Two Boys Kissing(50)
Why must we die over and over again?
Cooper lifts himself into the air. Here we are, thousands of us, shouting no, shouting at him to stop, crying out and making a net of our bodies, trying to come between him and the water, even though we know—we always know—that no matter how tight a net we make, no matter how hard we try, he will still fall through.
We die over and over again.
Over and over again.
Cooper jumps onto the railing and he is slammed from the side. Before he can know what’s happening, before we can know what’s happening, he’s being brought back to the ground, tackled to the ground. He cries out, but the cry is ignored. A driver, seeing what’s happening, screeches to a halt, and the car behind almost hits him. Cooper is struggling, Cooper is trying to get back up, but the man on top of him is telling him not to move, to stay still, to stay there. Cooper feels the man holding him, feels the man not letting go. They get a good look at each other at the same time. Cooper sees a uniform, a badge—a traffic cop. The cop sees Cooper and says, “Jesus, you’re just a kid.”
Other people are running over, are asking what’s wrong, are asking the cop if he needs help. Cooper starts to shake, all of his emotions bursting out at once. Anger and sadness at having been stopped. Humiliation. Self-loathing—he couldn’t even do this right. And somewhere in there, a small voice of relief.
The cop is still holding the wallet he found in the car. Not letting go of Cooper, he hands the wallet to the concerned woman next to him and asks her to tell him the boy’s name. She does, and then the cop lets some of his weight off Cooper and turns him, so he can look the boy in the eye.
“It might not feel like it,” the cop says, “but, Cooper, today is your lucky day.”
It does not bring back the twelve-year-old who put a gun to his head. It does not bring back the fourteen-year-old who hung himself. It does not bring back the nineteen-year-old strung up on the side of an empty highway and left to die. It does not bring back the thirteen-year-old who took a stomach full of pills. It does not bring back any of us.
But it does bring back Cooper.
Less than an hour’s drive away, Craig and Harry reach their final hour, as Neil and Peter watch from the crowd.
Craig feels strangely awake, immensely alive. His body is sore, his mind is overwhelmed, and the air smells like sweat and pee, but after thirty-one hours he can’t see himself or Harry dropping before they hit thirty-two hours, twelve minutes, and ten seconds. He’s even allowing himself to take in the crowd, to wave to the people who are cheering and to all of the cameras that have gathered.
Harry, however, feels like his body is about to fail. He can’t bear the thought of another minute of this. In some twisted way, we know how he feels. When our bodies were failing, we’d often feel like the space between breaths was centuries long. And then sleep would be over in a blink, leaving us more exhausted than ever.
He’s tried shaking his legs, moving his legs. Doing the small workouts they’d planned. But this is it. He can’t anymore. He can’t imagine disappointing all these people, can’t imagine disappointing his parents and, most of all, Craig. But he can’t imagine fifty-six more minutes of this. He’s trying to think of a way to communicate this to Craig. He’s trying to think of a way to ask forgiveness before he lets go. He needs a break. He needs something.
Out of desperation, he wraps his arms around Craig, pulls him closer, pulls him tight. Craig does the same thing. First, just an embrace. A hug. Then squeezing. Harder and harder. With all the energy they have left.
Only there’s more energy after that, too. Because he’s still standing. He’s still holding on. He’s not letting go. Neither of them is letting go. They’re making it more intense. Runners sprinting at the end of the marathon. Despite the exhaustion, there’s the need to see it through.
The crowd in the back cheers louder. The people in front have a different reaction. Tariq is near tears, because he can see the pain his friends are in, can see them struggling. Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez must fight off the instinct they have to keep Harry safe, to protect him from any pain. Smita worries about what will happen if they don’t make it, how they will deal with that kind of failure. Sure, people will say it’s amazing they lasted this long. But it will still be a failure.
Harry doesn’t have to write any letters on Craig’s back for Craig to know he’s going to have to hold tight for the remaining time they have. This is now the way things are. So Craig holds tight. And as he does, he tries to take in all of the sensations, all of the things he is seeing and feeling and hearing. Nothing like this will ever happen to him again, and he wants to remember it. And nothing like this will ever happen with him and Harry again, a fact that he is trying to place in the context of his love for Harry. Now that they’ve shared this, it would be natural to want to try again. And part of Craig does want to try again, wants to see if there’s any way to carry some of this intensity over into their real lives. But he’s also remembering what Harry said to him when they were breaking up, how they would still be important to each other, and that was the important thing. Craig hadn’t wanted to hear it then, and he wouldn’t really want it repeated now. But he also knows it’s true.
So now he’s back to the question of why he’s done this crazy thing. From all the camera crews, he knows the story is going to spread, and he hopes that maybe it’ll make people a little less scared of two boys kissing than they were before, and a little more welcoming to the idea that all people are, in fact, born equal, no matter who they kiss or screw, no matter what dreams they have or love they give. So there’s that. But that’s not a personal reason. What is his personal reason? If it’s not getting back together with Harry. If it’s not making his family see who he is, and having them cheering him on.