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Right?

Recently there was a newspaper article about New Jersey high school football players accused of sodomizing freshmen with Popsicles until they melted. Within jock circles at this school, it was a fairly well-known hazing ritual. To be chosen as a Popsicle Player was a bizarre honor. It meant the upperclassmen saw you as one of the most promising athletes, who therefore needed to be put in his place. As I read the story, I found it unbelievable that someone would subject himself to such humiliation just for the sake of belonging.

But as I sat there, gripping my dildo, it didn't seem all that strange anymore. I had tried all month to be True. But it turns out that I don't have it in me. And never will.

“And now,” Ms. Sheridan announced. “Oral techniques!”

Before I got up, before I grabbed my backpack and walked out the door, before I headed to the train station to get on the bus that is bringing me back to the place that I should have never left to begin with, I said, “I'm not giving head to get ahead.”

I think it's the first truth I've told all month long.

Of course, no one responded. Their mouths were full.

I can't wait to tell Marcus this story in person. He'll be proud.

At least I hope he will be.

* * *

July 31st

Dear Hope,

Who knew that snarking could weigh so heavily on my psyche? And here I was, all this time, living with the grand illusion that you were the nice one.

Thank you for trying to make me feel better about my short and undistinguished journalism career. I see your point about how all experiences are learning experiences, therefore nothing is a total waste of time, etc. But the thing is, I doubt the staff has even noticed my departure, if they were aware of my presence at all.

I didn't do anything cool in the city because I was too poor. And I didn't bond with my sister and niece because I was too preoccupied by their fucked-up family dynamic. (Let's just say that after seeing the state of Bethany and G-Money's nonunion, it makes me wonder why gays are lobbying so hard for the right to marry.) So in spite of your wise assurances, I can't shake the feeling that this month could have been better spent.

Yes, this has much to do with Marcus. If I'd come away with a byline, or a recommendation, or a paid internship in the fall, I'd feel better. But it upsets me to think I willingly chose to spend time away from him and now have nothing to show for it but a fake ID. It's strange how a three-week separation from Marcus was somehow harder than not seeing him at all last semester. Maybe it's easier when he's in California and there's no chance of us getting together. When he's in New Jersey, being with him is always within the realm of possibility, so it's like, Why aren't we?

I miss you, too.

Tragically, hiply yours,

J.

* * *

the fifth

I haven't written for one reason: Reunion sex rocks.

Today was the first brilliantly sunny day since I've been home, so Marcus and I left his bedroom and took the ten-minute drive—past the sketchy motels and junky souvenir shops, the greasy fast-food drive-throughs and run-down bait and tackle shacks—to the beach. Tuesdays are generally good beach days because the weekend bennies are back in the boroughs and the cleanup crews have had a day to rid the sand of their cigarette butts, bottlecaps, and used condoms.

It's been more than a week, but I'm still reeling from my True fiasco. For the first time in my life, I'm grateful that Pineville is so hicks-in-the-sticks. When the new issue of True comes out with Hy's-but-should-rightfully-be-my essay, I won't be confronted by my failure on the checkout line at the SuperFoodtown.

“I really thought that True would be cool,” I said this afternoon. “I really thought I'd be happy there.”

“That was your first mistake,” Marcus replied as he drew circles around my belly button with his fingertip. I shivered with the recent memory of his tongue making the same round-and-round-and-round.

“How so?” I asked.

Then Marcus went into what he had learned in a seminar