three inches while I most decidedly didn’t, which means that though we’re both still nerds, he’s become invisible in a way I can only achieve by being stuck in this locker.
My bladder has begun to be affected by the moon’s gravitational pull, but I channel Jedi mind control and wait. What I want more than anything is to emerge from this captivity knowing what I am. Are they right that I’m a faggot? Gay not just for math but other guys?
Frankly, it all scares me—no matter if we’re talking about guys or girls. On one hand are muscles and the sharp tang of sweat and on the other are boobs and terrifyingly mysterious private parts. I’ve read books, articles, and blogs trying to figure this out—the extent of my research is enough to justify everyone’s assumptions—but this thing, it’s not built to be reasoned through. From where I sit, Shane’s desire for Denise Carvetti exists like a kind of parasite, a thing internal but independent with its own undeniable volition. A sickness more than a choice. A sickness to which I’ve so far been immune.
My lower abdomen cramps, and if I don’t send this text, some urine-related taunt will be tacked on to the list that trails me like a comet’s tail. Okay, yes, I’ve thought about Shane in ways I haven’t told him, but they were mental experiments. I’ve thought about Denise Carvetti, too, but the squirming feelings both these exercises sparked in me were inconclusive. I may be able to understand AP Calculus, but that does not translate to my knowing what I want in this very basic, human thing, let alone being able to declare it either through words or deeds. Because this thing, once declared, can’t be undeclared, can it?
Before Denise Carvetti, Shane and I told each other pretty much everything, but now that he’s all hot-blooded male, I'm