Dear Albert: Worried Beard

“Did I fart on you?” I hear myself ask. “You are an Anagram!”

WHAT THE BAJESUS AM I SAYING?!

Anna Ingram puts her perfect arm around my shoulder and tries to heave me off the floor, but I fumble. Why am I on the floor? Ohhhh, right.

She chuckles.

“You didn’t, um, fart on me. You’re bleeding!”

“Ahhh know why, Anagram. Because I got hit in the face! With a stapler! Did you see it? I am Wyatt Earp. I am Doc Holiday. Okay, corral!”

Somehow, Anna understands that this is me trying to explain that I’m ready to get up. She lifts me again and I stagger to my feet.

My brain is in six different pieces, at least. I can feel the parts welding themselves back together, too slowly. If this is what it’s like to be drunk or senile, I’m never getting old and crashing a frat party. NEVER EVER TIMES A BILLION! I touch my forehead.

“This isn’t blood. It's warrior juice! Anna? Why is an anagram not an anagram? Grab a nana. Gross! Anna? Did I fart on you? “

“Hey! You’re not, you know…”

Stuttering.

Braden appears, exasperated.

“I just heard. I can take it from here. Thanks for helping him, Anna.”

Braden smiles and Anna.

“Are you sure?” she asks, and smiles back.

Oh, I do not like this.

“HELLO! DEAD PA-PA-PA-PERSON HERE.” I stutter-shout and wave my arms. Anna looks at me and looks away. Have a lost her? Did I have her, maybe, for a second? Why is the back of my head trying to swallow the front of my head? I almost fall backward into my locker, again, but Braden catches me.

“Okay, cowboy, let’s go to the nurse,” Braden says, and starts to walk me down the hall.

“Cowboy! That’s what I was trying to explain to Grab a Nana.”

“Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

****

I hate hospitals.

They smell like defeat—jails for victims.

But I’m NOT a victim. I CAUGHT the stapler. It was only AFTER I caught the base of the stapler that the top part catapulted into my forehead and my head hit my locker, but those are DETAILS. The main thing is that I caught the stapler. But no one will remember that, will they? They’ll just think of me as the stuttering kid who got beat up by a flying office supply.

Three stitches. One perscription: painkillers. My mom, frantic, stressed, wanting me to stay the night in this horrible hospital. I fight her on it. I have to go home. I have to go to school tomorrow.

We come to a compromise. I can go home, but I have to give up Jeff Wellstone's name.

At first, I can't. I don't know why. Guy code? But I think of Anna. She'd want me to give him up. To tell the administration. To take this case as far as I can. To set an example.

And suddenly, the choice isn't hard.

****

There's a box outside of the journalism room for Dear Albert letters, and only me and Mr. Bishop, our supervisor, have a key. Not even Braden! I'm always very stealthy about collecting questions from the box. I come early to school, do it during assemblies, and I once did it during a fire alarm. Sorry to brag, but I'm extremely proud of the fact that I've never been caught. Err, that I hadn't been caught.

"Sam! How's your head?"

Crap.

I look Kelly Jenkins right in the face. Jeff's girlfriend—the girlfriend of the enemy. Why is she being nice to me? She must realize that between me, my mom, and Anna Ingram's anti bullying crusade, there's a decent chance Jeff Wellstone is going to be in serious trouble. And that guys in serious trouble aren't, on the whole, particularly kind to their lady tigers.

"Fine," I lie. There must be something wrong with my head if I hadn't heard her coming. But I look down and realize this pint-sized blond isn't wearing shoes.

"It's for cheerleading. We're doing tumbling today," she says. She must have caught me looking. "Seeking advice from Dear Albert?"

"Uh, yeah. Just put my, uh, question in the box there," I say, surprised I haven't stuttered.

"Same," she says, and smiles. She shoves a note in the mailbox.

And now.

And now she touches me. Brushes my shaggy, sweaty hair off my forehead to reveal the stitches I've been trying to hide all day. I've never wanted to press pause and fast forward so much at the same time—to simultaneously linger and escape.

"You're going to look like Harry Potter when those come out," she says, still touching my stitches.

"YOU read Harry Potter?" I ask. Where has my stutter gone?

She puts her index finger of her free hand to her lips. One hand touching me, the other touching her lips. My scar, her lips. Linger, or escape.

"Don't tell," Kelly whispers.

She pulls her finger from my forehead gently, like my face is a museum artifact or something, and scampers off down the hall.

Nothing about what just happened makes sense. The talking, the touching, the—was that flirting? No, it couldn't have been. That's Jeff Wellstone's girlfriend. Before I even register it, my hands have successfully obeyed my impulses. Kelly's letter—the top letter in the mailbox—is open in my hands. And suddenly, nothing and everything make perfect sense.

Dear Albert,
There are rumors that while on an overnight field trip my boyfriend came out. He hasn't said anything about whether they are true or not, but what scares me is that we started dated right after he came back from the trip. I'm afraid he's just using me to cover his homosexuality. I haven't had a boyfriend in a very long time, and I really like him and having a boyfriend. I don't want to lose him or be made fun of for falling for him. Should I let these feelings go, or talk to him about the rumors?

Sincerely,

Worried Beard

Holy. Sh—

What is Dear Albert? It's a fiction experiment on SparkNotes about a guy, Sam, who writes a secret advice column under the name Albert. The "experiment" part is this: His story is a mesh of pure fiction, and YOUR input. Want to participate? Leave a question or a message for Albert in the comments (real, or totally fake)!

Special thanks to newyorksmabbie, who provided this installment's question.

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