10-09-2007, 02:56 PM
Somewhere along his second helping of mashed potatoes, Miles glimpsed a grin bounce between his father and Derek, his elder brother by two years. Deciding he would be better off not knowing, Miles ignored it and speared another hot dog with his fork. Dinner continued on without major incident (though Derek seemed in a jolly mood), and before long, all three of them had their fill. Derek rose to add his to the precarious pile already in the sink, but as Miles made to do the same, his father called him back to his chair.
“Miles, don’t run off yet. I need to speak with you.”
The emphasis he placed on the word ‘speak’ was accompanied with another shared grin, the same which Miles had not been invited for earlier. Warily, Miles set his plate back down at the table and resumed his seat as Derek slipped into the living room to watch the television.
“Son,” Miles’s father began, “now that you’re thirteen, it’s time we talked, just us. You’re developing into a man, and I couldn’t be happier.”
Miles wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or frightened.
“It’s been at least a year since you’ve said ‘girls are icky’. You’re growing up, and with that, it’s important you understand what’s happening.”
The conversation that followed was unlike anything Miles had ever been subjected to before. With a brother like Derek, none of it was new information, but a certain degree of embarrassment settled upon the table, and Miles’ stared at various objects on the table as he fidgeted in his chair. When his father finished, a half-minute silence hung in the air. Miles felt as though he should say something, but his father had already said everything (and then some). Yet, somehow, his father found a conclusion.
“You’re entering the greatest era of your life. Tap into that, enjoy it. Here, I’ve got a little something for you.”
With that, his father rose from the table, grabbed a gift-box from the top of the refrigerator, and handed it to Miles.
“There you go. My father gave me a package like that, and now I’m giving one to you. Welcome to the world of men, son.”
Miles’s hands were numb as he slowly picked at the tape so as not to rip the paper. As he got everything off that came off, and everything opened that could be opened, he surveyed the contents, and his eyes got wide. A dirty magazine, barely hidden behind a red, cellophane sheath. And as he stared into that box, horrified, his father leaned back in his chair, apparently lost in pleasant memories.
- - - -
“Miles,” a sing-song voice quipped.
Miles stopped pretending to sleep, and looked up into his brother’s devilish grin.
“Welcome to the club, bro. C’mon, let’s go,” Derek said, romping out the door.
Miles sighed, wishing he could just stay beneath the covers and sleep the tension away. And yet, at the same time, he could not keep his feet from curiosity.
Derek’s room was laid out with purpose. Furniture had been reorganized and placed against the walls, leaving a large, open space in the floor. And there, Derek assumed his position of command, waving his hands wide in respect to various articles stacked neatly at either side. Pornographic books and magazines were displayed to the left, nude posters and figurines were displayed to the right. Miles had never realized just how large Derek’s dirty collection actually was. And standing amidst it all, beckoning towards the items with a sense of invitation was Derek.
“This, Miles, is the world as I know it. This is puberty. This is what it means to be a Snickling.”
Snickling. Miles hated his last name; it was the subject of degrading schoolyard jokes, and the basis of humiliation. ‘Sickling’, some of them would say, or ‘Snicker’. Most of them just stuck to “Snickling” however, and laced it with enough venom that their point was taken. Even a few teachers got a raw joy out of it. But no matter how much he tried to distance himself from the surname, his family was all the friendship he ever had. If he wasn’t a Snickling, who was he?
Miles wandered towards the left, flipped open a magazine cover, caught a glimpse of its innards, and hastily let the cover drop. It was all so perfect, so shameless, so free. Unnatural. Morally wrong.
Behind him, Derek approached, coughing slightly to break Miles out of his reverie.
“Of course, everything in this room is my own personal property. I imagine Dad gave you a start for your own collection? Right, he did the same for me; that issue right over there, actually. Anyway, as I said, this is an important start for you. There’s a bit of an initiation. You have to do something drastic. Me, I lit my old journal on fire. Remember that? Heckuva good flame.”
Miles squirmed. Derek took a step closer. Miles squirmed even more. This was not exactly comfort. Miles had never seen himself as a drastic sort of person. The extent of his daredevilish stunts was climbing trees, hanging from a branch a good ten feet off the ground, and dropping to the grass. Destruction for destruction’s sake was a horrible, horrible thought.
Apparently noting Miles’s unease, Derek took the opportunity to make a suggestion.
“Your belt. You’ve had that ever since Mom left, right? I’d say that’d about do. Take it off.”
Mother. Memory from those days was quite hazy, and the only connection he had to those old times was through a few key objects he had gotten on that last Christmas, one of which was the belt. She had always gotten him nice things. He wore it everywhere and with every outfit, even if it wasn’t necessary. Miles knew next-to-nothing about his mother, and thus, allowed himself a few eccentricities in her honor.
So, when Derek suggested the belt’s destruction, Miles ran back to his bed, threw the covers over his head, and gripped the sides of the bed. No way he was leaving the bed until morning. Breathlessly he waited for Derek to return, but he did not. Eventually, Miles slipped into a shifting sleep.
- - - -
The next morning began like any other, with no reference to the events or suggestions of the night before. His father remained buried behind a newspaper for most of breakfast, while Derek had left early to drive his latest relationship to school. Miles did not utter a word until the school bus came.
It was a horrid school day. Both of his good friends were out sick, and with no one to sit with during lunch, he had found an out-of-the-way corner to while the time away. As he sat there, nibbling on a pre-cooked chicken patty and making absolutely nothing of his time, a girl from a grade above him sat a few in the chair across from him and offered a smiling “Hello.” At this point, Miles knew it was fate. From that point forward, he was at her side for lunch, class, and bus rides. Her name was Sierra, and he knew of no word more beautiful. They began passing notes to one another, writing of classmates who needed deodorant, and sunny days, and who was dating whom. The most recent led to “Hey, let’s date”, and before long, they were spending even more time together out-of-class than in class. A small park was well within walking distance of the school, and nearly every day, both of them would go to the gazebo and do homework. Miles could not remember a time when he seemed more complete, and the more time he spent with Sierra, the less he thought of his father’s advice.
- - - -
The first kiss came unexpectedly. They were both sitting in the gazebo, working on pre-algebra. Then, somewhere amidst the small talk, Sierra leaned in and set Miles’s lips on fire. It was powerful, but it was brief. Miles maintained a look of surprise while Sierra smiled and returned to her math. Miles did not question it, and Sierra did not explain. From this day on, each of their homework dates had at least one kiss in this fashion, prompted by Sierra, and totally unexpected.
One day, Miles decided to beat her to it, and this time, it was not so brief. All pretense of homework was thrown to the ground, and Miles thought of was her face. And as the temperature under the gazebo rose, the image he had seen in Derek’s magazine flashed before his eyes. But this time, it lingered.
- - - -
Words could not describe the shame Miles felt that night, after realizing where his thoughts had gone, and how much he had wished his hands had followed suit. Completely disturbed with himself, he avoided Sierra’s eyes for a full week, and went straight home after school, with only the hastiest of good-byes left for Sierra. She was a vibrant soul, however, and one day, she cornered him in the male restroom, begging him to talk to her.
It was a typical public bathroom, in that absolutely everything was soaked with water, and the plumbing groaned with loud, angry overtones whenever someone flushed. Toilet paper clung to the lower edges of the walls, and at least one urinal was clogged at any one time. It was Miles’s favorite bathroom on the first floor, and as they had once talked about this in a previous letter, Sierra knew exactly where to go. After Miles relieved himself in a stall, he walked towards the sinks and there, with warm water running freely over his hands, Sierra confronted him.
Sierra cried and yelled, while Miles merely listened. Ten minutes later, when she’d said everything she had wanted to say, and he had done all the nodding his neck would allow, she pinned him on the wall and kissed him. Once again, the image settled into his mind, and they remained in a bathroom stall for the rest of the school day.
- - - -
Miles splashed water on his face, washed himself off, and took a long look in the mirror. His clothes lay in a heap on the floor, except his belt which was clenched tightly in his right hand. A pair of scissors were placed on the sink, their blades open in wait. He had been there for an hour, sorting over the elements of his life. It was clear Sierra was becoming more and more physical, both in her approach, and his own thought of her. While they kissed, hands were reaching select spots and lingering. A decision had to be made.
He vomited into the toilet, the third time that evening. His will was weakening along with his constitution. His fingers absentmindedly stroked the sides of the belt, as he reflected over the meaning of the belt, the meaning of his girlfriend, and his own sexuality. He punched the wall, hoping to relieve some stress. It didn’t.
Scissors, in his left hand. Belt, in the right. The threshold approached. As his fingers quivered in anticipation, the haunting image from Derek’s magazine once again flashed through his mind, only this time, it was Sierra in the pose. Miles clamped down hard on the belt as the sharp blades sliced through the leather, letting the buckle-end fall to the linoleum with a dull thud.
That night, Miles slept like a baby.
“Miles, don’t run off yet. I need to speak with you.”
The emphasis he placed on the word ‘speak’ was accompanied with another shared grin, the same which Miles had not been invited for earlier. Warily, Miles set his plate back down at the table and resumed his seat as Derek slipped into the living room to watch the television.
“Son,” Miles’s father began, “now that you’re thirteen, it’s time we talked, just us. You’re developing into a man, and I couldn’t be happier.”
Miles wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or frightened.
“It’s been at least a year since you’ve said ‘girls are icky’. You’re growing up, and with that, it’s important you understand what’s happening.”
The conversation that followed was unlike anything Miles had ever been subjected to before. With a brother like Derek, none of it was new information, but a certain degree of embarrassment settled upon the table, and Miles’ stared at various objects on the table as he fidgeted in his chair. When his father finished, a half-minute silence hung in the air. Miles felt as though he should say something, but his father had already said everything (and then some). Yet, somehow, his father found a conclusion.
“You’re entering the greatest era of your life. Tap into that, enjoy it. Here, I’ve got a little something for you.”
With that, his father rose from the table, grabbed a gift-box from the top of the refrigerator, and handed it to Miles.
“There you go. My father gave me a package like that, and now I’m giving one to you. Welcome to the world of men, son.”
Miles’s hands were numb as he slowly picked at the tape so as not to rip the paper. As he got everything off that came off, and everything opened that could be opened, he surveyed the contents, and his eyes got wide. A dirty magazine, barely hidden behind a red, cellophane sheath. And as he stared into that box, horrified, his father leaned back in his chair, apparently lost in pleasant memories.
- - - -
“Miles,” a sing-song voice quipped.
Miles stopped pretending to sleep, and looked up into his brother’s devilish grin.
“Welcome to the club, bro. C’mon, let’s go,” Derek said, romping out the door.
Miles sighed, wishing he could just stay beneath the covers and sleep the tension away. And yet, at the same time, he could not keep his feet from curiosity.
Derek’s room was laid out with purpose. Furniture had been reorganized and placed against the walls, leaving a large, open space in the floor. And there, Derek assumed his position of command, waving his hands wide in respect to various articles stacked neatly at either side. Pornographic books and magazines were displayed to the left, nude posters and figurines were displayed to the right. Miles had never realized just how large Derek’s dirty collection actually was. And standing amidst it all, beckoning towards the items with a sense of invitation was Derek.
“This, Miles, is the world as I know it. This is puberty. This is what it means to be a Snickling.”
Snickling. Miles hated his last name; it was the subject of degrading schoolyard jokes, and the basis of humiliation. ‘Sickling’, some of them would say, or ‘Snicker’. Most of them just stuck to “Snickling” however, and laced it with enough venom that their point was taken. Even a few teachers got a raw joy out of it. But no matter how much he tried to distance himself from the surname, his family was all the friendship he ever had. If he wasn’t a Snickling, who was he?
Miles wandered towards the left, flipped open a magazine cover, caught a glimpse of its innards, and hastily let the cover drop. It was all so perfect, so shameless, so free. Unnatural. Morally wrong.
Behind him, Derek approached, coughing slightly to break Miles out of his reverie.
“Of course, everything in this room is my own personal property. I imagine Dad gave you a start for your own collection? Right, he did the same for me; that issue right over there, actually. Anyway, as I said, this is an important start for you. There’s a bit of an initiation. You have to do something drastic. Me, I lit my old journal on fire. Remember that? Heckuva good flame.”
Miles squirmed. Derek took a step closer. Miles squirmed even more. This was not exactly comfort. Miles had never seen himself as a drastic sort of person. The extent of his daredevilish stunts was climbing trees, hanging from a branch a good ten feet off the ground, and dropping to the grass. Destruction for destruction’s sake was a horrible, horrible thought.
Apparently noting Miles’s unease, Derek took the opportunity to make a suggestion.
“Your belt. You’ve had that ever since Mom left, right? I’d say that’d about do. Take it off.”
Mother. Memory from those days was quite hazy, and the only connection he had to those old times was through a few key objects he had gotten on that last Christmas, one of which was the belt. She had always gotten him nice things. He wore it everywhere and with every outfit, even if it wasn’t necessary. Miles knew next-to-nothing about his mother, and thus, allowed himself a few eccentricities in her honor.
So, when Derek suggested the belt’s destruction, Miles ran back to his bed, threw the covers over his head, and gripped the sides of the bed. No way he was leaving the bed until morning. Breathlessly he waited for Derek to return, but he did not. Eventually, Miles slipped into a shifting sleep.
- - - -
The next morning began like any other, with no reference to the events or suggestions of the night before. His father remained buried behind a newspaper for most of breakfast, while Derek had left early to drive his latest relationship to school. Miles did not utter a word until the school bus came.
It was a horrid school day. Both of his good friends were out sick, and with no one to sit with during lunch, he had found an out-of-the-way corner to while the time away. As he sat there, nibbling on a pre-cooked chicken patty and making absolutely nothing of his time, a girl from a grade above him sat a few in the chair across from him and offered a smiling “Hello.” At this point, Miles knew it was fate. From that point forward, he was at her side for lunch, class, and bus rides. Her name was Sierra, and he knew of no word more beautiful. They began passing notes to one another, writing of classmates who needed deodorant, and sunny days, and who was dating whom. The most recent led to “Hey, let’s date”, and before long, they were spending even more time together out-of-class than in class. A small park was well within walking distance of the school, and nearly every day, both of them would go to the gazebo and do homework. Miles could not remember a time when he seemed more complete, and the more time he spent with Sierra, the less he thought of his father’s advice.
- - - -
The first kiss came unexpectedly. They were both sitting in the gazebo, working on pre-algebra. Then, somewhere amidst the small talk, Sierra leaned in and set Miles’s lips on fire. It was powerful, but it was brief. Miles maintained a look of surprise while Sierra smiled and returned to her math. Miles did not question it, and Sierra did not explain. From this day on, each of their homework dates had at least one kiss in this fashion, prompted by Sierra, and totally unexpected.
One day, Miles decided to beat her to it, and this time, it was not so brief. All pretense of homework was thrown to the ground, and Miles thought of was her face. And as the temperature under the gazebo rose, the image he had seen in Derek’s magazine flashed before his eyes. But this time, it lingered.
- - - -
Words could not describe the shame Miles felt that night, after realizing where his thoughts had gone, and how much he had wished his hands had followed suit. Completely disturbed with himself, he avoided Sierra’s eyes for a full week, and went straight home after school, with only the hastiest of good-byes left for Sierra. She was a vibrant soul, however, and one day, she cornered him in the male restroom, begging him to talk to her.
It was a typical public bathroom, in that absolutely everything was soaked with water, and the plumbing groaned with loud, angry overtones whenever someone flushed. Toilet paper clung to the lower edges of the walls, and at least one urinal was clogged at any one time. It was Miles’s favorite bathroom on the first floor, and as they had once talked about this in a previous letter, Sierra knew exactly where to go. After Miles relieved himself in a stall, he walked towards the sinks and there, with warm water running freely over his hands, Sierra confronted him.
Sierra cried and yelled, while Miles merely listened. Ten minutes later, when she’d said everything she had wanted to say, and he had done all the nodding his neck would allow, she pinned him on the wall and kissed him. Once again, the image settled into his mind, and they remained in a bathroom stall for the rest of the school day.
- - - -
Miles splashed water on his face, washed himself off, and took a long look in the mirror. His clothes lay in a heap on the floor, except his belt which was clenched tightly in his right hand. A pair of scissors were placed on the sink, their blades open in wait. He had been there for an hour, sorting over the elements of his life. It was clear Sierra was becoming more and more physical, both in her approach, and his own thought of her. While they kissed, hands were reaching select spots and lingering. A decision had to be made.
He vomited into the toilet, the third time that evening. His will was weakening along with his constitution. His fingers absentmindedly stroked the sides of the belt, as he reflected over the meaning of the belt, the meaning of his girlfriend, and his own sexuality. He punched the wall, hoping to relieve some stress. It didn’t.
Scissors, in his left hand. Belt, in the right. The threshold approached. As his fingers quivered in anticipation, the haunting image from Derek’s magazine once again flashed through his mind, only this time, it was Sierra in the pose. Miles clamped down hard on the belt as the sharp blades sliced through the leather, letting the buckle-end fall to the linoleum with a dull thud.
That night, Miles slept like a baby.
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