Page 44 of Something Like Summer
Journalism started slow,with tedious textbook studies of what constituted a good story andthe formula for writing one. By the second month this gave way topreparing articles and photos for the school newspaper. The firstfew articles Ben submitted received good grades but didn’t getpublished. Feeling particularly sappy in the spring weather, hethen submitted a love poem that the teacher immediately suggestedshould be printed in the next issue.
Ben was thrilled, not onlybecause his work was appreciated, but because it had been a veryprogressive decision on Mrs. Jones’s part. His poem played thepronoun game and remained fairly neutral until the last couple oflines which were blatantly homosexual:
He looks into my eyes,mine mirrored in his,
and we each see a boy,lost in pauper’s bliss.
Mrs. Jones was no springchicken and didn’t seem the type who would publish something sopotentially controversial in a high school paper, but herenthusiasm suggested she was determined to go through with it.Perhaps literary types were simply more open-minded, Benmused.
Two weeks later and hispoem was in print. Ben grabbed a copy of the paper from thenewspaper machines on his way to second period, only having timebefore class to check that it had actually been printed. The poemwas there, right along with his name and everything. As classstarted, Craig whispered that his girlfriend had really liked itand that he was surprised Ben had written it. Ben decided to takethat as a compliment. He received more good words in journalism anda few jeers on the way to lunch, but they didn’t bother him. He wasmost eager to hear what Allison thought.
“Did you read it?” heasked as she sat down next to him, the paper in onehand.
“Not yet; it’s been acrazy day. I will now though.”
She dug through her lunchbag and slowly nibbled on carrot sticks as she read. Her eyes werewide and interested as they worked their way over the lines. Untilthe end, that is, when her face scrunched up inpuzzlement.
“What?” Ben prompted, hisstomach suddenly nervous.
“It’s good,” was Allison’sanswer, her face still reflecting confusion. “I’m just surprised,that’s all.”
Exactly what Craig hadsaid. “I don’t get what’s so surprising,” Ben insisted, starting tofeel defensive. “Straight people aren’t the only ones capable ofromantic feelings.”
“That’s just it,” Allisonsaid, thumping the paper. “You wrote about a guy and agirl.”
“What?” Ben grabbed thepaper from her, hands clenching as he read the finallines:
She looks into my eyes,mine mirrored in hers,
and we each see asoulmate, lost in pauper’s bliss.
“The bitch changed it,”Ben snarled. “This isn’t what I wrote!”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Jones,” heexplained. “My version was gay, but she changed it to this.” Heshoved the paper away from him, not wanting to look at it anylonger.
“And she didn’t even talkto you about it first?”
“No! I would rather it wasnever published than for her to ruin it like this.” He thought ofTim, the source of his inspiration. Had he read it? Would he thinkthat Ben was more closeted than he had previously claimed? Or didit make him think of Krista Norman and miss what they hadtogether?
“You have to go talk toher,” Allison said. “Tell her that she just can’t change what otherpeople write. That’s worse than censorship! She owes you anapology.”
“There’s no point!” Bencomplained. “The stupid thing is published already.”
Allison was right, though.He wasn’t going to stand aside and silently take it. After schoolhe would confront Mrs. Jones and tell her exactly how hefelt.
* * * * *
After sixth period, Benstood in front of the journalism door, trying to compose himself.To freak out or not freak out, that was the question. He would tryto stay calm during the confrontation, but he didn’t know if hecould maintain his cool or even if he should. He opened the door;the room inside dark and empty. After a moment’s hesitation, heflipped on the light switch and stepped inside.
Of course journalism wasn’ttaught six times a day like other courses were. He had neverconsidered it before, but it was obvious now. He wondered whatother classes Mrs. Jones taught. Perhaps history, drawing from herown childhood memories from hundreds of years ago, changing truthsas she pleased like she had done with his poem.
Ben went to her desk andbegan riffling through the papers on it. He wanted the originalcopy of his poem back. He wanted to see it. Had she dared to crossout his words with red ink and replace them with her own? Tenminutes later and his search was fruitless. He would simply have toask for it back tomorrow when he saw her again.
He returned to thenow-abandoned hallway and spotted another student passing by. Hebegan to duck guiltily back inside the classroom room when herealized it was Tim.
“Hey!” hewhispered.
