Unthoughts
Several times a day I find myself looking at my hands, in class (pay attention, Jesse, participate), in the middle of typing something up, in the hallway while someone I've been talking to turns away to talk to somebody else (meet people halfway, Jesse, smile and the world smiles with you). I don't remember biting my nails, but there they are, torn off ragged at the quick. I look at the lines in my palms, and the murky blue veins that stand out on my wrists, and I don't think about what I could do.
I can spend fifteen minutes at a time not thinking about that, because it takes all my concentration; and while I'm busy not thinking about it, I don't think about anything else, either, and that's good. Don't think.
Don't think about grades getting worse because you are too busy to study very hard, what with all the things you have to not think about, and what they'll say at home when they hear. Don't think about what you'll have to answer, and you'll have to answer (look at me when I'm talking to you, boy) and no words come to mind except I'm sorry and even those don't come out right. Don't think about the guy down in Massachusetts maybe at this very moment in bed with somebody, on a Friday evening, some Michael, some John, some Casey with confidence written all over him, who looks him in the eye and doesn't trip over his own tongue; don't think about the ten thousand things you could have done or said or not done or not said to be that one. Still.
And don't, on any account, don't think about the one who kissed you on five minutes acquaintance, and you let him, because you're just that damned pathetic. Don't think about how close you came to being happy, or about what you saw and heard and surmised, and how your roommate almost caught you in tears.
(Come on now, Jesse, you're a big boy, aren't you?)
I don't think about these things because there isn't any point. It's not Alan's fault if I made a fool of myself over him just because he was nice to me; not Ethan's fault if he doesn't have the patience to put up with me or whatever was wrong that I never understood. Not Grandpa's fault I don't belong here, with the star athletes and the cheerleaders, the beautiful girls that nothing can touch and the beautiful boys I'm scared even to look at, the brilliant people and the people who know what they want.
And above all I don't think how easy it would be. How simple. How helpful for everyone concerned. A little pain, a little mess, a little scandal, and then no more trouble from me, ever. I'm not as naive as everyone seems to think, and I'm not stupid enough to find the idea romantic. Just... easy.
So I don't think about it. I just go on drifting: class, hallway, room. It's all I ever knew how to do.