In junior high sex ed, we were asked to come in with anonymous questions written down for the next class. What should I ask? My head was spinning. If I asked it right, maybe I would spot another one. But that would be wrong. The questions couldn’t identify me. I had to be general, but specific. I was tempted to work it out on paper, but that was too dangerous. I had to hold it in my head and quickly scribbled it just before class in the hallway.

I had it in my pocket, tightly folded. The teacher stood at the door with a shoe box. My hand reached for my note. I tried to make it look like it wasn’t important. When I dropped it in the box there was no going back. The box precariously sat on his desk, guarded by him, but easily knocked over.

I wondered where it would be for the next week. If he figured out it was my question, would he call me in? Would he tell anybody? If there were others, would he let me know who they were? Maybe another one had a better question than mine and I’d find out more!

The week passed, the answer session began. Half way through the clock became a vice squeezing probability into possibility, unlikely, bell. He didn’t answer it. The class bell rang. We were dismissed. I didn’t know if two boys could be in love.


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