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and removing inexpensive makeup.
    Being in these bands, choirs, and musicals still wasn’t enough; I bought a letter jacket and had my mom sew the names of these activities onto the back, along with the letters I’d received for my participation. Walking through the halls in my oversized letter jacket—an orange and black billboard advertising myself to the bullies and the frightening shop kids who used smokeless tobacco—I’d hear comments ranging from “Band and drama? Who puts that on a coat?” to the more direct “What a homo.” Not to worry, though. I never got physically attacked. Nothing staves off a beating from jocks like a toothy smile and an energetic display of “jazz hands.”
    Performing music and assuming the personalities of characters came naturally to me. I assumed at the time that it meant I was sort of artistic, rather than sort of autistic, but as it turns out, I’m both. The former quality drew people to me, and the latter seemed to push them away. In the ebb and flow of peers, there were a few who stuck around and became close friends, the type that would last a lifetime. There was Andy, who played sports and exhibited genius at every turn. There was Delemont, who was also circus music with feet. And there was Kristen.
    A year older than me, and a million times cooler and more popular, Kristen was a pretty, perfectly assembled, athletic blonde who almost always had a cheerful smile on her face. To me the other students were little more than outfits with faces that clogged doorways between classes, but to Kristen they were all friends of varying closeness. She had a singular warmth and capacity for fun that pulled people to her. I was one of them.
    Our connection was immediate and seemed to be the result of a mutual appreciation for silliness. We found humor in exactly the same things—and she was one of maybe three people for whom that was true. Gags from Leslie Nielsen movies, the way our gym teacher cleared his throat over the intercom, Paula Abdul—it was fun to laugh about these things with someone, especially someone as wowing as Kristen.
    Early in my freshman year, during a rehearsal for Annie, I watched as a remarkably arrogant kid bonked his nose against his own knee while working with the choreographer. He (the kid) had been rude to me a number of times (“Is that all you do, Finch? Mimic the sounds you hear over the intercom?”), so witnessing his blunder was deliciously satisfying. In a perfect world, the only sound accompanying his gaffe would have been a toot from a good ole-fashioned bicycle horn, but instead Peckerhead just let out this tiny yelp. He quickly righted himself, covered his nose with his hand, and allowed his face to betray nothing—no pain, no annoyance, nothing—and then he sat like that for the remainder of the rehearsal. Kristen had seen it, too, and we exchanged delighted glances, silently saying to each other, Yes, that really just happened. From then on, all I ever had to do to make her laugh was to erase any expression from my face and cover my nose. I’d walk past her chemistry classroom this way, and I’d hear her laugh from her seat in the back row. I’d wave to her in the cafeteria and she’d cover her nose, while her friends asked her what she was doing.
    Kristen also observed things about me that my other friends didn’t seem to notice. She was, for example, the first and only person to recognize my complete inability to walk out of time with music. Entering the auditorium while the pit band warmed up before rehearsal, I’d cross in front of the stage and take my regular seat in perfect step with the music. If they were rehearsing a slower ballad, it might take me a minute to get to my seat; faster tempos got me there sooner. If the music stopped before I got to my seat, I’d lurch forward and dash the rest of the way. Everyone but Kristen seemed oblivious to this. She’d laugh, saying, “Oh, David James, you just kill me.” (I never