I curse her.
Our English teacher, Mr. Weber, is a barely-out-of-college type. This is his first official year teaching, so he tends to do everything by the textbook. Everything is the same, and everything is incredibly boring.
Mr. Weber reads from the book before pausing and looking up. “Focus, please, Bryson.”
For most of the period I try my hardest to ignore Bryson. But then I lose the war against myself. I turn to secretly look at him, and end up looking directly into his eyes. For the second time this hour, I stop breathing.
Quickly, I turn back to my book while fighting the heat that colors my cheeks. Blushing makes my spattering of freckles stand out more. They are both my most distinct feature and the thing I hate most about the way I look.
For the rest of the period, I force myself to stare at the same page. While the rest of the class moves forward, I relive asking Bryson Keller out. I did what Eric Ferguson wanted to do. I wonder if I was brave or stupid. It’s all too late now.
The end-of-period bell rings, and I shove my copy of The Great Gatsby into my bag without much thought. Leaving this classroom means leaving Bryson behind—at least until lunch.
I join the swarm of classmates feeding into the hallway and hope to lose myself in the crowd. A hand clamps down on my shoulder and instantly I know who it belongs to.
“We should talk?” Bryson says. His breath tickles my ear and I fight a shiver. In the crush of students, Bryson bumps into me, creating a warmth at my back.
“Okay,” I say. I try to calm my nerves. He just wants to talk. Bryson is known for being fair. Earlier this year, the school wanted to allow only seniors who are athletes to leave the premises for lunch. It wasn’t the first time the teachers had outright shown that the athletes are truly the gods of this school. And as captain of the boys’ soccer team, Bryson is on the highest pedestal. But he argued that all seniors should be allowed—and he won. It’s one of the reasons why everyone loves him.
“Yo, BK.” Dustin’s voice cuts through the chatter that surrounds us. The bulky boy, who serves as a defender for the Cougars, pushes through the sea of bodies. His cocky gait is a sure sign that he’s very much aware of the hierarchy at Fairvale Academy and he knows his place at the top.
I never thought that I would ever be thankful for the ball of testosterone that is Dustin Smith, but as he nears us, I can’t help but feel relieved. At least 90 percent; the other 10 is disappointment, but that’s easy to ignore.
Bryson greets Dustin in what can only be described as a bro-hug, and I stand there awkwardly as they talk. Halfway through the conversation, Dustin stops and looks at me.
“Why are you here?” Dustin looks from me to Bryson.
The lie is quick on my tongue. When you live in the closet, lies become easier to tell. “Henning paired Bryson and me for drama, so we need to plan a practice schedule.” I don’t look at Bryson’s eyes, because if I do, I know the lie will not be believable.
“Okay.” Dustin must buy my words, because he says to Bryson, “Did Shannon finally get to you?”
Bryson shakes his head. “I haven’t seen her yet.” He sighs. “Why? Did you tell her I was going to be late today?”
“You should just get it over and done with. You know how she is. What Shannon wants, she gets. The more you avoid her, the worse it is,” Dustin says. “So, who is it?”
I swallow hard and even though I don’t want to, I turn to look at Bryson.
“Who’s what?” he asks. Bryson may not be a good liar, but his feigning ignorance is something that I’m extremely thankful for.
“C’mon, man. Your girlfriend this week?”
Before Bryson can answer, my name is called. At first, I think I’ve imagined the saving grace, but I look up and spot Donny walking toward me.
“What are you doing, Kai?” Donny asks.
“Hey, Quack,” Dustin says, using the nickname that the seniors gave Donny when we were freshmen. The name stuck at first, but it’s mostly just Dustin who calls him that now.
Bryson smacks Dustin on his chest. And I’m thankful for the small gesture.
“Uh, I’ll talk to you later, then, Bryson,” I say.
I pull Donny along as the changeover bell signals the start of the next class.
Because math is just down the hall, we make it there before our math teacher, Ms. Orton, does. Donny pulls his workbook from his bag and caresses it like it is his most prized possession. For all the things that he and I have in common, the love of math is not one of them. On the list of things I hate, the subject sits snugly between phone calls and Leonardo DiCaprio and his Academy Award thirst.
I flip my notebook open to this weekend’s homework. Already I know it’s wrong. And already I simply don’t care. But Donny has made it his mission to ensure that I don’t fail. Thanks to him, I manage to scrape the bottom of a C grade.
“So what were you and the King talking about?” Donny asks.
I smile at our inside joke. “Uh, Henning paired us up for a project.” The best lies are the ones built on truths. There is no way I’m telling Donny why Bryson actually wanted to speak to me.
“Unlucky,” Donny mumbles just as the math teacher saunters into class. We all start to find x, but thirty minutes into it I give up. X is currently missing, presumed dead.
For the rest of class, I sit and watch the clock. Each ticking minute inches me closer to not only my punishment but also missing my deadline. Just as the bell rings, the intercom above the whiteboard crackles to life. The voice of the school secretary blares out, “Will Bryson Keller and Kai Sheridan please report to the auditorium. Thank you.” As if I could forget. “Will Bryson Keller and Kai Sheridan please report to the auditorium. Thank you.”
“What for?” Donny asks. “I thought you needed to write.”
I swear. “That was the plan, but stuff happened.” My anger from before is nothing more than an ember—small and dying. “I was late.”
“Damn. That sucks,” Donny says. He has no idea. We part ways, and with no other choice I head toward the auditorium.
I walk toward my hour alone with Bryson Keller.
4
I stop before the auditorium doors and take a deep, calming breath to prepare myself for what awaits inside. It doesn’t work. I grip the strap of my messenger bag tightly. Exhaling, I take the plunge. The door swings open to reveal Mrs. Henning standing before the stage. She has a file clutched in her hands.
“Thank you for being on time now,” she says as she looks down at her watch. I head toward her. “Well, when Mr. Keller decides to arrive, please have him help you.”