Turning Eighteen, Part Thirteen

I was so angry that I wanted to bust up the glass of the bathroom mirror. But I didn’t do that. I bent over the toilet instead and hurled my guts out. That’s how upset I was—my stomach was all in knots. The pizza I just ate kept coming up and up.Mr. Mendes knocked softly on the bathroom door. At first I didn’t answer him, but then he knocked on it again.“Leave me alone!” I managed, in between hurling.I could hear him sigh, even through the door. “Are you alright?” he asked.“I’m fine,” I said. “Just leave me alone!”“Ok,” he said. “For a couple of minutes, anyway. I’m going to walk Monica out. When I get back, we’ll talk, ok?”“Fine,” I snapped.I heard him walking away—and then I heard Tybalt’s footsteps following him. The stupid dog must have been hoping for a walk.When I finished hurling I flushed the toilet and then washed out my mouth. Then I sat down on the toilet and put my head in my hands. Monica was right—Mr. Mendes was crazy to get involved with me. I was no where near as smart as him. How was I supposed to keep his attention? Even I knew that looks could only get me so far.I remembered the time when I found out that I was slow. I remember the exact moment. I was sitting outside the principal’s office when I was in second grade. My Mom was angry and frustrated at whatever the principal told her. I can remember what she said back: “I don’t want to meet with a Special Ed teacher! I want a son who’s normal!”I don’t think she knew I could hear her. Even she wouldn’t have said that to my face. But I never forgot it.That’s when I first started hearing about dyslexia and test scores. I kept having to take these tests over and over. And they all said the same thing: my IQ was lower than average. The dyslexia doesn’t affect my IQ—I know that. They’re two separate problems. But they both suck.I remembered something else too: one time, during detention--this was when I was a sophmore--I asked Mr. Mendes why he wanted to teach retarded kids. Kids like me.He gave me a serious look. “You’re not retarded, Jason,” he said. "Mental retardation is a different set of challenges from what you have to deal with."“My IQ’s below average,” I reminded him.“A little,” he agreed. “But only a little—not low enough to be considered mentally retarded. And a couple of IQ points here or there don’t make a difference, believe me.”I thought about that. “I’m dyslexic too,” I said—just in case he had forgot. “My Mom was real upset when she found out I was dyslexic and slow.”Mr. Mendes gave me a half-smile. “Dyslexia won’t make your life any easier,” he admitted. “But it’s not related to your intelligence and, besides, you’re learning how to compensate for it.”He paused and gave me this stern look. “Jason, you’ve got a bad habit of selling yourself short. There’s no reason you can’t go on to college and a good career. Or, knowing you, maybe you’ll go to a specialized school and become a chef or an artist.”I don’t remember what I said back at that point. But I do remember this feeling I got—I don’t know how to describe it. This satisfied feeling, I guess. Sometimes when I’m with Mr. Mendes I can almost believe that I’m not stupid.There was a knock at the door again. This time I got up and opened it. Mr. Mendes was standing there.“Hey,” he said.“Hey,” I said back.“How are you?” he asked.I shrugged.“Monica went home,” he said. “She wanted to apologize for what she said—but I thought now might not be the best time.”I stared at him. “She has nothing to apologize for,” I said at last. “She just called it like she saw it. And she’s right—I am slow. Compared to you, at least.”He shook his head. “Jason, we’ve been over this before—”“What are you going to do when I can’t talk about the stuff you like?” I asked. “You like to have debates about—about history and politics and things like that.”He didn’t answer that. He held out his hand instead. “Will you come into the living room with me?” he asked.I stood there for a minute, but then I shrugged again and took his hand. He led me back to the couch. We both sat down, facing each other.He looked me in the eye as he spoke. “My last boyfriend was every bit as well-read and intellectual as me,” he said. “Probably more so. And it was a disaster.”I was surprised by that. “Why?” I asked.“Because he was such a keen debater,” he answered. “Everything became a debate--and everything was a competition. I like to argue, Jason, but not every second of my life. I get enough of it, believe me, from my father and my sister. The last thing I want to do is debate with my lover too.”I tried to take that in. “So, are you saying that you’re glad I’m slow?” I asked.He rolled his eyes. “You’re not slow,” he said. “I wish you’d get that thought out of your head. Let’s say I’m glad that you’re good at things I’m not. I can’t find my way around the kitchen. I can’t draw. I can’t even put an outfit together—that’s a hard thing to confess as a gay man, but there it is.”That got a smile out of me. “I can help you dress better,” I admitted.“Thank God,” he said, smiling back. But then his face got serious again. “Jason, you might want to ask yourself if you’ll get bored of me. I can’t talk about sketches or cooking.”“I don’t care,” I said. “God, we’ve known each other for four years and we’ve never had trouble talking to each other. We always talk.”“Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “We do.”I reached out and took his hand again. “Where’s Tybalt?” I asked. “I think he wanted to go for a walk.”“He’s out in the yard,” Mr. Mendes answered. “He’s happy right now—I’ll clean up after him later. Want to finish watching the game?”I nodded. “Ok.”He grabbed the remote and turned the TV back on. Then he swung his legs up on the couch and settled himself in my arms. His head was leaning against my chest.I was surprised—it felt weird to be holding him the way I always pictured him holding me. But it was weird in a good way. We both shifted a little so that I could lie down too. And then I started stroking his hair as we watched the game.I was a little sorry that Monica wasn’t still here. She should have seen us like this—totally comfortable with each other. Then maybe she would have thought that I was ok for her brother, even if I wasn’t as smart.At some point I started wondering about my reward—you know, about him spanking my ass. I wasn’t sure if he thought I had earned it or not. I was pretty good, all things considered. I did lose my temper a little, but I didn’t yell at Monica and I didn’t break anything.But I decided not to ask him about the reward. Either he’d give it to me later or he wouldn’t. Right now I was too relaxed and comfortable to care