Page 5 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
I don’t really consider Oscar homophobic or anything (I think his older sister is a lesbian, but he never talks about it), but he’s always saying, “That’s so gay,” or “That’s gay, dude,” or just “gay!” Other people have criticized him about it, andhe says, “Sorry, sorry.” But within minutes, he’ll be watching a music video on YouTube and be all like, “Bro, that’s so gay.” Apparently, even after celebrating his eighteenth birthday and being closer to adulthood, habits are hard to break.
Oscar is Cuban American. Both his parents came from Cuba many years ago, and he was born in California. He’s got straight dark brown hair and a smooth, angular face. Sometimes I catch myself stealing glances at the short hairs that run up and down his long legs whenever he’s wearing shorts. (He’s also on the track team.)
“‘Sup, Oscar?” I ask.
“Not ready for this test. You read it?”
“The play? Yeah. You didn’t?”
Oscar smirks. “I found the movie version on YouTube, so I just watched that.”
“How are you even in AP English, dude?”
“I dunno. My sister helped me with all my papers the last few years, so I tricked people into thinking I’m smart.”
“Youaresmart though.“ I don’t mean it, but I say it because I don’t like it when people cut themselves down.
“Nah,” says Oscar. “Not AP smart. Imma fail this thing.”
Mr. Hilton walks into the room, and there’s an energy about him that always commands attention. All the students look ahead, sit up straight.
He starts passing out the test, a series of essay questions aboutThe Seagull. When I flip through it, a sinking feeling bubbles up inside of me.
After reading the play and listening to Mr. Hilton talk about it in class, I’ve made an effort to think deeply about the characters and the plot. But most of the questions on this test are about the play’s themes and motifs. What the hell? Man, ifI’mscrewed, then this whole class is screwed.
A few minutes into the test, struggling to not write stupid things, I notice this guy in the front, in the seat closest to the door, Liam. He’s writing at a furious pace, the pencil in his hand scraping across the paper so hard that I can hear it all the way in the back. He looks like he’s possessed, like the words are just pouring out of him, as if he’s channeling them from deep within. He’s also really cute. (And straight, I believe, because I think he has a girlfriend, a skinny girl named Lucy.)
Oscar, Liam: thinking about them is healthy. I find myself doing it, daydreaming about other guys, more and more, which is great, because it means I’m thinking about my brother less and less.
My mind wanders back to this test. God, this test. This dumb test.
When the bell rings, I’m just finishing up the last question. But I realize that it probably doesn’t matter if I finish or not. Just like Oscar, “Imma fail this thing.”
Out in the hallway, I hear my name being called.
I turn around to see my girlfriend approaching me, a serious look on her face.
“Hey, Emma,” I say.
“Can I talk to you?” she asks, her hand playing with her long blond hair nervously.
It seems as if she wants to have a deep conversation. I don’t answer right away because my third-period class, History, is way on the other side of campus and Mrs. Mortimer gets visibly angry when people are late. Like, her face turns into the color of a tomato.
“Now?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
We duck into a stairwell.
I put my hand on Emma’s shoulder, give it a gentle, comforting squeeze. “‘Sup?”
She bites her lower lip. “I think it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
Emma waits for a group of Magic: The Gathering kids to walk by. Then: “I want to . . . do it.”
I’ve been dreading this moment. Emma and I have been dating for about six months now. We spend a lot of time together, talk a lot, have fun. Sometimes we’ll kiss and make out (she always initiates), and I think I’ve convinced her that I’m into it because, when we do, I manage to come across as passionate. (That’s because when we kiss I close my eyes, think about guys, and pretend she’s someone else.)
