Harvey, math teacher and also track coach, with a stopwatch. I squinted between silver bleachers toward the track field, and even though it wasn’t track season yet, there was one guy running like he was being chased-and there was Mr. We bummed cigarettes off whoever had the fullest pack. We wore combat boots under our slacks and liked to talk music. Another girl called him “a dream.”Īfter school, I met up with the other punk kids under the bleachers. One of the football cheerleaders a table over said he was some kind of track star, won State at his last school. Even though Vince, Timmy, and me tended to sit alone at lunch, it was hard to miss the high-pitched whispers when Jason Kemp walked in. Word traveled fast that day at Hinckley High. I ignored him, but it was hard not to notice he wore cologne. Jason wasn’t discouraged, because when he sat, he greeted me and even introduced himself as if he hadn’t just told the whole class his name. When Harvey said, “Take the empty desk next to Shawn,” I hid behind my hand and sneered like Billy Idol. He introduced himself and didn’t sound nervous. His school uniform-navy blue slacks, white dress shirt, blue blazer, and red and yellow striped tie-all of it looked perfect. He had curly blond hair and blue eyes like some Nazi recruit.
Jason was the pretty boy hero in every John Hughes romance. I had a solid A- when Jason Kemp walked in the first week of class. He was this big bald guy who told everyone, first day, “Nobody gets above a C in my class,” which just made kids want to bust their asses even harder to prove him wrong. Instead, I hated him the moment he walked into Mr. Nobody wants to change schools their senior year, so I could have felt bad for the guy. He showed up earlier this year, a senior at a new school. I keep watching Jason and think I’d like to wipe his blood all over me. He doesn’t look up at me, but I keep watching as we hurry from the scene of the crime.
#LISTEN TO I HATE MYSELF FOR LOVING YOU SKIN#
Jason rolls onto his side in the dirt and wipes at the split skin below his right eye. They yell about catching Jason’s “gay disease,” named by some mad scientists a couple years back in ‘82. Instead, coward that I am, my boys keep going until they see blood. I think I should tell them to stop-scream it even. Timmy shoves him over and joins him in the dirt.
Vince punches him again, and this time Jason lands on his knees in his perfectly pressed school uniform. Jason barely makes a noise, just calls me a “son of a bitch” over Vince’s shoulder. I taste blood in my mouth as I wipe my lip and watch. Lucky I have my pals with me to pull him back, so by the time I stand up, Vince and Timmy are thrashing on Jason like they want to break his ribs one at a time. I’ve been in a couple fights, but Jason Kemp can hit hard, and as I eat dirt, I wonder how many fights he’s been in. He even throws the first punch, which I think is out of character for the rich bitch star of our high school track team, headed to Yale come fall. I don’t know how he figured it was me who told the school he had AIDS, but he found out-and finds me under the bleachers, smoking a cigarette.
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