By James Kelleher
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14
I rang the Johnson’s doorbell and was engulfed by a wave of panic that nearly sent me running back to my parent’s car idling in the driveway. Something like a failed ding-dong-ditch, I stood there shaking, suffering all of the terror and none of the euphoria that usually accompanies the act of teenage mischief. To my surprise and relief, the door opened to reveal a solitary Sam—their parents lost their taste for me after a post-gymnastics class game of truth or dare went awry a few weeks ago.
It’s a miracle that Sam accepted my invitation to the dance. I’ve had a crush on them for months now, but I was convinced Sam had friend-zoned me. If not for my friends’ commandeering of my phone while I was asleep at a recent slumber party, I would not be in this silent car ride with Sam and my parents. While I didn’t appreciate the burglary and impersonation at the time, a glance over at Sam reminded me that it was worthwhile. Sam had it all: they were one of the tallest people in eighth grade, played for the best club soccer team in the city, and boasted cheek bones higher than most nerds’ state test scores.
Just before we walked through our middle school’s doors and into the dance, we stopped so Sam could adjust my bowtie and I could fix their hair—both had been knocked slightly askew. After we agreed our appearances were in order, we stepped onto the dance floor and into a dream. Immediately joining our friends in their joyful mix of insulting, singing, and dancing to the Peter Gabriel, Kate Bush, and Michael Jackson blasting from the speakers. The adrenaline, produced by the presence of my friends and some version of requited love, seemed to have a side effect of temporary amnesia; I forgot all about my acne, improperly applied mascara, being cut from the football team, and even the new video game that I almost stayed home to play. For now, the lipstick-amplified flashes of Sam’s smile were all I could remember.
17
I’m supposed to be in the locker room in seven minutes. I always end up staying much too long in my English teacher’s classroom after school, and once again I risked being late to warm ups. This week we were playing the best team in the state and I knew my coach would be on edge; I only had time to mutter “Shoot I’m late! Bye!” to Mx. Howard before dashing towards the other side of the building. Embarrassed by my uncoordinated sprint through the cafeteria and science hall and praying that I didn’t forget my skirt again, I stepped into the cheerleaders’ section of the locker room just on time, avoiding a tirade provoked by tardiness. Greeted by my teammates with subtle nods of acknowledgement in place of the usual “What’s good?” or “How are you?” I knew this would be a nerve-stricken performance.
As the announcer thundered “Quarterback Kyle Anderson,” the already violent butterflies in my stomach seemed to switch from baseball bats to machine guns. Kyle and I had been dating for four months now, and I still experience a visceral reaction to every mention of the name—I still couldn’t comprehend that my significant other was the captain of the football team. I could Kyle preparing for the first play in the middle of the field, as if flaunting their flowing blonde hair, thin yet taut limbs, and this week’s selection of nail polish (Kyle’s favorite cosmetic).
The game was a blur. I spent most of it screaming in support of Kyle, convinced that if I cheered hard enough, I could make an impact. The loss of my voice wasn’t in vain, Kyle led the team to score the winning touchdown with in the final two minutes of the game. Unable to control my adoration and pride, I celebrated the winning points by running over to Kyle, picking them up, and kissing them long enough to make everyone else that could see uncomfortable.
19
Due to an unintentional admission of my lack of work for the weekend, I am now being dragged to some gross selective living group party. Fraught with social climbers, athletes, and a cappella singers (the three most nefarious types of people in my experience), these functions were not usually my scene. Luckily, I am already forty-five minutes in and my plan to deter conversation by intently looking out the window is working surprisingly well, so well that I am even humming to the beat of whatever mumble rap song is currently playing. To my dismay, someone approaches me, inquiring about my opinion of….
Holy moly this person’s eyes! I suddenly found myself staring at a view infinitely better than that of the window—something like a distant green light on a foggy night. I think they introduced themselves as Taylor, but my senses had been deafened by my heartbeat. I blinked and nodded, trying my best to appear like a sentient being, but every new feature devoured by my eyes made it a little harder to function. The eyes were just the tip of the iceberg; Taylor’s crystal teeth, radiant skin, and perpetually curling hair collaborated to undermine my ability to move, communicate, and breath. Hemming together their visage with a twinkling nose piercing and subtle stubble, I knew Taylor created this portrait as much as they had received it.
Taylor had probably been talking for a couple minutes now, but I wasn’t ready to listen until now—and it probably didn’t even matter what they had to say. I seized their hand and led them towards the center of the room, we were going to play beer pong, and then get more drinks, and then talk to some people that I’m pretty sure are in my poetry class, and then who knows what else. The ways of euphoria pulsing through my body were chased with adrenaline; apparently even the most dilapidated self-esteem could be salvaged with the attention of a beautiful person. Taylor continued to let me lead them around for about four more beer pong games (the only measurement of time that I could grasp at these functions). Providing me with no information beyond the flash of a smile, Taylor grabbed my hand and led me into the hallway.
27
I ducked under the awning of my local diner, looking forward to my favorite part of the day. While I had to stay late as a result of my boss’ long winded, incomprehensible, and self-assured monologue about Bitcoin, it thankfully distracted them from the lack of progress on the software I was supposed to debug. Instead of the usual criticism of my coding from over my shoulder that was present in most of their Friday evening visits to my cubicle, today’s greeting only featured the poor explanation of cryptocurrency. I guess they were exhausted by the description as well; before saying anything more they removed their stilettos and lumbered back to their office muttering something about this weekend’s golf tournament.
The fact that the diner sheltered me from the rain added to the already intense aura of safety and comfort omnipresent in the restaurant. The stereotypical diner provided me with two of my favorite things: coffee and Alex (a server with whom I had a budding relationship). Alex worked nights at the diner to pay for their graduate program in Journalism at Berkeley. Despite only meeting them two months ago, I was already obsessed. From their keen jawline and hourglass figure to their alluring voice and captivating smile, Alex held my mind, body, and spirit captive from the moment I saw them.
Like usual, I finished my coffee just as Alex finished their shift. On our walk back to the apartment, Alex convinced me to stop by Harry’s(a hole-in-the-San-Francisco-gentrified-bullshit establishment where we consumed most of our alcohol) so we could have a beer and catch the end of the game. While I would have preferred heading straight home to get high, dig into the leftover Thai food, and slump to a movie (Kubrick hopefully), Alex culminated their persuasive efforts with a kiss—I could have been led anywhere after that brief, beautiful moment. Once inside I dashed to the bathroom to scrub off the lipstick off of my face while Alex greeted the bartender and some of the other frequents.
Critique
Hi James,
Thank you for submitting this piece! The idea you have going here is great, but it doesn’t seem to be finessed super well. You certainly pull off your “point” that gendered pronouns constrain how we envision and imagine a story, and your continual use of the gender-neutral pronoun “they” does reveal to the reader any internal biases that they might have. However, you kind of come at this assertion in a blunt way, and it’s not clear to what extent you imagine this conceit being implemented in a real-life context. For example, do you think that all people should go by gender-neutral pronouns, and this is why you exclusively use “they/them"? Considering that this story is written from a retrospective POV, wouldn’t your main character already know the pronouns of their loved ones, so exclusively relying on the gender-neutral “they/them” (which is often used as a signal of respect when you simply don’t know someone’s pronouns) is not really necessary? Or is it the case that all of the characters in your story do identify with “they/them” as a matter of identity?
Additionally, once you remove the conceit of exclusively using “they/them”, the story by itself lacks any real driving force. The main character doesn’t develop in any way, and considering that a bildungsroman by definition "focuses on the psychological and moral growth of the protagonist,” I think trying to center the story on fleshing out your character is absolutely necessary. What do they learn about themselves through their experiences of love? How does the exclusive use of “they/them” allow us to get into their head? Is this a world where exclusively using “they/them” is accepted and expected, or are your character’s experiences (and their use of “they/them”) political in some way? I think developing this story (as well as asking yourself what point you’re trying to make by using “they/them” pronouns and how you could make that purpose clearer) would be worthwhile and would make for an excellent, innovative piece.
Some line-by-line edits:
There are some asides that I would avoid and that come off as a bit stiff (and semi-snobby): "Due to an unintentional admission of my lack of work for the weekend, I am now being dragged to some gross selective living group party. Fraught with social climbers, athletes, and a cappella singers (the three most nefarious types of people in my experience), these functions were not usually my scene. Luckily, I am already forty-five minutes in and my plan to deter conversation by intently looking out the window is working surprisingly well, so well that I am even humming to the beat of whatever mumble rap song is currently playing. To my dismay, someone approaches me…" An “I’m too cool for this” tone is okay so long as you have some indication or “proof” for why a "selective living group party" is “gross” and not really worth your while. However, (1) you don’t provide any such explanation, and (2) since your piece is, after all, a bildungsroman and nota critique on the politics of SLGs, any commentary on your apparent disdain for an aspect of Duke culture (that also wouldn’t apply to anyone outside of it) is not very relevant. Perhaps imply instead that this party is not your scene because you’re more introverted, or you’re not vibing with the people there. But merely implicating Duke culture (without explaining why it’s problematic) as the reason for your discomfort isn’t that much of a reason.
"(a hole-in-the-San-Francisco-gentrified-bullshit establishment where we consumed most of our alcohol)" and "(Kubrick hopefully)” These have the same issues mentioned above. The first one implicates a political issue that you do not flesh out and at first glance seems to be added in just to prove that your character is “woke” (if that were the case, then why are they supporting such an establishment in the first place?). The second aside shares the same semi-elitist tone. Name-dropping for the sake of name-dropping (unless you establish that Stanley Kubrick’s work is particularly meaningful to the character for x,y, and z reasons) is not necessary and runs the risk of alienating the reader if they are not familiar with the name.
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