Virgin Territory (23 page)

“Who?” I reply, trying to appear like not the brightest bulb. I don’t want everyone to think that I’m the kind of guy who sits around reading poetry in my spare time. I’d rather they think of me as a renegade who breaks into big houses, dates hot girls, and might run off to Mexico.

“Dylan Thomas,” she says, leaning over her desk and pointing her pointy nose in my direction. “The Welsh poet. He wrote the famous lines: ‘Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’ ”

“No,” I tell her. “I’m named after the singer-songwriter Bob Dylan, from the nineteen sixties, who wrote the famous lines: ‘Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed.’ ”

The whole class bursts out laughing.

But not me. I sit there without letting on that I understand the joke. I’m just reporting the facts, after all.

“Really?” asks Mrs. Siebert in the neat, clipped tone she saves for the wiseass in her class. She’s clearly annoyed, but she isn’t going to give in to it, just like I’m not going to give in to the hilarity.

“And what else can you tell the class about Bob Dylan?” she asks me. She positions herself on the edge of her desk, folds her slender arms, and then raises her chin at me.

I look around, and all I can see are the blank stares and fidgety faces of my classmates. Their collective dullness and disinterest registers with me as a kind of challenge, because I suddenly realize that not one of them knows me, not really. Three years into this school, and I haven’t bothered to get under anybody’s skin. I’m not alive in any of them. In fact, at this moment, I wonder if I’m even alive. Where is Desirée? Where is Crispy? Where is Angela? Where is anyone who can make me come to life again?

“Mr. Flack,” says Mrs. Siebert, “you have the floor.”

I’ve seen her do this to other kids. It’s her way of encouraging them to say more about themselves than they intended, and then once they get going, she suggests, as a homework assignment, that they write about it in a personal essay for extra credit. Mrs. Siebert is all about the personal essay. But this is the first time that she’s called on me since school began. She’s given me the floor, and now she’s standing back to see what I might do with it.

I begin to tap my fingers lightly on my desk, keeping time to an internal rhythm. I close my eyes, and instead of the nervous coughs and shuffles that are emanating from my classmates, I hear the music in my head. My tapping is getting louder, and eventually my lips are moving, mouthing words. Who needs a guitar? It’s just a matter of seconds before I cross some crazy divide and become known forever as that kid who sang out loud in Mrs. Seibert’s English class, the nutcase, the nerd; but there’s also a chance that my plan to reinvent myself will work, and I’ll finally be revealed as cool. In fact, I’m counting on it, because for the first time, I’m not doing this just for myself. I’m doing it for Kat and for Angela and for Crispy and for Desirée and for Marie and for Ora and for Frankie Rey and, yes, even for Doug. I’m going to sing for everyone, for the former planet known as Pluto, and for anyone on Earth who is, or ever has been, alive in me just the same.

I want to thank the following people for their kindness in shepherding this book into being—Melanie Braverman, Michael Cunningham, Eve Ensler, Andy Giammarco, Cynthia O’Neal, Christopher Potter, and Lorraine Whittington. Also big thanks to my buds at Career Forum
^TM
(Sal, Seth, Meg, Dave, David, and Christopher). Laura Geringer has believed in this book from the very beginning, but along the way she also challenged me to become a better writer by encouraging me to always trust the story. I am also indebted to her for introducing me to my new home at Egmont USA. And speaking of Egmont—thank you to everyone there who touched this book: Greg Ferguson, Alison Weiss, Mary Albi, Elizabeth Law, Rob Guzman, Michael Nagin, and the entire Egmont gang. And finally, without the wise and steady council of my agent and friend, Bill Clegg, I simply would not be doing this. Thank you all.

JAMES LECESNE is an author, actor, and activist whose film
Trevor
received an Academy Award for best short film. His first novel,
Absolute Brightness
, was a William C. Morris Award Finalist. Lecesne lives in New York City. Visit him online at
www.jameslecesne.com
.