Who Came Up With Person Man?

Recently a lot of people have been telling me that “age doesn’t matter.” I’ve said that a lot in my life, too, but I think it does. There are plenty of reasons why age matters. Maturity (on all ends) is only one. Will I go forward anyway? I have no self control. This is why I don’t eat right or sleep enough or take on only a manageable workload. I will never have enough iron in my blood. My secret hidden book-in-progress has another chapter full of things that seem normal to me until they find their way into text and the illicitness becomes painfully apparent. I wish “illicity” was a word. I also wish I had the time and energy to read more.

Some words I like: adage, lurk, doorknob, hijo, pilates, Champale, pontiff, biscuit, rotifer.

I’m wrapped up in a hoody at my desk because the air conditioning is still Antarctic in this place. Sleeves over my hands, texting with a boy while I take a moment away from the number-ridden, involved manuscript on the screen.

In fifth grade my friend Sean and I got up in front of the class during a sort of mini talent show. Just us right up at the front of the room. I had a big keyboard on a stand, he stood a couple feet in front of me. He was to sing the words to “Particle Man” (thank you, Tiny Toons) while I played the music. In our practices all week, we were fantastic. It was going to be great. In the classroom that day the lights stayed on, and Ms. Hinnant told us we could start anytime. The beat came in, probably bossa nova, and I began royally fucking up the keys. Everything went wrong. Then Sean started singing at about a level 1 of 10. He forgot the words. My fingers fumbled around the keys making random dissonances while his shoulders locked up and his voice got more and more faint. None of the other kids laughed at us. It was too embarrassing for them to laugh at us. They all looked down at the ground or out the window. Fifth graders were too embarrassed to make fun of how bad we were.

When we stopped without finishing the song, Ms. Hinnant said that we had done our best and could sit back down. The thought that the Hindenburg that had just occurred was “my best” made me want to cry. I broke a key that day, too. Not long after, I got caught with a pocket knife in the hallway and was sent home for three days. I cried on Miss Penney, the substitute teacher who wore airy red blouses tucked into weird skirts. She was everybody’s favorite sub, and everyone would go apeshit if she walked in their room in the morning. She hugged me against her airy red blouse that day and Eric S. was pretty mad about it. She rarely showed personal emotion to any of the kids, but she told me I was a really good kid and she was sad that I wasn’t going to be around for a few days. Teachers always loved me. Stephanie T. and I were always the teacher’s pet. Ms. Hinnant and I went shopping for trolls at Marc’s, and had pizza.