[narrative] we remember best the secrets we don't keep
the secret is this: you have always been different.
when you were five you were in love with ms. chote. she had light curly hair and a necklace made of red glass beads; they caught the sun when she stood by the window. you watched red light scatter like dandelion fluff, and when she laughed you smiled. when she did you could see her one silver tooth, which you liked because you thought it made her look daring and dangerous, the queen of somewhere far away where they still had pirates.
the week you started to fall asleep in class, her hand on your head was cool and her nails were pearls on your cheekbone. she asked you to stay after school and you thought, i can tell her. she'll make it better.
in the late afternoon the classroom was warm, and swirling specks of dust danced with the red light on the walls. was everything okay at home, she said, you've been quiet lately.
you said things were fine, and you were sorry, she was the best teacher you'd ever had (and maybe you loved her a little but you didn't say that) and you'd do better - but
yes, west?
her silver tooth and her red light said you could trust her (her laugh was like a hug - wide and warm, a little generosity you waited for every day) and you did.
you said: when we read i fall asleep.
her mouth was a comma and her eyes went wide, surprised tunnel o's. she said: west, are you having trouble reading?
no. no, because you have understood 'stop' on the red sign and 'ped x' and 'no swimming' since you could remember, even if you didn't always know what they meant, and when you read 'see spot run' you fell asleep because you were always finished so early and -
her mouth was a red slash on white skin and you remember the way she looked at you, like you were a slippery cell under glass, an abberation, a glitch in the perfect easy programming of 'see spot run' and how many apples you had to add to get five (and you knew that too, and if you had half as many apples how many oranges you'd need)
she said: west, i can't help you if you lie to me.
her silver tooth was sharp like a shark's, and her red light was a lie.
you said: i'm sorry. maybe you could help me with my reading.
and you learned how to keep a secret.
--
when you are 15 you fall asleep in class - once, then twice, then again. your guidance counselor is slim and quick and pretty; she paints the fingernails on one hand, but on the other three are short and pale like half-moons. her name is mrs. brosnahan and she looks back at you, tapping her pencil against her coffee mug: iowa state u. you look at your hands, watch them steady on your knees, denim cool under your palms.
she says: west, is everything okay at home? you look tired.
(at night you slide along the rooftops and drift by chimneys, you are curling smoke and a rush of falling leaves; there is poetry in the sky and the words are your hands, the spaces the still quiet hush of morning spilling over the world with you inside, above)
you say: sure. sure, just got a lot of homework.
(when you left ms. chote they had you tested, no one tells you what the results were because they're afraid you'll feel different from the other kids who don't get to choose their own books or design their own projects)
she says: you know if anything's going on you can tell me.
what you don't say is that you have a secret, and the secret is this: i can fly. it's crazy, but it's true and i don't expect you to believe me but there is so much i could show you.
you say: if i think of anything, i'll let you know. and you smile for her, slick and practiced, a twisted licorice rope of grin.
you know how to keep a secret, and the secret is this: sometimes, you're afraid you'll be different forever.