On stage, Robbie was transformed from the shy, skinny blond kid the three creeps in that class’s back row called “the faggot” into a handsome leading man with a great flair for physical comedy and a terrific singing voice. The high school girls to my left thought he was “incredibly cute,” and I did, too. But way beyond that was my admiration for the kid’s talent, determination, and his dreams.
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Why did I have to be scared? The worst they could do was fire me, and while that would be awful, I also knew I could go to the media, who’d have a field day with this: “College Prof Fired On Account Of Love.” Sure enough, as I got home, the phone was ringing away.
Sean was just there – as he always seems to be these days. He was tanned and said he liked Key West, though he was vague about what he did there. This sounds stupid, but I keep thinking of Sean and I notice little ways we grow “closer”: today our shoulders touched. . .
Last night, while driving to Tamarac in a thunderstorm, I saw my first shooting star, one of the annual Perseid meteor showers. If you’re supposed to wish on a shooting star, I didn’t – because all the wishes that I wanted to come true have come true.
At Grandma Sylvia’s, Debbie Solomon’s interview took an unexpected turn as Grandma poured out her bitterness and frustration. It seemed depressing and tedious to me, but Debbie said it was great: “She’s sort of a punk grandma who could go on TV and just keep saying how bad life is.”