Bryson sighs. He picks up my blazer before taking the seat next to me. He rests his arm on the armrest and we end up touching.
“You free this afternoon?”
I look up from our arms. Our eyes meet and it’s totally unnerving. This is the closest I’ve ever been to Bryson Keller. I jerk my arm away. Bryson frowns.
“Uh, yes. I’m free,” I answer.
“Then how about we get together and at least decide on what movie we’re going to perform.”
“Okay. Where?”
“I know this great café,” Bryson says. “We can go there if you want?”
“Sure.”
“Meet me in the parking lot after school, then.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I stand.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“To beg for my life.”
Mrs. Henning is seated in the front row, flipping through some notes. As I approach her, I take deep, calming breaths. She looks up.
“What can I do for you, Kai?”
“Uh, actually, ma’am…,” I start awkwardly. “I was wondering if—no, hoping that—that you’d let me out of detention today. I can do it tomorrow?”
“Why would I do that?” Mrs. Henning asks. “You were late today. And so you must serve your punishment today.”
“I was hoping to work on my script at lunch. I’m almost done and just need to do a bit more work to get it ready by the deadline. If I don’t, I won’t be able to submit.”
“Time management matters, Kai. I understand that life happens, but I can’t give you any special treatment. On my way to audition for Elphaba, I broke my toe. But did I let that stop me? Of course not. I worked through the pain, made it on time, and was sensational.”
There isn’t anything I can do or say now. The one thing I wanted for my senior year is slipping away. I would have loved to write the school play for my final year at Fairvale Academy—a small way for me to leave my mark. It was important to me, and now it’s all over—all because of Bryson Keller and this stupid dare.
I head back to my seat. “Why were you late?” I ask. I want to tell him why I was. I want to tell Bryson Keller just how much he has messed up not only my day but my year. I’m angry and annoyed at him. Maybe it isn’t fair, but right now I don’t care.
“Family stuff.” Bryson’s expression is clouded and heavy, and it almost dulls my anger, but then his phone vibrates with a text. “Everyone’s wondering who I’m dating this week.” He smiles then, showing perfectly white teeth.
“Who is it?” I ask. I swear to God, if it’s Louise Keaton, I’ll lose it.
“No one yet. It’s nine-ten and I am still single,” he says. “This hasn’t happened in ages. I miss it.”
That all this has happened for no reason pisses me off, as does his nonchalant attitude. I am drunk on anger and disappointment. It gives me confidence that I never had before.
“No, you’re not,” I say.
Bryson turns to me again. “Huh?” he asks. He’s clearly confused. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not single.” I do it. I say the words that I never thought I ever would. “I’m asking you out. I’m first, so this week you’re dating me.”
Just then the bell rings, but Bryson and I stay seated. We’re staring at each other. With each passing heartbeat, my confidence and anger shrivel up and die. Soon I am left with the aftermath of what I have just said, of what I have just done and what it all means.
Bryson bursts out laughing. It’s too loud. It’s clear that he thinks this is a joke. And I know it would be safer for me to laugh it off, too. I’m a senior, in my final year of high school. For these four grueling years, I’ve managed to keep it a secret that I am gay, and just like that, I’ve kicked the closet door open. As I listen to him laugh, I realize that I don’t want him to think this is a joke. My being gay isn’t a laughing matter. I want him to know that I am serious.
So I lean in close, our faces inches apart. His laugh tapers off.
“What are you doing?” He leans back, creating space between us, but I don’t let that stop me. My face may be on fire, but so are all my insides.
I close the distance once more.
“I’m not joking,” I say. “Date me, Bryson Keller!”
3
What have I just done?
It’s a question that I repeat over and over in my head. Dread builds as I head toward English. I can’t be late to second period, too, so even though it means facing Bryson again, I still run. Usually, this would be the last I’d see of Bryson for the day, but not today. I have lunchtime detention with him.
Oh God!
Why did I do that? It’s another question that pounds in time with my galloping heart. What on God’s green earth possessed me to out myself to the most popular boy at Fairvale Academy? I’ve never been very into the whole coming-out business—maybe because the one and only time I did it, my best friend back then ghosted me. The sleepovers stopped, as did the invites to swim. It was like I didn’t exist anymore. Eventually we went to different high schools, but the scars of thirteen-year-old me ache even now, like a knee in winter.
So except for a few random boys I’ve chatted to online since then, I haven’t come out to a soul. Being a gay teenager stuck in the closet is so lonely and isolating.
Oh God, why did I do that?
I’m not overtly religious. It’s not that I don’t believe in a higher power or anything. I kind of like the idea of someone always watching over me, at least up until the point I do things that will make Jesus blush. But right this second, I would not refuse some sort of miracle.
Any sort of miracle, really.
For the first time I am openly gay to someone at Fairvale Academy. I want to throw up. I can’t focus on any of this, not when the five-minute changeover is swiftly ticking away. I race from building A toward building B.
Fairvale Academy is divided into two main buildings, each consisting of three floors. Our classes, save for gym, are split between them. Aside from drama, my classes are held in building B.
I take the stairs two at a time and enter the large courtyard that divides the two buildings. I’m not the only student racing to beat the clock. I manage to sink into my seat just as the second-period bell rings.
There are twenty other students in the class, but there is only one I concern myself with. I pull my copy of The Great Gatsby from my bag and turn to the page where we left off. Bryson arrives just before the teacher does. He’s not smiling, and his brow is furrowed. I make sure I keep my gaze trained on the words before me. He takes his seat, next to the window. Bryson and I sit in the same row. There’s just one desk between us—and it’s still empty. It seems that Mary-Beth Jones is out sick.