Amy’s. She was so alive and trying to cover it up. I didn’t want that. Nobody wants to see an angel clip their wings. Nobody wants to take away someone else’s drive. Nobody except my dad, that is. I wasn’t going to be like him. I wasn’t going to crush her just because I could, or because it served some bigger purpose in my life. Selfish motives weren’t my thing. If I was going to be great it would be because I was great, not because I pushed other people down.
Amy stood there, holding my hand, looking at me as if she were chronicling my entire life with those brown eyes. She hadn’t needed to push me down in order to rise above me. All she’d needed was to be my equal and then to do better. I have to admit, as a guy, and a fairly competitive one, it crushed me. I won’t lie. Losing a game of mini golf on a date was one thing, but losing a full ride and knowing what I had to go home to was a whole other situation.
Was I perfect? No. Was I mature? Not really. And so, when I leaned down and took that ever-so-sweet kiss, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. Why did everything have to happen at once? My mind raced as our lips touched, as I tasted her pleasure and her energy. It gave me some sort of fuel for my soul at the same time that a fire was tamping out inside. How could so many good things happen and one horrible thing cancel it all out?
I would go home to a father who would come as close as humanly possible to killing me. Not with his hands, not with a weapon, but with his mouth. How could I take so much enjoyment from one person’s mouth, Amy’s pure connection, and yet, experience so much pain from another’s? It was funny, a mouth’s a mouth, but it’s how you use it that turns it into an instrument of the divine, or a tool for destruction.
Too many thoughts raced through me, too many feelings pounded through me, too many drum beats out of sync made my brain hurt.
“Get a room,” growled a familiar voice.
Amy pushed me back, turning. Her turn to wipe her mouth. “Joe,” she whimpered.
“It’s final ceremonies,” he said, looking at both of us and then just shaking his head, turning away.
It felt like being an inmate on death row, and being told it was time. I knew what they were going to say. Amy wanted to hold my hand walking back, and I knew I should, but the part of me that wanted to be a dick was starting to come out. The part that needed to go and sit with headphones on, and blast music and drum along, and drown out the world, was starting to emerge. I wished I had time, I wished I had space.
I wished I could go for a twenty mile run, or drum for three hours, or take some kind of drug that would just get me out of my own mind, but I couldn’t. I had to walk, step by step, next to her down the linoleum floored hallway. I had to turn and step on the carpet in the auditorium and look at the expectant faces of my teammates. I had to break contact from her, and nod and pretend everything was going to be okay, even as a knot formed in my stomach and my skin buzzed at the thought of going home.
My phone rang. I ignored it. I knew it was my dad, calling to find out. If he really cared he’d be here, right? Right? What he cared about was the surface, not the depth. Amy could be deep. Right now I just didn’t give a fuck about anything anymore. I wanted it all to go away. All of it.
Mr. Feehan whispered something about what I thought the final rankings would be, and I turned to him and said, “I think I lost.”
“Everyone thinks that,” he said back, bright blue eyes twinkling, bags under his eyes a swollen pink. I know he was trying to make me feel better, but it just added to the cacophony.
The final ceremonies dragged on, the Lincoln-Douglas results toward the end. If I had been sitting next to Amy, by the time we got to the announcements of our names, well, her name, I probably would have had her in tears because I was shut down. You could have gotten more emotions out of a slab of granite.
Talia Sheridan’s name was first, Mike Zendo was second, and when they went to announce number three my team looked at me expectantly, everybody holding their breath, the freshmen with their fingers crossed. So much energy erroneously focused on me because I knew, God dammit I knew. When the coach who gave the announcements said “Amy Smithson” I stood up and walked out, scores of eyes on me. Including Amy’s.