One day during practice, he dropped any pretense of chasing after the grounded ball and simply rammed into me with all his force.
In the locker room after lacrosse, he would snap at my ankles with his stick until they turned bright red. Something about my incompetence made Fred furious. I had changed schools so often I’d forgotten how to make friends. People whispered that he smoked pot and felt up girls after school. I was perpetually clothed in hand-me-downs. He wore clothing emblazoned with Hilfiger and Klein. Fred was tall for an eighth grader, and he was clear-skinned and golden, with hair so light it seemed more than blond. We were both faculty brats, and the school catered to elite students from wealthy families.īut our similarities ended there. When I arrived at this new private school in seventh grade, after my mom got a job teaching, I hoped Fred and I might be friends.
That’s because my head was being slammed against a locker, the syllables crashing together like cymbals in my ear. The first time someone called me a “faggot” I didn’t hear it at all.
