Foolish Fire (7 page)

For a moment I had a twinge of regret. Perhaps he was innocent. The idea that he could be homosexual suddenly seemed the least likely thing in the world. But if he were stripped of this special status now, I knew I’d lose one of my chief delights. I willed myself into greater cruelty:

“Come on, everyone knows you’re a faggot.”

“Stop calling me a faggot!” he almost screamed.

“I’m calling you a faggot ’cause that’s what you are: a faggot. What’s the matter? Truth hurts, huh?”

A look of weary resignation came into his face. “When will you leave me alone?”

“Never. Not till you admit the truth.”

“I am not…what you think I am, and I don’t know where you got the idea. Some guy might have started that rumor but that’s just what it is: a rumor. He was only doing it to be mean. I don’t know why.”

“I don’t wanna argue with you. See that room?” I pointed to the instrument check-out room. “Step in there for a second.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m afraid you’ll run away while I put away this clarinet.”

“I won’t run away.”

“Like hell you won’t.”

“I promise.”

“I don’t believe in fags’ promises.”

He gave an exasperated sigh.

I stood up so suddenly that my chair fell over with a bang. “If you don’t step into there right now, I’m gonna have to make you do it.”

After a brief look of defiance, he moved toward the room, muttering under his breath, “I don’t believe this.”

I followed close behind. As I shut the door behind me I felt a whoosh at my ears; the tiny room felt close and packed now that it was air-tight. My ears felt stopped-up. I watched him reading the owners’ names stenciled on the various instrument cases.

“What instrument goes in here?” he asked, pointing.

“That’s a trombone case.” I clicked the door-lock shut and he whirled around at the sound.

“Why’d you do that?”

I stared at him but said nothing. Then I pulled a high stool just in front of the door and sat upon it. Setting my case aside I began to play a slow, seductive melody in the lower register which sounded vaguely exotic…Arabian or Persian…stripper music.

“What are you doing? I don’t want to sit here and listen to you play.”

I pulled the mouthpiece away. “I’m staying here until you admit the truth.”

“Which is?”

“That you really are a faggot.”

“Then it looks like we’ll be here forever, because I’m not going to tell a lie.”

I shrugged and continued playing. As I did so, I watched him feigning nonchalance, studying the different instruments. Soon I felt a warm drop of spit on the inside of my knee where the bell of my instrument rested. I stopped playing. He looked up.

“Well? Are you ready to go home, Mark?”

“I’ve
been
ready.”

“Then admit it.”

“Never.”

“That’s okay. We have all the time in the world for you to change your mind. No one knows we’re in here. Nobody.”

“That girl knows we’re in here.”

“She thinks we’re practicing together. And even if she came back, when she sees no one in the band room, she’ll think we left.”

He fell silent, then retreated to the far corner of the musty, closet-like room to be as far away from me as possible. I began taking the clarinet apart and putting the pieces away carefully into the yellow velour-lined compartments inside the case.

First, I unscrewed the metal clamp on the mouthpiece which held the reed in place, then detached the reed and slipped it into a tiny cardboard sleeve provided for it. Instinctively I put the black plastic mouthpiece into my mouth again. I froze. An idea came into my head which made me giggle. Clarinet players learn instinctively to wet their mouthpieces with their saliva, and that was what brought the idea into my head.

“Mark, look.”

Keeping my eyes fastened upon his, I smiled wickedly and moved the mouthpiece slowly and sensuously in and out of my mouth. I was gratified to see that even in the dim light of the room, his face, half in shadow, was flushing furiously.

I let him plainly see the visible play of my tongue as it curled and licked. I murmured naughtily, “Mmm.”

“Cut it out, Willard.”

“What’s the matter? Brings back memories?”

“That’s not it and you know it.”

“Here,” I said suddenly, extending the mouthpiece to him. “Show me how it’s done. Show me how a real faggot does it.”

“Go to hell!”

I slid down off my stool and advanced threateningly toward him. He cowered back into the corner as far as he could go. I brought the mouthpiece up. “Do it,” I commanded.

Glaring, he took it and stood for a moment, staring questioningly at me. I made a threatening gesture which made him bring it up to his mouth.

“Do it!” I commanded again, and smiled to see his lips curl distastefully as the mouthpiece slid into his tiny mouth.

He pulled it out, wiping at his lips. “Now can I go home?”

“Not as good as the real thing, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really don’t. If I’m not home for dinner soon, my mom’s gonna wonder where I am. And when I—”

“Shut up! You’re not going anywhere until you admit you’re a faggot. It’s so easy. All you have to do is say, ‘I’m a fag.’ Then I’ll let you go.”

“Just like that? No way.”

“I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn. Just repeat after me: ‘I am a faggot.’ And then you can be on your way.”

“I’m not a faggot and that’s all there is to it. You can’t keep me here like this—”

“Come on, you can say it.”

“…………………….”

“I am a faggot,” I prompted.

He fidgeted with his hands, passing the mouthpiece from one hand to the other. I reached for it.

“Here, give it back.”

As I was replacing it into the case I remembered something else, and a smile spread over my face. I reached behind the little check-out desk and fumbled open the top drawer. From among the little odds and ends within I drew out a small round can which I rolled playfully around in the palm of my hand.

“Do you know what this is for?”

I smiled as I uncapped it and dipped a finger into the opal-hued jelly within. It was the Vaseline used by woodwind players to lubricate the cork linings of their instruments to ease their fitting together. I pulled two parts—the barrel and the mouthpiece—out of the case again, then slowly, deliberately, spread the Vaseline onto the cork linings, studying Mark’s face all the while.

“You dab some on here like so. And around here.” I twisted one piece slowly into the other. “That way it slides right in.”

His eyes widened in shock and I felt a delicious thrill keen through me. I thought to myself wildly: He knows! He knows exactly what’s going on!

“Isn’t it neat? It’s called Vaseline. What a handy invention, huh?”

He was silent.

“Well?”

“All right, all right,” he said resignedly.

“What’s the matter?”

“If I say that phrase, will you let me go?”

“Of course. That’s what I’ve been saying for the past thirty minutes, isn’t it?” There was something in his expression which indicated he’d had enough, and I was secretly regretful that our little game was to end so soon. I’d begun to enjoy myself and was hoping it would last longer.

He sighed loudly. “Okay, okay.” He put his hands on his hips and mouthed the phrase distastefully, in a tired, almost sarcastic tone of voice: “‘I am a faggot.’ Now can I go?”

“Say it one more time, like you really mean it.”

“I am a faggot.”

“You see how easy it is? Nothing to it, right? Doesn’t it feel good to finally let the truth out? Don’t you feel cleaner now?”

“You said I could go if I said it.”

“Right. So go. I’m not stopping you.” I shrugged nonchalantly but remained seated on my high stool just in front of the door.

He was cautious. “I can’t go with you there.”

“There’s plenty of room to go around. I won’t touch you. What’s the matter, scared?”

There was a silence. Then he began to inch forward, his eyes never leaving my face. When he was within two feet of me, he made a mad dash for the door.

I don’t know what happened after that. There was a loud clatter and a ferocious, hot excitement pounding within me. Mark was in my arms struggling to get free. I shoved him back toward the far corner, kicking the high stool out of the way, slamming against the instrument racks. I felt possessed of a superhuman strength, as though every muscle in my body was charged with energy. My body was acting without the least volition on my part.

“Let me go!”

“Shut up! You little queer!” I gulped down air frantically between ragged gasps. Mark’s face was completely unrecognizable, petrified with fright. His mouth gaped open in unbelieving horror.

“What are you gonna do? Let go of my arm!” His voice had slipped into the whining plea of a girl, which made me want to slap his red, wrinkled face.

“Fag, you make me wanna puke, you know that?”

“So what do you want me to do about it?” He tugged his arm in an attempt to pull it away but I only tightened my grip.

“I want you to give me a BJ.”

It took a moment for the words to register, and when they did I realized dimly that it was I myself who had spoken them. I was shocked. But it was too late to recall them. They hung in the air and rang echoing inside my mind. My grip on his arm loosened, went slack. I let go.

He made no move to run away. His face registered shocked disbelief.

“You heard me,” I said weakly. “Isn’t that what you like to do?”

A strange metamorphosis came over his face. The shock had transformed itself into a sneer, and I became scared.

“You mean right here? Right now?”

“Right now,” I whispered, my mouth dry.

“You can’t make me.” He looked toward the door.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared, faggot. Want me to kick your ass?” But my threat sounded almost like pleading. I was frightened because he seemed so unafraid.

“You’re the one who’s scared,” he said softly.

I heard his voice as if it came through a long narrow tube stuffed with cotton wool. I still couldn’t believe what we were discussing.

His face looked drawn and pale, strangely uneasy. My head felt light, and the whole situation became unreal, like something in a dream which only distantly concerned me.

“Come on,” I whispered, “Nobody’ll ever know.”

“We’ll be caught here.”

“Why? The door’s locked.”

And then it dawned on me that he had meant that last remark. I felt my heart begin to race so fast I could barely breathe. Little shivers ran along every part of my body. I was trembling like a leaf.

He was looking around in a vaguely criminal way.

I took a step back, not taking my eyes from his face. I couldn’t believe that it might actually happen. People didn’t really do that kind of thing. It was only a fantasy…a joke.

Still not looking at me, he took a step in my direction.

As if fighting back a choke I managed to say, “Don’t tell me you really mean it.”

He halted. A frantic kaleidoscope of emotions played across his face at lightning speed, making my stomach churn.

“You really meant it, didn’t you?” I insisted. “You were serious.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were, you were. I could tell just now.”

“I was not, either!”

I almost jumped with glee. A mad excitement filled me, and I laughed aloud, pointing at him. “Faggot! Wait till I tell the others!” I felt an unearthly happiness well up inside me, a happiness akin to a feeling of escape, combined with the dizzying knowledge that I now had proof of what had hitherto been mere gossip.

He looked desperate. “I was only joking! Couldn’t you tell it was a joke?”

“It wasn’t, either! You meant it and you know it!” I felt exhilarated but there was just the slightest touch of horror in my joy.

He rushed past me and fought the door open. At the threshold of freedom, he shot a look back at me. That glance pierced me with a force which made something shrivel inside me. Then the door hissed shut and I was alone.

The dull-sounding slam of the big outer door sent a reverberation through the whole building. As soon as he was gone, a hollow, empty feeling seemed to fill up the inside of my chest.

Dully, I began picking up the pieces of the clarinet which had been scattered on the floor. I bent down to peer under the check-out desk where I thought the mouthpiece might have rolled, kicked aside during our brief struggle. There it was, just within reach. I managed to scoop it toward me and retrieved it. Then I peered closely at it to see if it had been damaged.

Amazingly, it remained unscathed. But upon closer inspection, I saw I was wrong. A tiny hairline fracture could just be made out, almost invisible to the naked eye, but enough, I knew, to alter the pitch of the instrument forever.