Drama Queers!. Frank Anthony Polito

      —1988—

      HIDEAWAY

      WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

      HOT CHILD IN THE CITY

      WHAT I AM

      FADED FLOWERS

      DIDN’T WE ALMOST HAVE IT ALL?

      ONLY IN MY DREAMS

      MAGIC CHANGES

      CONTROL

      THROUGH THE EYES OF LOVE

      ALWAYS ON MY MIND

      SHATTERED DREAMS

      FOREVER YOUNG

      NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP

      A READING GROUP GUIDE

      DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

      —1987—

      September–December

      True Colors

      “Oh I realize

      It’s hard to take courage…”

      —Cyndi Lauper

      “To thine ownself be true.”

      Wanna know what bugs the shit outta me?

      When somebody tells me something they think I don’t already know.

      Case in point…

      This morning during Miss Horchik’s 3rd hour World Shit—I mean, Lit—we’re studying the English Renaissance, even though we already covered it last year with Mrs. Malloy during English Lit. I guess maybe we’re having a refresher course or something.

      Anyways!

      So Miss Horchik is reading to us aloud from Hamlet. You know, by William Shakespeare. Act 1, scene 3.

      “‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be / For loan oft loses both itself and friend / And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry’…”

      Da-dah da-dah.

      She gets to the part when Polonius turns to Laertes, and tells him, “‘This above all: to thine ownself be true.’”

      Well, I don’t know why, but Miss Horchik looks right at me when she says this. Pageboy haircut perfectly parted down the middle, hand to heart, beady eyes opened extra wide.

      I’m thinking, What’s that supposed to mean?

      “To thine ownself be true.”

      I mean, I know what it means: be yourself, don’t give a fuck what anybody else thinks, do what you wanna do. This is exactly the way I always live my life. I don’t need some middle-aged, former-nun-turned-high-school-teacher giving me advice, you know what I mean?

      “What the hell was that?”

      Like horses outta the starting gate at the Hazel Park Raceway, the entire Hazel Park High student body bursts into the halls the second the bell rings.

      “What the hell was what?”

      Textbooks resting against his hip, Max Wilson stares straight ahead as we fight our way thru the throng of hungry Vikings on their way in search of sustenance.

      “Why did Virgin Velma single me out when she said what she said?”

      Max looks down at me with blue close-set eyes, totally oblivious. “What did she say?”

      He acts like we weren’t sitting in the same classroom mere moments ago. Maybe because Pam Klimaszewski and her tits just passed by and he’s had a thing for her (and them) since we were Sophomores two years ago…God, we’re getting old!

      “She doesn’t like you,” I tell Max, hating to be a jerk, but it’s true.

      “Who?”

      He whips his gelled head around just in time to avoid walking into the open Auto Shop door.

      “Forget it.”

      When it comes to girls, Max Wilson loses all ability to pay attention. If he doesn’t get laid this year on Spring Break, I don’t know what’s gonna happen.

      “Bonjour, Bradley!”

      We turn the corner down the middle hall en route to my locker when my French III Independent Study advisor, Mrs. Carey, appears from her classroom wearing this circa 1968 chocolate-colored turtleneck with a wool knee-length skirt over matching tights and boots. Not sure why since it’s the middle of September. To me, she looks like a big brown blob. Maybe it’s because Mrs. Carey happens to be black.

      “Bonjour, Madame!” I recite en français.

      Mrs. Carey nods and smiles. “Comment ça va?”

      She reminds me of that guy from the 7-Up commercials. Only female. And without the accent. You know, the one who played Punjab in the movie version of Annie.

      “Ça va bien…Et vous?”

      I roll my eyes at Max. He doesn’t know what the hell we’re saying. For all he cares, we could be talking about taking a poop.

      “Bien, bien,” Mrs. Carey replies, thus completing the only conversation she truly comprehends. I guess her major back in college was Latin, but now that it’s officially dead, French it is!

      As much as I’d love to stay and chitchat, I’m jonesing big time. I haven’t had a cigarette since this morning after Marching Band—yes, I’m a Band Fag. I only been partaking in the nicotine habit for about four years, but the thought of going without a smoke for more than a few hours makes me totally psycho…Imagine what I’ll be like when I’m thirty.

      I bid Mrs. Carey “Au revoir.” Soon as she heads off to the Teacher’s Lounge, I bust open my locker, shoving my World Lit book to the back, in search of my secret stash.

      Not that she’s not nice, but from everything I witnessed during my two-going-on-three years at HPHS, sometimes Mrs. Carey can be a Total Ditz. I mean, how many teachers will write you a hall pass so you can skip their own class? And during French II last year, Mrs. Carey accidentally gave my friend Stacy Gillespie her Scènes et Séjours teacher’s edition (with all the answers), and she never even noticed! I often wonder what it must be like being the only African-American in a school full of Caucasians just waiting to take advantage of you.

      “Yo, Dayton…Can I bum one