The private school environment was such a radical, sudden change that my stricken mind spent most of it's time trying to grasp the ins and outs of an all-boys school rather than dwelling on Malcolm and our… demise.

The dry cleaned white shirts and the broad corridors were glossy on the surface, but clearly worn at closer inspection. Ledges and windows above eye height bore a coat of dust, and plaster and stone edifices were cracked or eroded. Brocade curtains and upholstered chaise, moth-eaten and faded. Dalton was grand, but it was somewhat superficially so, posturing and posing marvellously.

Dalton and I had that in common. You could say we were made for each other.

We also both managed to achieve this fa�ade with a level of charm. I don't want to make it seem like Dalton was decrepit or unpleasant. It wasn't. It was beautiful and old and loved and lived in. It smelt like people and people past. It had a glorious history to it that appealed to me for some reason. So many secrets. So many skeletons in closets. Enough that it felt like mine didn't matter so much. I embraced the unexpected dilution.

Like I said, I didn't ever talk to anyone about Malcolm. I didn't even mention him in passing. When people asked why I transferred, and they always did, I'd feed them a story about how my parents had deemed my last school an unsatisfactory learning environment, shelling out the cash for me to get a 'proper education.' I'd say it sort of disdainfully, managing my audiences reactions with the tone of my voice and the furrow of my brow. I was after their misplaced sympathy, and they never disappointed me. I'd be showered with, 'Man, that sucks,' and, 'I bet you miss your friends,' nodding agreement as I immediately gained my fellow pupils' compassion.

Really, I didn't do this to swindle or to scam. There was no spite in my actions. I just didn't want to have to tell the truth. I wanted to be on friendly terms with these new boys without dredging up the pollution I carried from my old school. I know I lied in order to garner friendship, but I did so in the knowledge that none of them would ever learn the truth. After all, what people don't know can't hurt them.

Honestly though, the mere thought of having to bring up Malcolm every time someone asked… it was more awful than I could grasp. I found it difficult to even think about him in private, becoming an expert in compartmentalising my woes. Instead of actually facing any stresses and worries and wounds, I'd tuck them away. It sounds ridiculous, but it really became that easy. I would sometimes even symbolise the act by imagining a box in my head. It was cardboard, beige and plain, baring a white label with nothing written on it. From time to time I'd feel anxiety creeping up on me only to force it into that limitless, divine box.

Not only did this stop me from dwelling and brooding, something I was at a dangerously high risk of doing, it became a coping mechanism. I don't know if it's a particularly healthy habit to have; ignoring your problems to the point where they might as well not have existed, but once I'd learnt how to do it I couldn't stop. Besides, I still believe that it was better for me than the alternative. Self-hatred and pining and regret. Three very teenage tendencies that even to my teenage self seemed objectionable. If hiding my aching from everyone else was such a fulltime, demanding task, to wallow in the process would be an even more hellish one.

I made a lot of friends at Dalton. Naturally, I knew more about them than they did about me (actually, for all I know they were burying as many memories as I was, but I assumed otherwise) however I had enough happy, harmless stories from my old school and of my family that no one ever had the chance to twig to it.

It took me a while to grasp the strange new atmosphere though. The Academy was touted as having a 'No Harassment Policy,' but my cynical side assumed that that just meant people were more careful in their prejudices. I figured there would be just as many bigots and bullies as my old school, laying low and maintaining such a level of fear that they could get away with it without the faculty or prefects finding out.

It turned out I was very wrong.

Never before and never since have I been exposed to such a setting. Outside of harmless schoolboy teasing I never once encountered a cruel word. I have no idea how it was maintained, and I sometimes pinch myself in wonder of whether that year really happened, but everyone was actually just kind and jovial. Accepting and good-humoured. God knows how such a thing was possible when four hundred or so boys were forced to share the same space on a daily basis, not to mention those of us who boarded.

I came out as soon as I got to the school. I mean, I didn't exactly go up to people and shout 'I'M GAY,' in their faces, but once I got close to a few people I told them and before I knew it, it was common knowledge. I'd already spent so much of my youth hiding that I wasn't going allow it to happen again. I would be as out and as proud as I was capable of being, and other people could just deal with it if they were offended. In the years since then my approach to being out has changed a little. It's become more honed. I'm as proud as I ever was, but I'm more considered about who I tell and when. At Dalton, once everyone knew I was gay, that was it. I was out. Now that I'm at college, forever meeting new people I'm faced with the prospect every day, and I get drained by it sometimes.

But that was Dalton. My lovely little bubble. Those ancient classrooms nursed me. I didn't go back to who I was, but took parts of that person and added to him. I became outwardly confident, the most important element of my 'surface.' With that one skill I could mould myself to any situation, making myself approachable whilst innocently holding people at a comfortable arm's length from anything that lay deeper.

I joined the Glee club, a considerably better one than my old school's, and spent three afternoons a week in what became my favourite activity. There was nothing like being a part of a whole. I know some people like to stand out, bathe in the limelight and all that, but I really loved being a cog in a larger machine. A well-oiled one. Performing was so enjoyable. The feeling when you're skilled and you know it; it seemed to fill me up. I got the occasional solo, and I did a damn good job of them, but my heart was in the chorus line; switching my brain off and harmonising with a dozen or so incredibly talented boys.

Oh, Yeah. The boys…

I hate the crude assumption that all private schools are automatically gay schools. I think it's lazy and small minded and offensive. That said, I had my fair share of encounters.

There were only a handful of gay guys at Dalton that I knew of. I wasn't even good friends with any of them. I mean, I was acquainted, and on as good terms with them as I was with anyone, but we all moved in different circles. Well, most of the time.

I didn't get into another 'relationship,' but I did hook up a few times, in and outside of Dalton. I even acted as an experiment for a few curious or confused peers. It was fine by me. I was a teenage boy. I may have been heartbroken, but really, I just wanted sex as much as any other testosterone driven 18 year old. I got it once too. A boy called Ben, who also boarded, came back to my room after a totally forbidden, totally fabulous night of on-school-grounds drinking. It was dark and it was clumsy, and if I hadn't been so tipsy it would probably have been embarrassing, but all that's left of it in my mind now is that it felt amazing and that it reminded me that nothing compared to the feeling of rough skin and course hair. It should have been awkward the next time I saw him, but I was becoming so good an actor by that point that I put him at ease in regards to the situation as easily as I did myself.

I left the warm embrace of Dalton knowing I would miss it, and forever thankful for how well it treated me. It may have been bizarrely detached from the real world in some ways, but it cushioned me enough to prepare me to face it. I had so many fortifications, I felt unbreakable. Absurdly, deliberately wary of every new person I met, but unbreakable. It's funny that that's the way I chose to use my sorrow. Instead of becoming emotionally fragile and damaged, I became better at reading people in order to avoid being hurt that way again. By anyone, for any reason. I suppose I am a bit damaged. Very damaged. But my control of how much it affects me is superb.

Regardless of how difficult the classes had been at Dalton, I did well on my SAT's and, with more than a little encouragement from my parents, would go to a nearby university to study Law. I didn't really want to study law, but I had the grades to do so, so that was clearly my calling, right?

Law and I didn't really agree.

Sorry, no. That's putting it far too politely.

I fucking hated law.

I understand the practice has its place and that there are certain people who excel at it, even love it, but I couldn't be further from that personality. The readings were so dry and clinical. It was like every sentence I read was in one ear and out the other, or stuck in a maelstrom in my mind where I'd catch myself reading one dull, incomprehensible sentence over and over, yet learning nothing.

I do think of myself as ambitious. I don't want to seem arrogant, but I'm intelligent too. Unfortunately, my form of ambition is one that is symbiotic with passion. If I don't feel something for what I'm doing, I mean deep down in my gut and my heart, then I find it almost impossible to attach myself to it. I can't pursue something if it doesn't make my blood pump or my eyes burn. I become listless and disinterested and my attention span narrows to non-existent. There was a point when I thought it was just laziness, but when I started doing literature related electives I realised that wasn't right.

I'd enter a tutorial, head fuzzy from talk of torts and subpoenas and feel myself relax and unwind as my Introduction to English Lit. professor bathed me with his words. Graham Greene and Christopher Isherwood. Dylan Thomas and Evelyn Waugh. Why wasn't I doing this? This made me happy. This was beautiful, fresh spring water compared to the treated, bottled, chlorinated tang of law. Sure, it was somewhat less focussed than law, and I'd probably have a hard time finding a profession out of an art based degree, but either way I'd be ending up in a job I didn't like. If It was between graduating and becoming a lawyer, a thought that made me shudder, or graduating and becoming a civil servant (not much better) why not spend my tertiary education doing something enjoyable before being roped into a dead end career? Who knew, maybe I would end up a Professor at a university, or staff at a National Library.

These may seem like wild dreams, but they were dreams I needed to have. I didn't have any visions attached to a future in law. It was just a black snarl of theory and boredom. How could I possibly force myself to keep going when that was all I had to look forward to?

So I lied.

I told you I was good at it.

I was doing acceptably well in law. I may have hated it, but I hadn't reached a low enough point to want to commit self-sabotage. I spent a year toiling away at it before I approached my parents.

They'd treated me with kids gloves since my ordeal with Malcolm. I saw so little of them while I was at Dalton, and once I got to College and chose to live on campus I didn't see much more. I sometimes spoke to my mother on the phone and I visited them holidays, but no more. I'd become their slightly estranged, slightly dented gay son. They still had an interest in my future, but the fruit of their loins was sadly detached from them. I sure as hell wasn't going to complain about this arrangement. I had a while to adjust to it, and as long as they were paying for my education I would treat them civilly and give them my attention when they requested it.

I'd spent a semester ardently researching several art colleges across the country before I even brought up my proposition. None of the places I looked at were in Ohio. I wanted out of there. One was in Vermont, a couple in New York. I even had a brief interest in one in California, but that didn't last very long. I'd decided that I would attempt to get into any art college I could, and study what I loved. I was going to find out why so many people enjoyed their higher education so much. I would learn what interested me and I would live my life out of the stagnant pattern I'd fallen into in Westerville.

I put to my parents that I was miserable in law. That part was true. The lie was that I was struggling with the classes, I didn't have any friends, I didn't like the campus and I was terribly unhappy. I mean, the campus wasn't anything special, but it was fine, and I was mostly just bored out of my mind. I even had a healthy little gaggle of friends, and spent Thursdays to Fridays drinking, partying, tending hangovers and even hooking up. However, my parents, cautious of my state of mind since already having to transfer schools at an early age, nodded and tutted and furrowed their brows. Actually, my mother did. Dad just kind of crossed his arms and sat back, listening closely.

After a bit of negotiation and haggling they conceded that if I could find a college that would take me, they would pay for my fees and my boarding. My mum said she hoped I'd choose a school nearby, and I felt a small pang of guilt as I assured her I'd try my best.

Vermont isn't that far from Ohio, right?

It's closer than California…

Albarn College, Albarn Vermont. That's where I ended up. Liberal arts. Campus of five hundred. They accepted me right away and I thanked myself for maintaining my solid grades. I would study Literature, with a focus on the twentieth century, mostly British fiction if I had any say in it. It was exactly what I wanted. I even packed my bag with a handful of battered Hardy and Eliot paperbacks to line my dorm's bookcases.

Yes, I am aware that I'm a very specific living clich� for doing so.

I was playing a part after all. Cheery Blaine Anderson. Twinkling eye and sculpted hair. Why shouldn't I try to adhere to my ideal view of college life too?

I arrived in the small town knowing very little about it, and only knowing about the campus what I'd read online, but I was exhilarated. I was sure this was where I was meant to be. Here and nowhere else.

Now all I had to do was discover what 'here' really was.

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TBC