Hamilton Prep

Chapter 2: Vitale- The Most Flamingly Gay Boy At This School-

All of my summers ever since sixth grade were spent the same way: locked up in my room, slowly reading through my family’s vast collection of classic novels, or in my mother’s private dance studio, working my muscles until I was so sore that they shook, and I could hardly stand, all in an attempt to perfect my technique.

My school years, also from that time on, were preoccupied with the same pastimes, the only difference was the setting in which I performed these tasks. And that was at Alexander Hamilton Preparatory Academy for the Athletically and Academically Gifted- or Hamilton Prep for short. It was a gorgeous building- all glass and industrialistic-style chrome, almost like it was designed by Ludwig Meis van der Rohe himself- and the grounds were pristine in the extreme. You didn’t even want to walk on the grass, it was so perfect. But of course, this place was like a second home for me now. Back in seventh year, I wouldn’t ever have dreamed of walking on that flawless, weedless, grass; now I walked across the field with mild, inward, confidence, knowing that there wasn’t anything to stop me from doing so- not even the posted sign that read “KEEP OFF” in big red letters. Yes, four years later, on the first day of my eleventh year, I knew that nothing could stop me from being- well- me.

Of course, this was excluding the fact that I am painfully shy, the only boy in my school- which is exclusively male- that happened to be a Danseur Noble- or male ballerina, and gay.

So I am totally, one-hundred percent, me, but that doesn’t mean that I am accepted for it. In fact, I am thoroughly ignored for these reasons.

I couldn't care less about that they say, I chanted to myself as I walked through the front door. A burst of cool, clean, and crisp air brushed over me, and I smiled a bit to myself. It always smelled so clean inside of Hamilton Prep. Like a mixture of loose-leaf paper and cold spring water.

The front entryway was devoid of any office workers, and the halls to follow were clear also; it was barely seven-fifteen on the first day, of another year, spent at this boarding school. All the other boys were probably asleep in their dormitories or just barely starting to wake up.

Without really noticing it- like I was on autopilot- my feet had carried me to the library. This room was, above all, my favorite. It housed the two things that kept me going, even when I was soready to give up on it all. Which were the  books that I held dear to my heart, and Mr. Gatz, the librarian, who was the only real friend that I’ve ever had.

I smiled again, this time brighter- only for Mr. Gatz.

“Vitale, my favorite boy!” I loved the way he said my name, Vi-tall, with the long i, made it sound like vital. Like I was truly essential, like I was really important to someone other than my parents. “How was your summer? How are you?” Mr. Gatz stood up, coming over to stand by me. His face fell minutely- probably because I had grown another few inches over the summer, and now easily cleared the top of his head. He crossed his arms over his chest and pulled a I’m the librarian and you need to shut up-even though I didn’t say anything yet- sort of look,  “Mr. Nova, I thought that I told you not to get any taller. You’re making me feel like a shortie. You’re younger. You need to be shorter.”

I shook my head, my lips settling into a grin. “You’re only twenty-six, Mr. Gatz. Really, you’re only nine years older.”

“Exactly my point, nine years. I should be taller,” he whined.

“It doesn’t matter. We can still be friends,” my grin faded into a lopsided smile, “Screw age-height stereotypes.”

Mr. Gatz rolled his eyes. “Whatever, boy.” He paused, going to sit behind his desk again. “Anyway, you never answered my questions.” He raised an expectant eyebrow while he stared at his computer monitor.