Home > Date Me, Bryson Keller(2)

Date Me, Bryson Keller(2)
Author: Kevin van Whye

   “In that case,” Natalie said, “date me, Bryson Keller!” She burst out laughing.

   “Fine, even though it’s not Monday. When school starts, Natalie, you’ll be my first girlfriend.” Bryson smiled. “But this will be the first and last time I ever break the rules. You’ve all been warned.” He bowed gallantly to her.

   And that’s how it all started.

       Two months later, the Bryson Keller dare is still going strong. And time is running out. A single school week is all anyone gets.

   There have been no exceptions to this.

   None.

   Until me, that is.

   OH SHIT.

 

 

1


   Mornings in the Sheridan house are known to be loud and chaotic affairs—with Mondays being especially disastrous. Today is no different.

   “Yazz, open the door!” I shout. I’ve been standing outside the door to the bathroom I share with my younger sister for the last ten minutes. I’m going to be late.

   I love my sister, and aside from weekday mornings, we generally get along. I can’t say that I’d kill for her, but I might be willing to help her bury a body. Right now, though, Yasmine Sheridan is the one I want to murder.

   “I swear to God, Yasmine, if you don’t open this door in the next two minutes, I’m going to kick it down.”

   “Kai!” Mom shouts from downstairs. “Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”

   I roll my eyes. As if that’s what’s important right now. I don’t say this, though, because I really don’t have time to get into an argument about religion with Mom—that’s reserved for Sunday mornings, when I refuse to go to church.

       I bang on the door again and it opens midknock. Yazz steps from the steam-filled room and fixes me with an exasperated look.

   “If you got up earlier, we wouldn’t have to do this all the time. Time management is key to living a successful life.” Yazz is thirteen years old but has the personality of a middle-aged woman who yells at the neighborhood kids to get off her lawn. “When you head to college in a few months, you won’t have me to help you. So let’s work on that, shall we?”

   She taps me on the shoulder as if to encourage me. By the time I think of an appropriate response it’s already too late. She’s closed her bedroom door, and I am left standing there like a scolded child. Who would believe that I’m four years older?

   “Breakfast is ready,” Dad shouts.

   “I still need to shower!” I call back.

   “You’re going to be late, Kai. Donny will be here soon.”

   “I know, Mom!” Muttering under my breath, I enter the bathroom. I start the shower and find only lukewarm water waiting for me. I get that it’s spring and this is California, but I like my water like I like my coffee—almost scorching.

   Ten minutes later, I emerge a new man. There isn’t time for me to shave, and I can only hope that the teachers won’t punish me for it. With a towel around my waist, I race back to my bedroom and quickly put on my uniform—tan pants and a crisp white button-down shirt. Fairvale Academy is flexible on a great many things, but the dress code is something that the school isn’t willing to budge on.

       I look for my tie. I rifle through the piles of clothes that lie forgotten on my bedroom floor. I’m not the neatest person in the world, which earns me countless lectures from Mom and Dad. But I figure that within the sanctity of my own bedroom, I am allowed to be my true self—which encompasses my sometimes forgetting to put my dirty clothes in the laundry basket.

   I find the crimson-and-white-striped tie. It’s odd that the school emblem is two stylized eagles, given that our mascot is the cougar, but this is Fairvale Academy, so we don’t question it…much. I transferred from a public middle school, and the private school uniform took some getting used to. I’d much rather wear jeans and a T-shirt.

   I pick up my blazer from where I threw it Friday afternoon. I cringe at the wrinkles and try to smooth them out. But there’s simply no saving this dull navy monstrosity.

   I take the stairs two at a time. My house has a no-shoe policy, so my socked feet slip on the hardwood floors, and I only save myself from falling by gripping the kitchen island.

   “One day you’re going to end up breaking something,” Mom warns. She’s seated at the island, reading the newspaper on her iPad. Mom is dressed and ready for the day. Her bottle-blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. There’s a stack of Dad’s pancakes on her plate, and my stomach growls at the sight.

   “You better eat something quick, boytjie,” Dad says. He’s still got his South African accent despite having lived in the United States for almost two decades now. My mom is White, and my dad is mixed race. When I was younger, I didn’t understand the stares that they got—the stares that I got—but now I do. People have an idea of what love should be, and my parents loving each other doesn’t fit into everyone’s perfect vision. Dad has always said that racists are sad people trying to make the rest of the world just as sad. Their hatred is something we should pity them for because it keeps them from living full lives.

       My phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket and open the three musketeers group chat with Donny and Priya. After finishing the Dumas book last summer, I convinced them to watch the movie with me. The whole “All for one and one for all” motto was so extra that it seemed perfectly made for us.

   I scroll past the memes that Donny shared last night and find the text telling me that he’s here.

   “No time,” I say as I head to the cabinet where Mom keeps the breakfast bars. She makes sure we always have some on hand because most mornings I tend to run late. I rip open the wrapper and take a big bite.

   “He got the oversleeping from you, dear,” Mom says to Dad.

   “Well, I have an excuse. My body hasn’t adapted to this time zone.”

   “It’s been twenty years. I think that excuse is over.”

   Mom and Dad met when she was doing volunteer work with a church in South Africa. It just so happened that Dad attended that same church. They fell in love, and the rest, as they say, is history.

   “Bye!” I call as I race from the kitchen. I stop at the door to put on my school shoes, grab my messenger bag from the hook, and gobble down the rest of the breakfast bar.

       “Have a great day,” Dad calls.

   “Love you,” Mom adds.

   “You too,” I say, my mouth still slightly full. I exit the house and walk toward the sports car that a teenager has no business owning. I climb into the back seat. Donny is driving and Priya is in the front seat.

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