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The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater 
  because he is trying to kill you, 
and you deserve it, you do, and you know this, 
  and you are ready to die in this swimming pool 
because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means 
  your life is over anyway. 
You're in eighth grade. You know these things. 
You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do 
  long division, 
and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless 
he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you 
  didn't do, 
because you are weak and hollow and it doesn't matter anymore.