"I'm different, all right. Boy, am I different. Yeah, I'm black and white, too, and ...lost," I moaned, hurrying away.
I didn't look back. I knew deep inside that it wasn't fair to take out my frustrations on him and jump on every word he said, but I wasn't in the mood to be fair. I dug my feet into the grass so hard, I could feel the earth move beneath my heels. I walked and walked, passing all sorts of tourists, couples holding hands, families, young men carrying backpacks, people from everywhere. A stream of foreign languages rushed by: Italian, French, Japanese, Russian...I really could be from outer space, I thought and finally, short of breath, flopped on a bench.
I sat there staring across the park at the street full of traffic: double-decker buses, sightseeing buses, English taxi cabs, foreign cars mixed with American cars, people everywhere waiting for the green man to appear at the crossing light. It felt like a carnival atmosphere, like the whole world was on holiday.
"Wow. I practically had to sprint to keep up with you," Randall said coming up behind me. "May I sit beside you?" he asked.
"It's a public bench," I replied.
You're so bad-tempered today, Rain, I heard a voice inside me say.
"I'm sorry if I insulted you in some way," Randall began. "Believe me, I didn't mean to."
"I'm just tired of thinking about myself as different," I said followed by a deep sigh. "For a while I'd like to be the same, boring and common."
"Different doesn't have to mean something bad. It could be good. Lots of people want to be different," he said softly, gingerly, like someone walking on thin ice. "My mother's always talking about being different. She hates being thought of as just another middle-class wife. I know because she's often saying that. I think that's why she wants to be an artist so much. While the wives of my father's friends are attending charity luncheons, afternoon cocktail parties and such, she's in her studio getting paint on her face."
"On her face?"
"She always comes out looking messy. My dad accuses her of tasting the paint before she uses it," he said.
I looked away to smile with tears still in my eyes. How wonderful it must be to have parents who love and cherish each other and create a warm, happy world for their children, I thought.
"You were right," he admitted gazing down, "I don't know too many black kids. But," he added, turning to me, "I really don't know that many white ones either. I don't have all that many friends back home. I guess it's because I've been attending these special schools, working with voice coaches, spending all my spare time on developing my voice because my parents want me to be a star."
"Don't you?"
"Not all the time," he said. He leaned back, the soft strands of his hair falling over his forehead. His eyes filled with a warm glow as he gazed into his own thoughts. "When we were watching those little boys back at Round Pond, I was thinking about all the fun I missed out on. I was given piano lessons, not many toys. My parents were afraid to let me participate in sports as if building my wind for something other than singing might damage my voice.
"They let me learn to skate, but being part of the hockey team was impossible because of the conflicts with my music practice.
"You know what, Rain," he said suddenly as if the realization had really just occurred, "I'm different, too. I was always different in the eyes of my fellow students. I guess I was freaky to most of them."
"I doubt that," I said. I really meant not to the girls, not someone with his good looks.
"Yeah, well, that's the way I felt now that I think about in"
"Are you going to sit there and tell me you didn't have a girlfriend or girlfriends?"
He laughed.
"I had a girlfriend named Nicolette Sabon. We were taking singing lessons from the same teacher, Mr. Wegman. He used to tap a ruler on the top of my head to keep me in rhythm. He had Nicolette and me singing duets, performing at the school's productions and going around the city singing for ladies' organizations and clubs. We were together a lot because of that, posed for pictures together, were seen everywhere together, and one day Nicolette told me I was her boyfriend and she was my girlfriend. I remember she made it sound as if I had no choice. Like it was ordained by a higher power."
"How old were you?" I asked.
"Twelve. She was eleven?'
"Twelve? Eleven? That was your only love affair?" He shrugged.
"I had a crush on a girl when I was fifteen, but I didn't smoke or drink beer and she thought I was some sort of dud, I guess, because all I asked her to do with rue was listen to music or go to a show. She said my good looks were wasted on me. She really made me feel different, speaking of feeling different. It got around the school that I was a huge bore, and I felt like crawling into a hole."
"She was an idiot?' I said, "and your good looks are not wasted on you. People will love to look at you as well as listen to you. Your good looks fit the quality of your voice, Randall. Don't ever regret that," I ordered.
His eyes widened.
"I can't tell if you like me or hate me," he said. I had to smile.
"I don't hate you. Of course, I don't hate you. Maybe I hate myself," I said growing serious again. "No, there's no maybes about it. I do."