Chapter Text
“When Love arrives, say “Welcome, make yourself comfortable.” If Love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her. Turn off the music, listen to the quiet. Whisper, “Thank you for stopping by”
-When Love Arrives. Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye.
There are ten truths undeniable about Todd Anderson. Ten truths that he’s never said out loud.
One. Ironically, he’s not good at admitting things out loud.
This truth is realized when Todd is hardly six years old. It’s an Anderson household rule that Todd is not allowed to watch T.V. in the morning before kindergarten. However, this particular daybreak has Todd unable to help himself. He sits in front of the television set in his parents room, tucking his legs underneath himself. They pulse with the loss of blood flow. He does not adjust. There is a couple colored in black and white on the screen; they’re kissing.
The act is not repulsive by any means to Todd. He’s seen his parents kiss before, once or twice. Sure, this couple is a bit more grabby at the waists and shoulders than his parents are. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s kisses are more chaste, often done in passing like they’re reminding themselves that they are in love. They’re checking. But it’s not that different.
Off-screen, there’s a live audience responding to the scene. They echo each peck with an ‘ooh’ or ‘aah.’ Before Todd can try to vocalize his feelings with them, his mother makes such an abrupt gasp, his eyes are knocked away from the television program.
With long, neatly painted fingernails, Mrs. Anderson clicks the buttons of the remote control. She mumbles under her breath until the screen darkens. Appalled, she asks Todd if he was really watching the television, despite knowing the rules. Her voice is shrill and shocking, desperate for a naive truth that Todd cannot open his mouth to give. He knows what he’s done is wrong, yet his lips are zipped closed.
All that Todd can do is recognize that his mother is upset– and that upset is aimed towards him. Lip quivering, Todd begins to cry. He chastises himself in his head, asking himself why he couldn’t admit that he had done something wrong. He was watching television. His mother had clearly caught him, so there was no reason not to admit to it!
Displeased, Todd’s mother puts him in a corner to think about what he’s done. He sits for an achingly long three minutes and he does not stop crying. His mother does stop being upset, though. She pulls Todd up from the floor by his armpits when his time to think is done, no longer caring for his mistakes. After a tight hug and a kiss on the forehead, she takes Todd to school.
She forgets. Todd does not.
Two. Despite taking tap classes from the ages of four to twelve, Todd is a horrible dancer.
It is not that he has two left feet. It’s only that his body cannot seem to be bothered to grow in skill past tight ankles and an inability to memorize the proper names of dance moves. Unyielding muscles and poor flexibility make an average human, but a poor dancer. After nearly a decade and thousands of dollars spent, Todd boxes up the tap shoes.
At age thirteen, he enters the Balincrest schooling system. While studying there, he finds that he is much better on the rowing team than in a kick line.
Three. He hates passing notes in class.
In the seventh grade, Todd takes notice of the sudden upsurge of students handing him folded up pieces of paper and whispering for him to pass it along to the next person. Having never written a note himself, but wanting to join in on the current fads of middle school, he writes one to give to a boy in his social studies class. He does so on college-lined notebook paper in his neatest penmanship.
‘Would you like to hang out sometime outside of school?’
Todd hands it off to a girl who looks at him like he’s done something wrong before tossing it carelessly to the proper recipient. When the note is given back to Todd, the paper is crumpled up. The sound of snickering rises around him. Written on the bottom of his innocent page is a big ‘NO!’ scrawled out in a deep red ink that bleeds through.
For the rest of class that day (and a few more days after) Todd covers his ears, setting his head down on his desk. He never tries to pass a note in class again.
Four. Todd’s favorite treat is chocolate-covered cherries.
Growing up, his father brought home a package of them every Friday of December and January. His family of four would crowd around the cardboard box of ten chocolate cherries; each parent got two, while Todd and his brother, Jeffrey, got three. It’s a tradition they’re all fond of.
Then, one uncharacteristically warm Winter Friday in the fifth grade, Todd’s father accidentally leaves the box in his car. They melt. Annoyed by this, Todd cannot believe his luck when his teacher comes to class the next Monday morning with several boxes atop her desk.
“You’ll each get one cherry at the end of the day,” she says. “Once we finish our work.”
But Todd doesn’t want just one. He wants the three he was supposed to get a few nights ago, like he always does in December and January. So, despite knowing how wrong it is, he waits for the classroom to clear out for lunch and he takes a box for himself. Another child stays back with him, having the same idea.
When lunch is over and the classroom fills with children again, Todd’s teacher notices the lesser amount of boxes. She declares that she sadly does not have enough chocolate for each student anymore. Todd’s peers sigh, dejected, and the teacher pauses, giving the perfect opportunity for the cherry-stealing culprit to reveal themself. But no one does. Not even Todd, who’s being stared at by his accomplice like he’ll be pulverized if he speaks.
Todd’s guilt for his actions keeps him tucked away under his covers the moment he arrives home that afternoon. After a few hours of this, Todd’s mother discovers the stolen candy in his backpack. She forces Todd to return them the next day with an apology she makes him write after sending him to bed with no dinner.
Todd does return the cherries when his teacher isn’t in the classroom, a reminiscent mimic of how he took them in the first place. The letter he hides under the box doesn’t have his name on it. His teacher never finds out who did it. He can’t admit it outloud.
Five. When he’s feeling guilty, Todd loses his appetite for days at a time.
Six. He cannot swallow a pill to save his life.
Todd feels nauseous the morning he starts school at Welton Academy. His mother hands him a pill he’s never taken before. He whines softly because things like pills and schools change, even when he doesn’t want them to. Taking the pill alongside a swig of ice water, Todd tries to swallow it down. This endeavor fails and his cheeks puff up around the contents in his mouth. He gags.
When he spits it out, Todd’s mother rolls her eyes at him and gives him a new pill. This time, he pretends to take it.
Seven. Todd does not touch people often.
It takes five months, from August to December, for him to summon up exactly enough courage to shake the Balincrest headmaster’s hand. This is unusual, as it’s expected of him to greet his higher-ups with a polite handshake. On his last day of school there, Todd’s surprised when the headmaster insists on hugging him before he leaves.
On the drive home Todd stares out of the passenger-side window of his father’s car. He can’t remember the last time he hugged someone, a heart against his own. He wonders if he’s not comfortable with touch or if nobody has ever wanted to touch him. He also wonders if those can be the same thing.
Eight. He does not know how to do his own laundry.
Whether it be in a machine or washed by hand, his mother never taught him. Separating clothing by color is a foreign concept she won’t let Todd in on. She has her own truths about what’s to be required of a modern young woman, even urging Jeffrey to bring his dirty clothes home when he visits between semesters of college.
“Every mother does her son's laundry, even when they’re all grown up.” She says.
Todd does not believe her.
Nine. Todd will never be seen without a cup of tea in the morning. But he prefers hot chocolate.
His favorite type is green tea, partial to the floral, earthy notes of the drink. He likes that he doesn’t feel the need to add sugar.
The first time he tries it is in the eighth grade. Todd’s father hands him a mug of it and after a testing sip, he chugs it. It sears his throat on the way down, though he’s quick to ask for another cup anyway. Todd’s needs are answered with a kind, pleased chuckle and another kettle brewing.
Again, he prefers a hot chocolate. He’d take it over the tea if it was available. But his family never buys it.
Ten. Todd Anderson is in love with Neil Perry.
This experience of adulation in Todd starts nearly right away, a few hours after he and Neil meet. They’re relaxing in their shared dorm space before dinner when Neil says one thing: Todd’s name. He says it, decorating it with a question mark on the end like he’s asking a favor, a question, and giving a confession all at once.
Or maybe he’s just saying it.
Whatever way he says it, Todd’s face warms up like a pot of water put on high heat with no warning. Neil asks him if he’d like to walk to the dining hall with him and he boils over. And it doesn’t stop there. For months, Todd remains that same pot of water in various stages of scalding, scorching, and sizzling. The temperatures skyrocket when Neil sleeps, talks to him, or says his name.
Around March of their junior year, Todd considers seeking out the advice of his friends on this matter. Perhaps the Dead Poets could hold a discussion on the idea of love. They could read a line or two from the Bronte sisters or Jane Austen. Maybe a flex of the hand is admittance enough of all the wrong hands you’ve dealt.
God, Admittance. That’s exactly why Todd doesn’t seek out their advice. He’s curious and though curiosity is quiet, it cannot be helped by a still tongue. There are nine truths about Todd that come before his infatuation with Neil Perry. Nine truths that he’s never said out loud, leading back to the harshest, truest, and cruelest.
He is not good at admitting things out loud.
Preferring chocolate drinks over tea, being a bad dancer, not knowing how to do laundry, it’s possible everyone around Todd assumes these things about him. But he’s never proudly stated them as fact. And if he cannot state these things out loud, how is he meant to admit he’s in love? He’ll have to tackle his simpler truths if he plans to get anywhere with that.
Late in April of 1960, about a month before Summer Vacation, Todd’s friend Charlie Dalton taps him on the shoulder. He’s snuck into the chair behind Todd in the middle of one of John Keatings lectures. Before Todd can turn all the way around to confront him, Charlie’s leaning over to set something on the corner of Todd’s desk; a piece of paper that’s been folded six different times.
It’s a note. Charlie’s passed a note to him.
‘Read it.’ Charlie mouths.
As he picks the note up, Todd is struck with a cognizance that you do not have to start with one to get to ten .
You can start at three.