“Would it be weird if I tried to get our grandmas to date?” I ask. “At the very least, can I be her friend on Facebook?”
Hannah takes a swig of soda. “It’s not all sunshine and friend requests. Last week, she called me during class to tell me she got a message from a random person saying that the government was monitoring her Facebook page and that she needed to send in her social security number to verify her identity.”
“Oh my God,” Clem gasps. “Do they have like child lock on phones but for grandparents?”
“Is it bad that I don’t know my social security number by heart?” I ask.
“You don’t even know your cell phone number.” Clem throws herself against the back of the booth. “I guess I’ll just go to Prism by myself.”
Prism is the only school-sanctioned queer club, started by—you guessed it!—Kyle Meeks. And, for the record, I don’t think I’m actually a bad gay, but I’ve never been good at being . . . political the way Kyle and the other members are. The group has done really awesome things, like a gender-neutral bathroom in the attendance office and fighting to remove gender-specific dress codes for school dances, but some days I feel like I’m barely getting by in Clover City and maybe there isn’t always safety in numbers. Maybe numbers put a bigger target on our back? I’m this close to graduating. I’d rather not become any more of a target than I already am. (And trust me. Femme-leaning fat, gay ginger guys already stand out plenty, even when they’re wearing basic-ass clothes their mom bought them at Sam’s Club.) Especially if Clem is about to leave me here to survive on my own.
Okay, maybe I also really can’t stand Kyle Meeks and everything he does, and maybe disliking him so much also makes me feel like a colossal jerk. I don’t know. Jury’s still out.
“Room for two more?” asks Kyle, as if summoned by our conversation. He slides in next to me, followed by Alex.
“I guess so,” I say as Clem says, “Of course!”
I slide to the center point of the U-shaped booth seat. Great. Now I’m trapped.
“Nice and cozy,” says Alex.
“So cozy,” Hannah deadpans, and I could kiss her cute little unimpressed face.
Kyle says longingly as he looks at all of our trays and then back to his grilled-chicken salad, “I was bad over the weekend, so salads for me.”
Alex rolls his eyes. “Babe, a burger won’t kill you.”
“No,” says Kyle, “but it will make me fat again.”
I want to slither out of this booth until I’m nothing but a puddle of human irritation on the floor.
“Um, Kyle,” Clem says gently, “maybe you don’t have to say fat like it’s a bad thing.”
Kyle gives her a puzzled look, but continues charging into a conversation about some teacher who dared to give him an A minus.
I wink at Clem, who reaches under the table to squeeze my kneecap.
For the rest of lunch, Clem, Alex, and Kyle chatter back and forth about choir and passing on the Prism torch to the underclass people, and Kyle and Alex’s big plans to be the queer power couple of the century at Rice University this fall.
My mind wanders as I watch them and every other Clover City senior in this restaurant laugh and whisper and hug. All I can think about is Clem leaving me and Lucas choosing someone over me and how these are supposed to be the best years of my life, but how can that even be true? How is that even possible? If you would have told me just a week ago that these were the best years of my life, I would have shrugged and said, “Sure, I guess. It’s not bad, so it must be good.” But this can’t be it? Can it?
“So I told him he has to send the video in,” Kyle says and nudges me in the side. “You’re sending it in, right?”
I throw my arms up. “Yes! Okay? I’m going to send it in. I’m going to show the whole world that a random kid from a little Texas nowhere town can be the Fiercest of Them All. Are you happy?”
Kyle smiles a full twenty-watt smile. He doesn’t get it. He’s too damn noble to even read my sarcasm. “Yes,” he says, like I’ve finally seen the light. “You go, queen!”
I could puke. I could vomit right this moment.
“I gotta go,” I say, and look around for my nearest exit, but I’m quickly reminded that, oh yeah, I’m a huge tall, fat dude stuck in a tiny booth and there’s no chance my butt is going over or under, so I turn back to Kyle. “Excuse me.”
He doesn’t move.
“Excuse me,” I say again as I begin to scoot toward him, until he finally gets it and he and Alex move out of my way.
From across the restaurant, I can hear Tucker laughing loudly, and I know it’s not directed at me, but I can’t stop myself from feeling like I’m the butt of whatever joke has him so entertained.
I go out to the truck and wait for Clem and Hannah to finish their food. Part of me wants to ditch them and let them catch a ride with Kyle and Alex.
After a few minutes, Clem comes outside and whispers something to Hannah, who hangs behind, plopping down on the curb.
Clem leans in through the passenger window and I have so much to say to her that if I make eye contact with her, it will all come spilling out.
“Waylon?” she asks. “What’s the deal? Are you okay?”
I nod. “I’m good.”
“Is it Kyle? I know he can rub you the wrong way sometimes.”
“Yeah,” I tell her as I start the car, and wave an arm out the window to Hannah for her to get in. “He just annoys me sometimes. I don’t get why you like him.”
She opens the door. “I don’t get why you don’t like him.”
“You know why I don’t like him.”
She gets into the truck and in her gentlest voice, she says, “I don’t think it’s really fair to dislike someone because they lost some weight a few years ago.”
Clem’s always been the thin one between us. Growing up, we heard every joke. Are you sure he didn’t eat the third one in the womb? And for a long time, it drove a wedge between us, especially when we were younger and we’d be in the pediatrician’s office. Clem was always this shining example of perfect health, meanwhile I was routinely questioned about my eating habits and our mom was handed countless pamphlets about childhood obesity. I remember hating Clem for being skinny, but time and age helped me see that the only people confused by our differences were people who didn’t matter. But there are still some things, like why Kyle makes me uncomfortable, that are hard for her to fathom.
I purse my lips together and call out the window to Hannah. “Come on! Let’s go!”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” I tell my sister. I don’t feel like having my emotions about something that felt very big to me dismissed. Because my problems with Kyle are so much more than that. For as much as I love my sister and as much as we have in common, maybe we don’t know each other as well as I thought.
Seven
When all else fails, call Grammy. This has been my mantra since the first time I faked sick at school in first grade and both Mom and Dad called BS on me when I phoned them. When the secretary wasn’t paying attention, I made one last-ditch effort to get out of school and called Grammy. I don’t know what it was about that particular day. Maybe a bad day in gym class or maybe my teacher had caught me daydreaming, but I would have done anything to get out of school.