Free Openly Straight by Bill Konigsberg Page A

feel like being in that godforsaken dorm yet.”
    Ben sighed. “I’ll come back to pick you up,” he said. “Call when you’re ready, okay?”
    “Okay,” Bryce responded.
    I tried to focus on Bryce. He was a nice-looking guy, really smart. The kind of person who probably would be cool to talk to.
    “I wanna get to know you,” I blurted.
    Bryce considered this. “Okay,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if it was an okay like “Okay, this guy is a moron,” or “Okay, this guy is a fraud,” or “Okay.”
    “Okay,” I said. “I will look forward to that, Bryce Hixon.”
    And Ben laughed, and Bryce smiled a little, and I knew I’d struck the right note as the earnest drunk guy.

    Ben drove an old Chevy that smelled a little like vinegar inside. We listened to jazz music and watched the Natick night float by as we drove.
    “Vomit is verboten in Gretchen,” he said.
    “Gretchen?”
    “I call her Gretchen,” he explained, patting the dashboard, and I snorted. “So. No throwing up, okay?”
    “I promise,” I muttered, as the streets rolled by. “Gretchen.”
    We were silent, listening to the strange chord progressions of the trumpets and saxophones. I was never a big jazz guy.
    “I can’t quite figure you out,” I finally said.
    “Huh,” Ben said, after a short silence. “What’s to figure out?”
    “Where you fit in, in the general, um, scheme of things at Natick?” The car was spinning, and I knew I was saying stuff I wouldn’t say sober. It felt good, in a way. Less guarded. “You’re quiet like Bryce. And also Robinson is quiet. I guess it’s okay to be a jock and just not say anything. Steve and Zack talk all the time and everyone listens to them, but they’re not smart like us. Maybe I’ll be the quiet type like you and Bryce and Robinson.”
    “Why do I have to be a type?” he asked.
    I shot up in my seat. “Exactly!” I exclaimed, and then I hid my eyes, because the spinning was too much. I could hear Ben laughing.
    “You’re a mess,” he said.
    I ignored the comment. “Exactly about the types. I am not a type. I am so tired of being a type.”
    “I hear you,” he said, exhaling. “I guess at first look I’m a jock, right? Except on the inside, I’m about a million things before I’d even get to the fact that I can throw or kick a ball. Like, who in their right mind would ever label themselves because of something so meaningless?”
    “Right,” I said, working extra hard to stay with him because he was saying interesting things and I was shitfaced.
    “In New Hampshire I was labeled a nerd because I got good grades and I liked to read books. No one out there really cared if I was a good athlete. It was like, Ben Carver is a nerd because he talks about ideas. I was born in the wrong place, I guess. And then I come here, and I get labeled something else, and because it’s not negative, I buy into it, you know?”
    “I know!” I shouted, and then I covered my mouth because I was afraid I was actually going to do the one thing he told me not to do in his female car.
    He shot me a warning look.
    “I’m good,” I said. “I promise.”
    “My parents had no idea in the world Natick even existed. I did all this. Well, my uncle helped. He was pretty much my saving grace growing up. Unlike my parents, who don’t believe in talking about anything, he was a talker. He really taught me how to share my feelings, if that’s not too weird to say.”
    “Not too weird for me,” I replied.
    He glanced my way again and nodded. “Well, anyway, he understood why I had to get away. My dad’s a farmer. If it were up to him, I’d follow in his footsteps. But that’s not for me. So I put up with all this upper-class bullshit because you know what? I deserve a chance at a good education and a good life. You know?”
    I nodded and nodded and nodded. We had so much in common and I couldn’t even tell him. I also had done the footwork to get to Natick. I too had come here to shed a