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Gregory’s hands are shaking. He hates that about himself.
That’s not his brand.
His brand:
1. Steady honesty.
2. Steady hands.
3. Steady life.
(He likes the rule of three. It’s neat. It’s simple.
He likes rules.
He’s been taught to depend on them since forever.)
He is rearranging his desk for the fifth time today.
He hates that about himself too.
_______
He warned Janine off of Maurice, or tried to, which wasn’t fair at all. Maurice is, if not his best friend, one of them.
Why does he feel so far away from him if Maurice is his best friend?
Well, not his best friend anymore.
He fucked up.
These are the ways Gregory fucked up:
1. Kissing Janine.
2. Telling Maurice he kissed Janine.
3. Telling Maurice the way he did.
Gregory is pretty good at burning bridges. Not so good at building them. He’s rarely the one who builds them in the first place. He’s usually a little too removed to do that.
He takes a step away from reality while convincing himself that his perception of the world is realer than anybody else’s.
Gregory is a realist.
He’s always been.
He tries to tell himself that his feelings aren’t real because his feelings tell him that these are the ways he fucked up:
1. Kissing Janine.
2. Telling Maurice he kissed Janine.
3. Telling Maurice the way he did.
Of course his feelings scare him. They are raw. They are counterfactual and entirely factual at the same time. They make no sense.
He’s not supposed to do things that make no sense.
+
Sometimes it’s like the only people who get him, at least a little, work at Abbott. And even then…he’s not sure. He hides a lot of himself, maybe, but at least everyone at Abbott is hiding a lot about themselves, though most of the time he’s not sure what they’re hiding.
He hates that about himself.
+
Other things he hates about himself:
- He doesn’t talk enough.
- He talks too much.
- He smiles too big.
- He’s not good at smiling.
- He crosses his arms too tightly and it looks like he’s trying to disappear.
- His body feels awkward in space.
- He broke up with his girlfriend and didn’t really mind because he kissed one of his friends right after, and she was dating one of his best friends, and he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to like his friends (you know, the ones he’s had for years) better than anyone, but he really, really likes Janine Teagues.
- When he’s having fun, he feels guilty.
- The way he leans towards Janine feels comfortably and scandalously right.
- He thinks about the kiss they shared all the time. That’s concerning.
- There are a lot of bullet points on this list, and he’s not even done. That’s also concerning.
Okay.
It’s time for Gregory to put those thoughts away now.
In his brain, there are a lot of boxes.
Lists like the one he just made go into a filing cabinet, and then he closes the drawer until next time he needs to open it to put in something else he wants out of sight and out of mind.
And then it kind of keeps going like that forever.
+
The first lists are written in the careful cursive of a little kid.
His dad wanted him to know how to write in cursive, made him practice over and over because his penmanship, like everything else, was never, ever good enough.
He said it was important. He said Gregory needed to be ten times more dignified than other men.
Gregory was a man far before he turned eighteen.
+
Barbara said, “You are but a child.”
That hurt much more than Gregory wanted it to. He thinks it would have hurt less if it didn’t feel true, if the whole time he was interim principal (unofficially but effectively), a part of him hadn’t felt like he was pretending.
Like he was playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes, though he never would’ve dared to do so as a child, and his dad wouldn’t be caught dead in that cardigan.
+
A lot of the time, Gregory feels like his brain is full of bees.
The ones that don’t sting him and then drop dead or just buzz buzz buzz forever create honeycombs in his gray matter and fill up the compartments with muffled panic and smothered suffering and muted obsessions, all with the consistency of cough syrup, and his only choice is to suck it up and ignore them as best as he can, because if he admits that they make it hard to think (sometimes—often—so, so much), that they are real and hurting him, he’ll sound weak, he’ll sound unstable, he’ll be a disgrace, and he doesn’t have the time for that.
Doesn’t have the luxury of that.
One time, to break through the buzzing in his head (bzzz you have so much to do bzzz everyone is disappointed in you bzzz why can’t you do anything right bzzz why are you thinking these thoughts why are you like this what’s wrong with you how is this the you that is happier than he has ever been what does that say bzzz this is a failure of character bzzz bzzz bzzz), he looked up what you do when you have a bee infestation.
For absolutely no reason.
Anyway, if you have a bee infestation, you are supposed to call a beekeeper.
But that’s where his ability to continue the metaphor (simile? English was never his strongest class. He studied so hard, but no one ever really told him he had a strongest class, and he was afraid to assign one to himself because he couldn’t stand the idea of getting it wrong) ends, because there aren’t beekeepers for brain bees, are there?
No, there aren’t. There aren’t. There aren’t.
(Not the kind Gregory can afford, at least.)
+
He can’t sleep.
He’s always been an uneasy sleeper, but it’s gotten worse. He thinks it’s gotten worse.
The weight of expectations, of unconscionable mistakes, of standards he is terrified are impossible to reach, sometimes make the simple act of breathing feel insurmountable.
He sits up in bed, threads his fingers together, puts them behind his head, and presses down hard on his skull, rocking in place, and he’s numbingly alone and he can’t bring himself to imagine a world so close to his own where he isn’t because if he doesn’t get it he thinks he’ll lose his mind and he just can’t. He has too much to do.
He has a whole entire world to carry on his shoulders, and he has to do it all alone.
_______
Gregory’s hands are shaking.
His chest is constricting.
Why does this happen to him? It’s happened to him for a long time. His father used to yell at him when he saw.
Gregory said he couldn’t help it, once.
That was a mistake.
He should be able to help it. Help himself. No one else is gonna do it.
(You only get so much grace.)
He’s still at school. He hopes and prays that no one will see him. He can’t imagine a student seeing him like this. He’d never live that down.
Janine said the kiss meant nothing, but that was days ago. Why is it hurting him now?
(It hurt him then too.)
He also said it was nothing. Nothing, nothing, less than nothing, negative nothing—and did he really never tell Maurice he valued his friendship? Because he did. He did value his friendship. Maurice is such a chill guy. He made Gregory feel chill too, sometimes. Made him feel cool, even.
Comfortable.
Right. That’s why they were friends.
Has Maurice told their other friends about what happened? How Gregory fucked up?
He hasn’t checked any of the groupchats. He’s scared. Why is he so scared? He can’t be scared.
Janine said the kiss meant nothing.
Gregory is always turning back to look at her when they walk away from each other and every time he is hoping that Janine turned back too, that their eyes will meet and she’ll see, she’ll see that he—that he—that—
He’s never been in love. He’s been with his fair share of women—he knows he’s attractive and he takes pride in it because if he can’t be comfortable in his own skin he can at least pretend—but he’s never been in love.
He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that. He’s obviously never been in love. He’s still never been in love. There’s no one who really operates on his level. He’s never been in love, which is a good thing, because being in love is kind of torture and the kiss meant nothing.
The kiss meant nothing.
Janine pulled him back in for another one, so there were two kisses.
The kisses meant nothing.
They were the best first and second kisses he’s ever had.
He fucked up and sometimes he’s afraid that he is fucked up, and that is unacceptable, that is a failure of character, he let go and there is shame in letting go and the bees are buzzing buzzing buzzing and they’re stinging too, because his head hurts.
His vision is blurry.
The oozing panic must be getting all over his occipital lobe.
He can barely make out the million thoughts the bees are buzzing about, he just knows that they’re intolerable he can’t stand it he presses the heel of his hand to the side of his head and he is rocking back and forth which he is not supposed to do he is not supposed to do that bzzz bzzz bzzz Gregory Eddie what do you think you’re doing bzzz my son isn’t going to move like that bzzz stop stop stop—
His body lurches forwards and back. He is supposed to be better than this bzzz how could you do this at school bzzz you are such a bad example bzzz even when no one is looking at you, you are a bad example bzzz you have too much to do bzzz you do what you can but you should do more you should be more—
He thumps the heel of his hand against his temple as if that’ll dislodge something, calm the bees down for a moment. It kind of works. He does it again. Then again.
“Gregory?”
He didn’t even hear the door open. He’s in his classroom surrounded by drawings he is getting better at deciphering he’s getting better in so many ways what is this backsliding no it’s not backsliding because that would imply there’s something to backslide into he didn’t hear the door open he didn’t realize the door was closed fuck was the door even closed he’s having so much trouble breathing he’s making sounds that a man should not make—
“Gregory, sweetheart, don’t hurt yourself,” Barbara says, and her voice has the consistency of honey and the soothing coolness of a balm and sometimes he just wants someone to hold him, to hold the child he was, and he’s not hurting himself, that’s not the kind of thing even-keeled men do, he balls his hands into fists and he tucks them against his chest and there are tears running down his face and he doesn’t remember the last time he cried.
“Hey, Mrs. Howard,” he sobs out miserably, and then he says nothing else because there’s nothing else to say. He can barely hear anything over the bees.
My head hurts.
No.
It hurts in my head.
I don’t know how to do this.
I don’t know what this is.
Life is hard and I’m just supposed to deal with it and I feel like I’m failing and I can’t really handle failure that well either, can I?
Barbara strides over to him and her hands are rubbing his shoulders, comforting. He leans back against her, curls up against her as best as he can from his seated position, trying to imbue himself with some of her warmth, some of her calm, he knows now that she isn’t infallible but she still feels that way in this moment. He bets she’s never gotten like this in her whole life.
He’s breaking down and she’s holding him and he can’t remember the last time he broke down and somebody held him.
“Shhh, take some deep breaths, there you go, you’re doing great, sweetheart,” she’s saying, voice melodic and reassuring, and he feels only calm from her, no judgment.
I wish you’d been there when I was growing up, he swallows down, because that’s too much. That’s a thought he doesn’t want to even have, because if he has it it means he’s grieving and he doesn’t want to think about what he’s grieving for.
He’s shuddering, but his tears are slowing down, his chest is opening up, the humiliation is settling in his bones, but he doesn’t feel like he’s been electrocuted like he usually does after these—things. He doesn’t feel the same pain, though there is pain. But he doesn’t feel scared in the same way. Or alone in the same way. Because he’s not alone, and because everyone freaks out sometimes, that’s what Barbara would say, that’s what she will say, once they talk, and these are hard-earned lessons he will forget immediately, but for a fraction of a second, he almost feels okay.
Barbara has her hands on his shoulders, still, and she’s murmuring something. She’s praying, he realizes with a pang. She’s praying for him. He’s not sure why, or what about, and he’s never been religious, but he feels a little peace, a little infusion of strength from the sheer conviction of Barbara’s belief that this can help him, from the fact that she wants to help him.
He closes his eyes and, while he doesn’t fully process her words, they drip over him sweet and warm.
The bees aren’t buzzing nearly as loud. They get tired after these freak-outs, and he guesses even they respect Barbara Howard enough to pipe down when she speaks.
Gregory’s heart is beating at a normal pace.
His lungs are taking in enough air that he doesn’t feel like he’s dry-drowning.
And for a precious, fleeting moment, his brain is full of honey.