They seemed older, tougher. Part of it was that I hadn’t known them since the first grade. I hadn’t watched them learn to read and tie their shoes. Plus, there were so many of them now, these tribes of scowling boys in the corridors between classes, punching each other. Arm jabs, titty twisters, whacking each other’s balls from behind. They couldn’t take their hands off each other. They never carried schoolbooks. They didn’t smile at strangers. If they caught me looking, they stared me down until I looked away. Take a picture, faggot, it lasts longer! In sheer number, these boys were cuter than the boys at my old school. Sexier, more dangerous. As a safeguard, I wrote with a Sharpie on my binder: Remember … KFC. Leave me alone. The best strategy, I decided, was to focus all my attention on Celia. It wasn’t enough to talk about my crush with my parents and my friends. I needed to act. On Monday morning, I went to the Commons before school because I knew Celia would pass by on the way to her locker.
