I’m halfway to class, to breathable air, when someone brushes my left side. My body reacts immediately: muscles charged like the aftershock of lightning, pulse fuzzy like footsteps in a heavy snowfall, skin numb like after an overdose of Novocain. I smell only the expensive body spray, like crisp leaves before they change colors, like a love sampled but never savored, that I desperately miss.
Dimi walks with a small pack of soccer teammates marching behind. His laugh crawls under my skin, warm and strident.
I can’t move. Wait, that’s a lie. My shoulders pull forward, my chest sinks, as if I can hide in the middle of the hall. My heart beats and thumps and cracks against my ribs like a rioting thunderstorm.
He doesn’t even notice me.
“Are you okay?” Rio’s gripping my elbow with her thumb in the crook as if she’s testing my pulse.
“Yeah,” I manage to get out despite a heavy tongue. “No biggie.”
Rio’s a true friend. She nods and doesn’t make a single comment about how pale I am, how my breaths are irregular.
“We’ll talk about this Mad Tagger business later.”
“Sure,” I reply, an obvious lie.
She doesn’t comment on that either. Only a glimmer of annoyance passes through her eyes, then disappears. “He’s a nobody,” she whispers.
I count backwards from ten, a little trick Mom taught me when I used to get off rollercoasters with clenched fists and blurred vision. Then I say, “Relationships are for losers.”
It’s a shame that I’m the biggest loser to ever lose.
I’m in danger.
It prickles hotly up the back of my neck, tingles in my fingertips. I pretend today’s lunch of questionably authentic chicken fajitas are a lot more appetizing than they taste. I watch Principal Moon scold a freshman for texting during school hours. But disaster is looming, and it comes in the form of Sara when she plops down at our table. I haven’t been avoiding her—much. It’s not as if we share any classes outside of AP Lit. Sara is a borderline super-genius and I’m an average student. Very average.
“Nice shirt,” says Sara, civilly.
I pause mid-sip from my peach soda, carbonation bubbling on my tongue, then look around. Jayden is curled in on himself, laughing. Chloe’s red-faced, demolishing her second Capri-Sun pouch. Zac, animated hands and all, is leading the discussion about whatever MTV teen saga was on last night. I’m not keeping score.
Sara’s staring from across the table. Okay, so she is talking to me—perfect.
It’s not that Sara and I aren’t friends. We are, on some level. It’s just that all our conversations depend on someone else starting them. Then we chime in, agree or disagree. Our social interaction hinges on a third party initiating what we’re too awkward—or indifferent—to do ourselves.
After a swallow, I say, “Thanks?” Usually I’d be proud to show off my wardrobe—it’s kind of my thing—but this feels like a trap. Compliments are the bait.
“New?”
Rio guffaws.
“No.” I squint at Sara. The ruthless fluorescent light gleams off her ceramic braces. Her plastic grin is the lure. Mouth twisted, I say, “What is—”
“So,” interrupts Sara, elbows on the table, hands bridged for her chin to rest on, “when is the next GSA meeting?”
“Monday.”
“Monday?”
I nod slowly, waiting for her to reel me in. Then, I add, “We welcome new members promptly at four if you’d like to…?”
Sara answers with a middle finger. We exchange glares—fireworks and lightning and nuclear bomb explosions. It was a foul thing to say, to be honest. I’d never intentionally out anyone, not that I know anything about Sara’s sexuality. That’s not the mission of GSA. It’s not on my agenda either.
“Perfect,” says Sara with a forced grin. “The homecoming committee and I would love to drop by.”
“Homecoming committee?”
This is why I suck at games like Monopoly. I lack strategic skills. I’m not cutthroat. I’m the first person to buy all four railroads and Mediterranean and Baltic Avenues. I’m bankrupt and in jail after my fourth roll of the dice.
“What for?” I ask, biting into my fajita. My earlier assessment that lunch was anything resembling edible was incorrect. I chug half my soda just to get it down.
“I have my reasons,” replies Sara.
“Such as?”
“I’d love to see more diversity in this year’s events. True representation from all aspects of our school.” Though it sounds as if it’s borrowed from an ad for “It Gets Better,” Sara’s calculated speech seems almost genuine. She leans closer. “Maybe we could get a few members to run for homecoming court?”
Ignoring the hint in her voice, I poke at the imitation fajita. Is she referring to me as Homecoming Prince? Because, if so—no way.
“Come by if you want.”
A hint of sadness tugs at the corners of Sara’s mouth, tightening the creases around her eyes. Then it’s gone as swiftly as it came, and she’s steely, confident, no-bullshit Sara again. She turns away to start a new topic with Zac and Alex.
I shrug it off. It’s one of those “no hard feelings” things Sara and I do. We orbit in the same galaxy, just around different planets.
At the other end of our table, Brook has one arm lazily slung around Lucy’s shoulders. Limp, ketchup-covered fries are hovering near his mouth, but he’s busy chuckling at something Jayden’s said.
Next to him is Ian.
Facts: Maplewood is filled with cute guys. Nerdy types, jocks, the I-know-I-am-but-pretend-not-to-be cute types. They’re everywhere. And the struggle is real because they’re not guys like me. I do my damnedest not to bring any extra unwanted attention to that fact that I’m gay. That means no ogling other guys, especially if they’re potentially straight.
But my eyes can’t help noticing Ian. He’s his own category of cute, a to-be-named category. His glasses never sit perfectly on his nose. His skin still has leftover bronze from summer and California sun. Today, he’s wearing a denim jacket, unbuttoned to reveal some unrecognizable anime character on his T-shirt.
I only know maybe five anime characters. Lucy is the high authority on those things. But I’m so focused on his shirt, I’m startled to find him staring back at me. It’s warming like midafternoon sun across downtown Atlanta. It pushes into my skin like confident fingertips, playing my nerves like a perfectly-tuned piano.
“Yeah. So. Nice shirt.” It comes out so bad. My tongue is stone-heavy behind my teeth. What a perfect time for our table to go dead-silent!