He’ll be born in March. March is undoubtedly the best month for him to be born, because he can still be included in the elementary school calendar of class birthdays, he’ll share an astrological sign with Kurt Cobain and he’ll be mentioned in the same breath as both a lion and a lamb.
His ears will be of equal size, rather than uneven and with a single, pointed side. This will help with his insecurity, but mostly avoid the cognitive dissonance of, as a Jew, being asked incessantly if he knows Santa Claus. Because, yes, a pointed ear must mean he is an elf. And OK, sure, he’ll tell Santa you want a Nintendo DS.
His voice will drop early, so he won’t sound like Timmy Turner while the rest of his friends sound somewhere between Thom Yorke and Ghostface Killah. He won’t be asked tirelessly where his Fairly Oddparents are, or his pink hat, or his pink shirt. He doesn’t even like pink.
He’ll decide that if he really isn’t into this girl in his math class, he really shouldn’t date this girl in his math class. Screw the homecoming dance and its 1950s need for fertile couplets. This will allow him to avoid the uncomfortable hand-holding and awkward teeth kissing in the basement of her parents’ home. And then he won’t have to break up with her in the hallway before math class. Because then she will cry over integral functions and her friends will, rightly, hate him.
He’ll turn off the volume on his computer the first time he visits the silent library. Or else Future’s “Freak Hoe” will play with full vigor thanks to an accidental slip of the hand, to his personal horror and the room’s collective confusion as to why this slight white kid is listening to Future.
He’ll always manage his time and he’ll never be late. He’ll know that if class starts at 9 a.m., he should not exit the shower at 9:15 a.m. Or 9:30. Or 9:45.
He won’t forget to text his friends for two, three months; OK, maybe it was longer. Because he does actually care about them — and how in the hell is he going to explain the reasons he couldn’t remember? Because he really should have remembered, instead of being too preoccupied by the way he just said “Hey, what’s up?” on the street, or whether this or that person actually likes him or is just pretending, or if he shouldn’t have said that thing that he said last Friday, or how he ended up in the middle of an intersection with his face against a Ford Taurus while thinking about it all. And so he will never forget to text his friends. And they won’t get upset at him for failing to do so, thinking he has better things to do, like run into a Ford Taurus.
He’ll decide that any message sent after 2:30 a.m. will inevitably lead to regret, in one of its billion jaded forms. He will refrain from them altogether.
He’ll be direct. He won’t drag his I-Mean-I-Guess-We’re-Dating along for a month without contact because he’s too afraid to tell her that he wants to end it and simply hopes that she will come to the understanding on her own, without confrontation. He won’t have a tequila-driven argument with her on her birthday, denying said strategy, saying “Oh, I was just busy.” Because that’s shitty. And he knows it.
He’ll be outgoing at parties. He won’t feel so awkward that he resorts to rereading the most useless corners and memes on his small screen until the words and the pictures no longer make sense. He won’t stand around, assuming it’s the world’s job to make him friends, not his own. He won’t then walk out unannounced, so everyone thinks he died or, worse, threw up in someone’s bathroom.
He won’t like boys. Like boys in the way he thought — he was told — he should only like girls. It will be clearer, simple, easy: perfect. He can avoid having to, when the subject is reached, laugh nervously and say something inconsequential about last Saturday or the weather. He can just smile when an ex tells him her greatest fear is dating a boy who “turns.” He won’t sit on the floor of the shower for hours, holding his head because he thinks this is a sentence for solitude for the rest of his life — that wastes water. He won’t be afraid everyone would think, for God knows why, him more Chér than Cuban Linx.
He’ll be born in June. June is undoubtedly the best month for him to be born, for summer is his favorite season anyway, he’ll share an astrological sign with Tupac and he’ll be mentioned in the same breath as Jeeps and the sand.
He won’t wish his ears were smaller and rounded because they’re different, which is good. He’ll know his voice will eventually drop and he won’t be Timmy Turner forever. He’ll see the first girl he royally screwed over is with someone better. And she’s happy. And so is the second. And the others, he guesses. And he’ll figure out how to turn off the sound on his computer and he’ll try his best to be punctual and he’ll try even harder to remember the people who care about him and he probably won’t stop sending texts after 2:30 a.m. but damn will he try, and he’ll work on introducing himself and asking people’s names and remembering people’s names and remembering the things they tell him, and he won’t fucking wish he wasn’t bent because there’s so much other shit that he could be worried about and he might be alone forever and live with a husky in the mountains of Colorado, but he also might not and it might not be what he always thought it would be or what he always wanted it to be, but he’s getting used to it and he just needs some time and damn he can even marry and maybe not even be hated and maybe just fucking maybe even be happy.
And so he won’t care if everyone thinks him more Chér than Cuban Linx.
And he wouldn’t change a thing.