arobotlivesdownstairs

[I “adopted” the word “agonyclite” at savethewords.org and could think of no better way to use it than to write something inspired by it.]

A list of heresies, jotted down on a scrap of notebook paper in mini-golf pencil. Standing up in class to question instead of answer the blackboard scrawls. Looking up instead of down during moments of silence, a salute offered with sincerity by your left hand. Refusing the complementary breadsticks at the Olive Garden. Leaving a film half-way through that you've “paid good money” for. Telling your friends you love them and meaning it. Clambering into abandoned buildings, pulling down the temporary barriers, blinking dust in the portal-light. Sleeping well. Deciding not to run.

Curiosity.

Samantha and I at 14 roll under the cot, the springs tangle her hair, she above me. That pressure of body against body that is mysterious and daunting. There are forms under her sweater that haven’t been revealed, but I can feel them in the shadows. Her parents can’t prove a thing if we’re hidden. They can throw open the door and not catch anything wrong. What’s wrong to them: that I am attack, she defense. Though it’s her thighs gripping mine, not mine spreading hers, they will be against her by thinking they side with her. Please don’t catch us. Let me touch more. I’m not innocent in this either.

I ask my father, a daydreaming, aging stoic, what makes me so angry when grownups talk. Although he hadn't noticed my anger, I knew it was wrong, and so sought an answer from him.

“Adults have stopped asking questions. All of them. Even though they actually still don't know why the sky is blue, the question all children ask, they assume they learned it years ago and can forget about wondering anymore. You're probably angry with us because of that. Because we don't ask questions but assume we know the answers.”

Samantha comes over and we watch The Goonies with my parents even though we are too old for it now (and they have always been to old for it). We don't laugh at Chunk like we used to. But we do still get that shivering, awe-struck feeling when the kids emerge from the natural waterslide into the giant, pirate-ship enclosing cavern. My mother throws a black, red and green afghan over us on the loveseat, where I clandestinely hold Samantha's thigh well above the knee.

Monday, I swear at my History teacher. I don't just swear, I call her a cunt. Where did I learn a word as loaded as cunt from? And how could any exchange with her have been severe enough for me to use that word?

Samantha and I can no longer see each other. Word of the incident has spread to the parent level, and I am now blacklisted from many households by concerned parents. My father tells me quietly that I will have to prove myself worthy of trust to my mother, and that it will take a long time. For himself, he uses the word “disappointed”. For her, he says “hurt.”

I stand in front of my teacher seated across the table. The principal is beside her with an awful mustache and brown-rimmed glasses, scowling. Mrs. Munroe looks uncomfortable, her movements are slightly out of her control.

“Please take a seat,” the principal says nasally.

“I would prefer to stand, sir.“

The principal flushes, he's a pale, white man and the red is bright and obvious as it fills his face. His jaw snaps open to speak, but Mrs. Munroe pats his hand and chokes slightly over an “it's okay.”

“I can't explain why I said what I said…”

I keep standing, unable to speak. Four eyes widen, two in rage, two in shock. I will never finish my apology. I will probably have to go to another school.

A list of regrets, written on the back page of my journal from that year. Telling my brother he was adopted. Agreeing with Samantha's parents. Standing when I should have sat.

Heresy is a loaded word, too. Blood, torture, reckless power struggles. But maybe some heresies are just a way of formalizing that the heretic is a pointless shit-disturber.