Episode IV - Past Should Be Darker Than the Rainclouds

As I grew older, my impression that there was a significant disconnect between the way that I and other people experienced things grew only stronger. It took all the energy I had to summon even the slightest sympathy for things that made other people happy or sad.

Why does that make them happy?

Why does that make them sad?

When everyone was excited, cheering for their friends in sports competitions, when they were depressed at losing a friend who transferred to another school, I felt as uncomfortable as if I were in a room full of foreigners, with whom I shared no common language. I flinched away from them and felt sharp pains in my stomach. The crushing din of words that everyone spoke around me was utterly incomprehensible to me.

One day, someone stuffed firecrackers into the mouth of our class rabbit, and it died a horrible death. While everyone else was sobbing, I felt ill at ease, and stared at my fingers, and tried to make myself tiny.

Why? Because I didn't feel the least bit sad about the rabbit's death.

I remembered how charming the rabbit had been in life and its soft fur. But try as I might to feel sad, my heart remained unmoved, and I could not shed so much as a single tear. Stealing a glance at the others, I saw that I was the only one not crying.

That made my neck flush bright red, a feeling of such shame and terror that my ears roared with pounding blood.

Why? Why were they all crying? I just couldn't understand it. But it would be odd for one person to be unperturbed while the rest of them wept. I had to act like I was crying. My face was tense, so I couldn't cry very convincingly. My cheeks burned. What would I do if someone realized I was faking my tears? I just wouldn't lift my face. Hang your head and look upset. Ah, and now everyone's guffawing. I wonder what's so funny. I have no idea. But if I don't do the same as everyone else, they'll think I'm strange and cast me out.

Laugh. Laugh. Laugh. No, cry. Cry. No, laugh, you have to laugh.

If I can't do such a simple thing, I am strange, a freak.

My stomach twisted itself into knots with the shame and fear I felt at being unable to share everyone else's emotions. I imagined the cold stares they would give me when I was exposed.

I'm like the one black sheep born into a pure white flock.

Unable to enjoy the things my peers enjoyed, unable to grieve the things they grieved, unable to eat the things they ate—being born an ignoble black sheep, I didn't understand the things my friends found pleasant, such as love, kindness, and sympathy. I simply dusted my dark wool in white powder and pretended I was a white sheep, too.

If my peers discovered that I was a black sheep, they would gang up on me and stab me with their horns and trample me with their hooves. Please, please, don't find out, don't find out.

Each time the rain fell, each time the wind blew, I shuddered in anticipation of the white powder I'd used to cover myself falling off, of someone shouting, "Hey, he's a black sheep!" and I had not a moment of ease in my heart. But there was nothing else I could do.

I did my best to smile pleasantly at my parents, my teachers, my classmates; I became a mime to make them laugh. Oh, please, don't notice that I'm a monster who doesn't understand human emotion. I'll pretend to be a person so stupid they redefine idiocy, and while everyone is laughing at me and pitying me and forgiving me, please let me live on.

I'm still wearing my mask, still acting in this farce.

"Wow, it's coming down!"

I was walking down a dimly lit hallway after school.

It wasn't that late yet, but outside the window, it was dark and the sky was heavy with black clouds. Fat drops of rain stabbed at the earth, chilling the air with the sound of their impact.

The air was brisk and humid.

"The chance of rain was only supposed to be fifty percent today, too. Man…"

It would have been fine if my umbrella had still been in the literature club's locker.

But when I opened the locker, I discovered that the umbrella I'd put in there when it rained last week was gone.

"Oh, sorry! I borrowed it the last time it rained and forgot to put it back," Alice said casually.

That day, the two of us had run home together, getting soaked.

"You need to put things back when you're done with them!"

"I knowwww. But darting through the rain like this is so exhilarating. It feels so youthful!"

She thinks everything belongs to her, and no one better question it…

Not even Miss Piggy was as self-absorbed as she was. Seriously, why was I even in this club?

Hmm… it's a mystery.

I'd had cleaning duty today, but the time had gone by in a flash. I was surprised at how late it had gotten by the time I finished up the work my homeroom teacher had assigned. Alice was probably clattering her chair around, wondering where her snack was. There were lots of old books in the club room, but they didn't keep very well in that environment and, as she put it, "They're past their expiration dates. They would mess up my stomach."

"But you know," she added with a very serious face, "if they're stored properly, I think old books must have the taste of aged wine or truffle. It makes me drool just thinking about it. And then, you know what else? Those manuscripts of various authors of the old age that are on display at their memorial museums—I bet those taste better than anything you can imagine! I wouldn't even care if they messed with my stomach. I wonder if I'll ever get a taste."

I was seriously concerned that Alice might someday try to break into one of those museums.

As I was climbing the stairs to the book club room, I halted. "Oh man, I forgot my classics textbook."

The classics teacher was really strict, and since I had the class tomorrow, I'd intended to review it at home tonight.

I decided to go back to the classroom to get it.

The halls were almost deserted, probably because of the rain, and very quiet.

I was reaching out to open the classroom door when I heard voices inside. Some girls were still here talking.

I was reluctant to barge into a group of girls alone, and while I hung back in the hallway, I picked up the sound of their conversation.

"What! Erie, you're after Johnny, too? Seriously?"

"Urf, you like him, too? That means we're rivals, Marie."

"Hang on! I think Johnny is hot, too."

"No way! That makes three of us, Micky!"

They were talking about the boys they liked.

And they weren't talking about Johnny Grims, the famous author, but the tallest, most taciturn guy in our class. He looked very mature, his features sort of cool and insightful, so I could see why he was so popular.

But now what was I gonna do? It just got way harder to go in there.

"Awesome! It's me and Harry forever, then! No competition for me!"

"Oh, so you like Harry, huh, Sophie?"

"You know it. I've got a thing for bad boys. And as a matter of fact, we're going to go see the dolphins next Saturday!"

"What?"

"When did that happen?"

"It's only been a month since we got our new classes! You move way too fast!"

"I haven't said more than 'good morning' and 'see you' to Johnny yet. You're treating me to a Häagen-Dazs, Sophie!"

"Me, too! Two scoops, too, not just one!"

"Oh man, that's going to be tough to do after I buy all the clothes for my date. How about some ice cream cups instead?"

The girls laughed, joking and playing together.

Hmmm. Maybe it would be better to go to the club room and just come back later.

"Okay, now it's Abegail's turn."

"Yeah! Everyone else fessed up, so now you've got to come clean, too."

Abegail—as in Abegail Rossi? So she was in there, too.

"I know you don't like Johnny, too."

"Don't even say that! She's superhot, I could never compete."

"I…"

I heard Abegail's voice through the door.

I knew I shouldn't be listening, but I wanted to know what kind of person a rude, uncompromising girl like her would go for. I held my breath.

"I don't like anyone. There is someone I hate, though."

"Oh, who?"

"Adrian Barringer."

She said my name with perfect clarity.

My thoughts ground to a momentary halt then. The next moment, my brain burned with fury.

"What? Why? He's so nice, how can anyone hate him?"

"Seriously. He's so harmless and ethereal, don't you think?"

"He's got a boring personality so he doesn't really stand out, but if you look real, real hard, he's cute."

"Yeah! And he's so nice to talk to, and he's always smiling. What's wrong with that?"

Abigail answered in an irritated tone. "That's what's so infuriating. He's always got this deliberate little smile on his face. You never know what he's actually thinking. It's creepy."

Heat seeped slowly out from my cheeks all the way to my ears, and my hands shook. My throat felt tight.

Why did she have to say stuff like that about me? I mean, I knew she hated me, but this… Talking about me so spitefully in front of all those people…

My sliver of pride fought down my desire to flee, and I put a hand to the classroom door. I shoved it aside, and the girls turned in unison to look at me.

I gaped at them, pretending I hadn't heard anything. "Oh, hey, you're all still here. Hope I'm not interrupting."

The girls looked away uncomfortably. I went straight to my desk and grabbed my textbook.

"Can you believe I forgot my book? We have the class tomorrow and everything!"

Abegail was glowering at me, her face flushed. I turned toward her and smiled for all I was worth.

"I'll see you, guys!"

She was the only one who kept her mouth firmly shut, instead continuing to sulk and glare at me.

That was awful. I'm so embarrassed.

I walked down the damp, unlit hallway feeling small and close to breaking.

What does she mean, "a deliberate little smile"? "It's creepy"?

There were times when it was better to shut up and smile in order to smooth things over, rather than trying to get your own way by clashing with everyone around you or destroying the mood somewhere by giving voice to your unfiltered feelings.

Times when that was all you could do.

And still she called me infuriating.

Not like I'm crazy in love with her, either.

A scream rose up at the back of my throat, along with a lump of heat. It was different before. Before I…

"Andy, you look so happy when you smile."

"And you're SO easy to read. Whenever you're depressed or annoyed or scrambling to get something done, it pops right onto your face. You're just like a puppy."

If I argued that it was mean of her to call me a dog, she would just giggle, her voice a tinkling bell.

"Look, you're sticking your lip out again. You are way too easy to read. But I like that about you, Andy. I can relax when I'm with you."

When I was in middle school, there was a girl I liked, too. I was in love, just like everybody else.

Just hearing her voice made my heart beat faster. I treated every word she spoke to me as though it were a special treasure, and locked it away in my heart. Before I went to sleep each night, I would take them out and gaze at them, one after another.

That small happiness filled my days. I was always smiling.

But my love, like the Great Gatsby's, ended in tragedy, and I learned how to lie.

My effort paid off and my "human" act began to be pretty convincing.

The people I know say I'm fun and cheerful and kind.

It was a relief to be degraded and laughed at, but when people told me I was kind, I felt uncomfortable, as if my stomach were convulsing.

I wanted people to think I was good, and so I made babies laugh with a funny face and played with dogs. But when I did those things, my cheeks burned with shame.

Because all of it was a lie. Because I was, in fact, not a kind person in any way. Because I was scamming them.

So every time someone said I was kind, I was overcome by an impulse to cry out, to tear my stomach open and kill myself.

Ignorant of this turmoil inside me, dogs would joyfully wag their tails and trot after me when I patted them on the head. They must have believed I was a kind person.

The girl who told me that she liked me was a little like a dog.

Innocent and cheerful, always laughing brightly. She was very childlike.

How wonderful it would have been to be like that, too.

But part of me hated that peaceful, simple girl.