Page 4 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
The question was met with blank expressions, and I tentatively raised my hand. His brow rose in surprise, clearly not expecting any of us to have an answer.
“Mr. Michaelson.”
I was the first of thirty students to give my name, yet he’d remembered it. I lowered my hand, and he waited. “It teaches critical thinking, reading between the lines, and logical analysis. It uses all three to understand the language we use to describe the world, and our place in it.”
“Very good,” he said, with a slight nod. He fixed his stare on the words written on the board. “Does the name Plato mean anything to you?”
“He was an Athenian philosopher.” I took in the words he’d written. “And the founder of western political philosophy...” I paused, unsure if my next statement would be seen as a challenge.
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Continue.”
“Thegreatest philosopher,” I said with confidence.
“Pretty bold claim. One we’ll come back to.” He stopped mid-pace to the other side of the room, turning back to me. As if he’d decided to test me right then instead of later. “What else can you tell me about him?”
I squared my shoulders. If he was giving me permission to let my geek flag fly, I’d do it proudly. “He’s referred to as the father of idealism in philosophy. Plato believed that the regime should be ruled by a philosopher king. Someone grounded in wisdom and reasoning. In hisRepublic, he advocated for aristocracy to be the form of government,” I said, everyone’s attention on me. “There are three caste-like parts to this aristocratic state. The philosophy caste made up the ruling class, the men with souls of gold. The auxiliaries, which could be considered the acolytes of the kings, are the men of silver. Their job is to force the order established by the ruling class onto the majority caste, the men of bronze.” I ended there, realizing I may have given more than I was asked for.
“Well, don’t leave us in suspense now, Mr. Michaelson.” He moved closer as if compelled to.
I took in a breath. “The majority rounded out the third caste of the state. They were allowed to own property and produce goods for themselves—in contrast to the men of gold and silver.”
“And why couldn’t the men of gold and silver own property and such?”
“To ensure that the laws they established and carried out were not tainted by personal interest,” I said. “If wealth and equity were the rewards for ruling, then all men were doomed. The great intentions for the many curdle into what’s best for the one.”
He pursed his lips, drawing attention to how full they were, and then moved on, doing a slow perusal of the rest of my classmates. “Is anyone familiar with Plato’s four big ideas?” No one volunteered an answer, and he raised a brow at me. I shook my head imperceptibly, not wanting to be labeled a teacher’s pet on the first day, although I knew the answer like I knew my first name.
“It’s okay, you’re not expected to know these things. That’s what I’m here for. Today’s discussion will be steeped in the foundation of philosophy and its founding fathers. Get your notebooks and pens ready.” He made his way back to the board as the shuffling of books and bags commenced. Without looking at me, he said, “Good work, Mr. Michaelson.”
My cheeks warmed from the validation. Theory watched me, her head nearly exploding from the force she exuded to hold back an eye roll. Bad enough she had to deal with philosophical musings outside of school, now she’d been hit with a double whammy.
After school we waited by Danny’s Beetle for him to get out of class. Danny rounded out our trio: he was the faux-bodyguard, Theory the freedom fighter, and I was the glue that kept us all together.
My jaw dropped as he made his way over to us. Theory groaned beside me. “What are you wearing?” I asked. He sported acid washed jeans, a red fanny pack and a red velour headband. I should’ve known. Last year, he was obsessed with all things 1970s. So bell-bottoms and psychedelic tops. It made sense that he’d move up a decade for senior year.
“I’m invoking my freedom of speech is what I’m doing. And no one better fuck with me.” He widened his stance and crossed his arms.
Danny and I were the same height, about five-nine, but he still carried around his baby weight. We used to call him Chunk, after the kid inThe Gooniesmovie, but he put an end to that endearment after junior high. Aside from Danny resembling him, they also shared a flare for the dramatics, but Danny’s bark was bigger than his bite. Really, he was just a gamer with an unhealthy obsession for vintage films.
“Let’s get out of here,” Theory complained. We got in and pulled off.
“Any hot guys you might be interested in this year, Pheeny?” Theory asked.
I rolled down the passenger side window. “No, can’t say there are.”
“Bro…” Danny whined, tightening his grip on the steering wheel like he’d rather it be my neck. “You are the least gay person I know. Do me a favor, okay? Take it back. Take it back until you’re ready for it. Cause right now, it looks like you’re only in it for the benefits—and not thefriendskind.” He gave me a meaningful look before focusing on the road, then complained when Theory smacked him in the head from where she sat in the backseat.
“You’re such an idiot,” I chuckled. I worked backstage onA Midsummer Night’s Dreamjunior year, and I’d unintentionally come out after discussing the topic with Danny, unaware that the drop mic above my head was on. The whole auditorium heard. Danny constantly hounded me for making the “announcement” but then doing “nothing about it.” Theory went as far as creating a social media account dedicated to scouting “potentials.” I’d apparently gained a hefty following according to her. I wouldn’t know, she created the account, and she also monitored it. Books were more my thing. In truth, I was only popular amongst the unpopular crowd. No one else noticed me. “I don’t have to be with someone in order to be gay. I just am. I’m not attracted to girls.”
“Seems like you’re not attracted to boys either,” he mumbled under his breath before sucking in his belly to adjust the strap of the fanny pack digging into his side.
“Pheeny hasn’t found The One,” Theory said. “It’s going to take a special kinda man to capture this poet’s soul.” She pinched my cheek.
“He needs to get his head out of those Shakeapple books—”
“It’sShakespeare,” I interjected.
“Apple, pear, tomayto, tomato,” he said distractedly at the red light, perfecting his mullet in the sun visor mirror, wrestling with a dark strand that refused to submit. “Hey, did you see the activity happening in Mr. Sanders’ old house? Looks like it finally sold. Wonder who bought it.”
