Ninth grade science class, Mr. Larson says something about radioactivity. I am doodling in my notebook, even though it’s made of graph paper. I am drawing eyes, realistic eyes, over and over. I want to perfect the human face. I don’t realize that I’m drawing Mikaela’s eyes, remembering, even subconsciously, every curve and shadow. Mr. Larson has taken out a geiger counter and is talking about background radiation. I shift my gaze to the rest of the classroom and accidently meet eyes with Emily Warfield from across the table. She glares at me and raises her hand. Emily hates me, although I don’t know why. She thinks I’m weird, and she’s right. I am strange. I don’t flirt back with Peter Flanagan, the undisputed king of school, when he teases
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She’s right, I feel it. I am different, I am weird, I am radioactive. Maybe, maybe I am. Mr. Larson shrugs, and the whole class holds their breath as he turns and points the geiger counter directly at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for a storm of beeps to erupt from the machine.
The device, which was beeping erratically, goes dead silent. Mr. Larson holds it in front of me for a few more seconds, but there is no change. The class tension defuses into laughter, it’s almost funny how anti-climatic the situation is. I am anti-radioactive. I breath a sigh of relief, but I see a look of shock and disgust spread across Emily’s face. Emily is wrong. I am not radioactive, I am not a lesbian.
Although it would take me two more years to know it, I am asexual. The love I feel in my heart is romantic only. I have been more than satisfied with my close friendship with Mikaela and could see myself doing nothing more. My love feels uncorrupted, pure, although I know that all love should feel this way, to me the crushes and romances occurring all around me seem strange and unappealing. My peers all seem to want sex, to intertwine in fields and bushes and locker rooms. I saw such figures many times on my walks from the art center to my dormitory late at night, and was horrified that this was to be the ultimate expression of love. I wanted nothing more than to be able to tell Mikaela that she has the most beautiful and kind spirit I have ever known, to hold
She’s right, I feel it. I am different, I am weird, I am radioactive. Maybe, maybe I am. Mr. Larson shrugs, and the whole class holds their breath as he turns and points the geiger counter directly at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for a storm of beeps to erupt from the machine.
The device, which was beeping erratically, goes dead silent. Mr. Larson holds it in front of me for a few more seconds, but there is no change. The class tension defuses into laughter, it’s almost funny how anti-climatic the situation is. I am anti-radioactive. I breath a sigh of relief, but I see a look of shock and disgust spread across Emily’s face. Emily is wrong. I am not radioactive, I am not a lesbian.
Although it would take me two more years to know it, I am asexual. The love I feel in my heart is romantic only. I have been more than satisfied with my close friendship with Mikaela and could see myself doing nothing more. My love feels uncorrupted, pure, although I know that all love should feel this way, to me the crushes and romances occurring all around me seem strange and unappealing. My peers all seem to want sex, to intertwine in fields and bushes and locker rooms. I saw such figures many times on my walks from the art center to my dormitory late at night, and was horrified that this was to be the ultimate expression of love. I wanted nothing more than to be able to tell Mikaela that she has the most beautiful and kind spirit I have ever known, to hold