twenty-something

That fall, I buy "Tails" by Lisa Loeb & Nine Stories and the Friends soundtrack. I make my new friends mix tapes from tracks off these CDs, along with Sarah McLachlan stuff and "Jagged Little Pill."

In '95 Part One, I forgot to mention that I got braces on Valentine's Day. Funny that. I had resisted them for two years prior, but what made me cave into my mom? Adam had braces. So I said, "why not me?"

Juxtaposing the image of braces -- I return from summer break with long hair, past my nose, parted in the middle, and it's my natural summer red. And I have an earring. I wear Henley shirts (remember those collar-less long-sleeve things with three-or-four buttons?) or short-sleeved tees over long-sleeved ones almost exclusively and, of course, lots of corduroy pants. And I am too thin for my frame. I'm a total poser, obviously a geeky gay kid trying to be a punk.

I cut my hair before long.

I am a big NBA fan in '95. No, really. I am. Remember when Michael Jordan came out of retirement to play for the Bulls again? Yeah, that was cool.

To try to find more "normalcy" in my life, I decide to do what any good buddy would do -- I try to fix Adam up with my friend Rachel, who I am also crushing on (which Adam knows). After much convincing, both agree to the set-up. There is exactly one "date" between the two -- an unceremonious trip to the pizza place during the school's open lunch, a trip I chaperone. It's awkward and unpleasant, and I can't understand why Rachel doesn't like my friend. It's finally over. The two part ways for good. And Adam doesn't speak to me for weeks.

I watch a lot of television. After school, I religiously catch 90210 reruns for the first time in syndication (Brenda! You bitch! Brandon! You hunk!). Thursday nights I am NBC's bitch as The Single Guy and Caroline in the City join the Must-See-TV line-up. (Oh, that Richard! Why are you so bitchy to Caroline?) Friday nights, I am enraptured by The X-Files (of course). And Picket Fences wows me -- whatever night its on.

I am sick one beautiful fall Sunday, in bed with MTV. I have a fever and I cry as I watch a marathon of Angela's angst on My So-Called Life. This is followed up by some episodes of MTV's animation-on-crack Cartoon Sushi, a collection of very fucked up shorts. My fever causes me to hallicinate during a cartoon about penquins, and then one about the devil. I start to sob. I still remember this vividly. MTV Animation -- aside from The Maxx -- still scares the shit out of me.

October brings the school Homecoming Dance, also marking my first year back in Claremont after my ill-fated move to Vermont in '94. The "irony" is not lost on my fifteen-year-old self as I listen to Alanis Morissette.

Adam calls me for the first time in weeks and invites himself to the dance with me. Once there, he proceeds to Rachel that -- after months of open, dramatic "secret pining" for her to our friends -- I am the one that likes her. Rachel proceeds to reject me in front of all my friends. "Ew. He's like a brother." I am devastated on the mostly-empty gym dance floor.

Then Lisa, my crush from Algebra class, is there to pick up the pieces. I dance with the pretty blonde junior to TLC's "Creep." Well, I try to dance. It's fun. But when I see Adam lurking in the shadows, glaring at me, he's what's on my mind.

What's next is a blur. We go into the locker room, a dark, empty, off-limits place, because Adam wants to talk. Once there, there's silence, and bullshit, and finally, he tell me that he remembers those notes -- those damn self-address-stamped blackmail notes I sent myself the year before -- and he remembers what one said. He tells me he never asked about my secrets, but now he thinks he understands...

As Adam tries to confront me, a gruff voice comes from the locker room's entrance: "Who the hell left this light on?" It's a janitor, ready to stumble upon us and kick us out of the dance. Adam and I look at each other, instantly knowing to rush for the shower room. We hide in one dark corner together, his body close to mine, my breathing ragged. The janitor performs a lazy sweep, switches off the light, and leaves.

Neither of us move from our huddle. We hide for many long moments as the sounds of the dance thump through the locker room walls. And then I feel his lips brush against mine. My heart, predictably, starts to race. I close my eyes as he kisses me, boldly, aggressively. I lose myself in this, the kiss I have waited for, without ever really knowing it, since the first day I saw him in gym class. For the first time in fifteen years, I give in.

I kiss him back.

His left hand rests on my hip while his right one explores. He runs it up my back, through my hair, and touches my face. Then he rests it on my shoulder. I stiffen. The realization of what I'm doing shoots down my spine. I open my eyes and break the kiss. In the dark, I take in my surroundings -- the shower, the locker room, the boy touching me, the school dance outside -- and I begin shaking, shivering.

He senses this. He squeezes my shoulder to comfort me, but I hit his hand away. I stand up in the darkness. He does the same and comes close again. I can't see him, his face, his body -- but I can feel him, his heat, and smell him, and hear his breath, heavy, excited.

I can't see myself either, can't see my hands as I push him away from me, my hands as they ball into fists.

"Don't," I spit out, weakly. He either doesn't hear or doesn't listen, because he's still coming at me. He pushes me against the cold cement wall, his hands on my sides, his face in mine, his breath on me.

"Get away," I say as I push into him, make him get out of my way as I try to leave the shower.

"What's the matter?" he pleas, grabbing my arm. "I thought this was what you wanted."

"Adam. I'm not--"

I freeze. He's crying. He's my best friend.

"I'm not."

I walk out of the locker room, leaving him in the dark shower alone. I walk all the way home.

On a happier note, I have not mentioned the OJ Simpson or Michael Jackson scandals of the 90s once.

I begin collecting movie ticket stubs after seeing Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls. I have stubs from virtually every film I've seen in the ten years since. While that flick is a stinker, Toy Story totally kicks ass! I also see -- and completely love -- some of my first non-mainstream, almost indie movies, Before Sunrise and To Die For. I suddenly love Nicole Kidman for reasons other than she was in a Batman movie and got to kiss Val Kilmer. Yay '95!

On a snowy night, after a party at my friend Mike's house, another friend's car gets stuck in snow. She's my ride home, so I gather with four others to push her out of the driveway. When the car begins to move, the driver hits the gas. But the car is not in reverse. And I was in front of it. It rushes forward, I'm unable to get out of its way, and suddenly I am pinned between the car and a parked truck, my leg trapped between the two vehicles.

I howl in pain. My leg feels like it's being crushed. And all I can think is, "I'm on Rescue 911!"

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the car is gone and I collapse on the snow covered ground. Panting, I try to move, but it fucking hurts. I look around to see my friends in shock. "This is bad," I think.

So I prop myself up on the truck. And I limp around. Everybody asks, "Are you OK? Are you OK?" I'm fighting back tears. Adam is there. I can't be a pussy.

"I'm fine," I say. And I am home before curfew.

The next morning, my leg is all different shades of purple. I am on the phone with Mike, talking about it, and suddenly my mother bursts into my room. She looks at my leg and rushes me to the hospital. "You weren't going to tell me?" she cries. I can tell she wants to slap me.

Good thing she eavesdropped. Turns out that while nothing was broken, the muscles in my leg are severely bruised. There is a circulation problem and a possibility that I might loose my leg.

I get treatment. The danger passes and I limp around for a month or two. I'm supposed to use crutches, but I refuse. I suffer no lingering ill effects -- aside from the nickname of Crash.