by Dawn Klehr
Now that the cat’s out of the bag, that means me.
“Keep dreaming,” Libby yells as Tori and Natalie retreat to the other row of lockers.
“Nice comeback,” I scoff.
Libby shrugs. “You know I’m not great under pressure.”
That is so not true. If there is one person you want to have by your side in a disaster-type situation, it’s Libby. In kindergarten, she helped me take care of my bloody nose after the boys bombarded me in the face with the four-square ball. Then she kicked the ball over the playground fence so they couldn’t play with it anymore. We’ve been friends ever since. Libby knows how to handle the sticky situations and she’s more loyal than a golden retriever. She is also—unfortunately—a little hotheaded.
I sigh and stretch my neck. It’s going to be a long hour.
“What?” Libby throws her arms up at me before pulling on her tee.
“Do you have to antagonize them?” I ask.
Libby’s head pops through her shirt and now that she’s looking directly at me, I can see the dark bags that hang under her eyes. “They’re the ones calling us names.”
“I know.” I bump her hip. “And, you are so not a dyke.”
She makes a pouty face. “No shit. Guilt by association.”
Poor Libby has been guilty by association since Saturday night, after my very public outing.
We change and walk into the gym. It’s full of ratty volleyball nets and bodies and smells like mold and sweat. The boys are bunched up in one group at the end of the room and the girls huddle in another cluster. Coach Keller stands in the middle with his clipboard, ready to choose the team captains.
I spot Emma against the gym wall and ache instantly. The pain starts in my stomach, moves to my chest and up my neck, and finds a resting place behind my left temple. Emma doesn’t notice. Her head is down as she twists the ring on her finger.
Up until Saturday, Emma and I were a couple. Maybe that’s too strong a word. We were dating. Secretly. I didn’t want it to be that way but the Heights is not exactly the place for non-traditional lifestyles. Last week, Tori and her friends came to school one morning wearing T-shirts for the Day of the Righteous. Apparently it’s some religious movement to help gay people become straight. It’s the second year they’ve done it, but this year, Mayor Devlin had the whole congregation from his church saying prayers outside the school—and then his daughter went around the halls telling everyone she suspected of being gay that they were going to hell for their sins.
Most people don’t even understand what the Day of the Righteous is all about. But that doesn’t stop them from pumping their fists, saying “Righteous, Dude,” all day long. And that includes some of the teachers.
Though Emma and I were both technically in the closet, rumors have been circulating about me for years. Is she? Isn’t she? The problem was, even I wasn’t sure.
Now it doesn’t matter if I am or not. Emma decided to out me at the Java House over the weekend. Emma works at the Java House too, and I’d always meet up with her after her shift. Saturday night was no different than any other, until this happened.
So … everyone knows.
Looking back, the whole thing seems like it was staged. I could almost hear a director’s voice in my ears …
Riley and Emma breakup scene.
And ... Action!
“Riley, not everyone is gay,” Emma yells, in front of the whole crowd, after I make my way to our booth.
“I think you’re nice and all,” she continues. “But I’m not into you that way. Please just back off.”
Everyone bursts out in laughter—at least it seems like everyone. I stand there in shock, like a bucket of cold water has been dumped on my head. I’m shivering, watching people in slow motion. Emma’s face is frozen, not giving anything away.
Then Libby sweeps in, leads me away by my arm, and tells the pack of onlookers exactly what they can do with their body parts. Thankfully, Java management isn’t around, because I’m pretty sure telling patrons to go fuck themselves would be cause for termination.
Here in the gym, Libby lifts her chin in my direction—her way of telling me to be strong. She knows I’ve been sick all day, worrying about seeing Emma again. Emma’s been MIA since it happened. I’ve tried to get ahold of her but I’ve had no luck. There’ve been no texts, no email, no messenger pigeons. Nada. I haven’t seen her in any of our school meeting spots either.
She’s at the other end of the gym and I want to go to her, but there’s no way we can talk here—in front of everyone. She’s made that perfectly clear.
One month ago, it was the two of us having fun in this very room. Totally G-rated, but it felt like the beginning of something. Then we started meeting up for lunch, spending time at the coffee shop drinking mochas, and hiding in the bookshelves at the library sharing secrets. We talked about my plans to go to acting school.
I already have applications in at my top choices: Tisch School of the Arts at NYU, Northwestern, and the Guthrie program at the University of Minnesota. I want to be invited to the first round of artistic reviews and auditions, and that means starting early. If all of these fall through, it’s community college for me. With my dad. If it actually comes to that, I hope to be struck by lightning and live the rest of my days at Good Samaritan’s Home for Vegetables.
Emma, conversely, wanted to stick around the Heights once she became a vet. Her family lives in town but has some land in the country where they have a few horses and chickens. Emma would live out there if she could. She hopes to take it over one day, though I can’t fathom why she’d want to stay around here—a place where she has to hide.
Now I won’t get to know that hidden piece of her. Yet, with all that’s happened, I feel like it’s a piece of me that’s missing. A piece I hadn’t even realized I’d found.
“Move in, folks,” Coach K shouts, crammed between his chosen captains—Tori and one of the jock girls. The chosen guys stand to the left.
Great, it’s time for the obligatory picking of the teams.
Emma stands up to join the group. Her sandy hair is pinned back, but a loose curl has escaped and falls across her face. I fight the urge to brush it away. When I look closer, I see that something has shifted; her expression is different. All the warmth is gone from her face. She’s a stranger, and I can feel the barricade between us. I wish I could break through to get to my friend.
“Look at Coach K, loving life.” Marcus chuckles. “You could put me in that hottie sandwich any time.”
Marcus is what you’d call the rebound guy. You know the type—the kind of guy who preys on the newly single and depressed. Every high school has a Marcus. Once a girl’s relationship status turns to it’s complicated, he begins the hunt. When Paige Han’s boyfriend was killed in a motorcycle accident sophomore year, Marcus only waited a few days to strike. For some gross reason, it works. He dated Paige for six months.
These days, Paige avoids him like an STD. Tori, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice his indiscretions. Their families run in the same crowd, so they’re pretty tight.
Each captain calls out names. The jock guys are all selected first—big surprise—and then there’s a bunch of high-fiving and ass-slapping. I feel like I’m going to choke on all the testosterone.
Soon the only guys left are the small, shy, and uncoordinated. Those unfortunate souls are bypassed altogether as the Tori Rollers and the jock girls are picked.
Then Tori takes inventory of her choices. “Gosh, who should we choose next?” she asks her team, fluttering her fingers across her lips. “The dorks or the dykes?”
Tori’s friends giggle in unison and Marcus gives her a fist bump.
Coach K gets in on it too. He smirks and turns his head, pretending not to hear. He’s notorious for his selective listening. Last year, he stood by while two senior guys tormented
a freshman during weight training. The seniors were supposed to be spotting the kid during his bench presses but, instead, they let the bar drop on the boy’s chest and left him to struggle under the weight. It was to toughen him up, they said. I guess the kid fractured his clavicle. Coach got some grief from a few parents and teachers for his negligence, but nothing ever seems to stick to that guy.
Jonah looks over at me and gives me his puppy dog eyes, but he doesn’t say a word about Tori’s comments. They go to the same church and Jonah would never cross her.
“Just pick the teams, Tori—we can do without your commentary,” Stella pipes up. Stella’s a loner who transferred here last year. I used to feel sorry for her but I think maybe she’s onto something, steering clear of these idiots.
“Yeah, just hurry up,” another guy yells from the crowd.
At least I have a few allies left.
Circles of teams begin to form while the rest of us losers lean up against the wall, wondering how long this torture can continue. I settle in because I don’t have a chance of getting picked until the very end. Not with Tori running the show.
Libby shuffles her feet, unable to stand still.
By the end, we’re the only two remaining. I’m okay with it, but there’s no reason why Libby still hasn’t been picked. She’s an awesome athlete and, at six feet tall, she stands almost a foot above my measly five-two frame. When we’re together, I look like her sponsored child from the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program.
Tori sighs before making her last choice, looking us both up and down. “Okay, we’ll take Libby.”
And then there was one.
Jock Girl doesn’t even say my name. It’s simply implied that I’m left for her team. She turns around toward the net and the team follows. It’s almost comical. Maybe. If it was happening to someone else.
The four teams take their place on the court. My team is up against Tori’s.
Perfect.
Once we finally start to play, Libby gets her revenge. Within seconds of the whistle, she spikes the ball. But instead of crossing the net, it comes down on Tori.
Hard.
Libby shrugs like it’s an accident.
Then she gets serious and pretty much smokes everyone on our side of the net. The girl is on fire. Her own team has a hard time not cheering.
On my team, however, they shut me out.
I don’t care. I just hover in position and try not to watch as Marcus eyes Emma, ready to catch her on the rebound.
God, I hate this place.
DEZ
EXT. THE FROSTS’ FRONT PORCH—NIGHT
The camera moves in tight on RILEY FROST, a beautiful 17-year-old girl with long dark hair. She sits on the porch tucked into a ball. Her arms hug her knees tight.
CUT TO:
CLOSE UP: RILEY
She looks up and her face is red and blotchy. She’s been crying.
I do this a lot—watch my life from the eyes of a director. It’s like I’m watching a movie. Sometimes it’s easier to deal with than the real thing. It doesn’t hurt as much or something. Or maybe I’ve just completely lost it. I’ve heard that’s what happens when you spend too much time behind the camera. There’s a ton of weird stories about the great filmmakers. Take Stanley Kubrick. I guess he used to shoot at visitors on his front lawn when he wanted to be alone. Then there’s Werner Herzog, who’s known for all kinds of crazy. He once cooked and ate his shoe in public after losing a bet. And look at Woody Allen. He married his girlfriend’s twenty-year-old daughter when he was, like, sixty.
So maybe I’m not that bad.
My headlights catch Riley on her front porch as I pull into the driveway, and my face is burning. Riley left school early and missed rehearsal tonight, so I haven’t seen her since this morning.
Our families have lived next door to each other since be-fore we were born. Our moms became best friends after Joan and Ken adopted Riley from Russia. We were both almost two years old and became instant playmates. Our parents always joked that we’d get married someday. I thought they might be right—until I found out about Rye.
She stays frozen in a ball and doesn’t notice me as I pull up, or when I slam the car door, or when I cross my yard to get to hers. She doesn’t see me until I’m practically on top of her.
“Hey.” I nudge my New Balance into her Pumas.
She coughs and blinks real hard—and just like that, the anguish covering her face is wiped clean, replaced with a smile and bright eyes.
“Hey to you.” Her Puma nudges back.
I’m not in Riley’s gym class, but Jonah’s given me the play-by-play of Tori’s abuse. It’s been beyond rough.
“We missed you tonight.” I grab a seat next to her on the porch. The paint is flaking off the wood floor and Riley mindlessly picks at it. I was supposed to paint it for them over the summer, but Joan and Ken decided to wait one more year. They’ve been saying “one more year” since we graduated from junior high.
The heat from our Indian summer has finally broken and a cool breeze is now coming through. Autumn is here. The porch light shines on Riley’s bare arms, little scrawny things sporting goose bumps.
“I’m sorry about rehearsal, Dez,” she says. For a second, I can see what looks to be a flash of regret. “I just wasn’t up for it.”
I unzip my hoodie and wrap it around her shoulders.
She snuggles into the sweatshirt and rests her head on my arm. It’s something she’s done so many times. Still, I have to steady myself when she’s this close, so I play the game What’s NOT hot. I flip through images in my head. What’s not hot?
My mom.
Jonah.
That documentary about how fast food is made.
Riley takes a breath and looks at me. I can see the sadness in her eyes. She’s exposed and vulnerable. My gaze travels down her face to her lips and …
Puppies, not hot.
Grandma Brandt, so not hot.
Snowstorm. Cold. Cold. Cold.
I get my thoughts—and crotch—under control and listen as she goes on.
“It’s bad, Dez. And not only for me. I’m taking Libby down too. That’s the last thing she needs right now.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, feeling my stomach churn. “It can’t be that bad.”
Can it?
In my head, I see Riley and Libby on an execution platform like in that old Clint Eastwood movie Hang ’Em High. I used to watch all the old westerns with my Grandpa. In this one, a bunch of guys are sentenced to death by hanging so the “authority” decides to execute them all at the same time. The camera pans across the men as they stand on the platform, nooses around their necks, while the townspeople gather around salivating for blood. A preacher condemns them for their sins and the crowd breaks out in Bible hymns. Then the lawmen turn a lever and the next thing you see are the men’s dangling feet.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake away the image.
“Oh, it’s that bad,” Riley says. “Didn’t you know? Now that I’ve scared Emma off, Libby’s become my new lezzy lover. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Don’t worry, it’s just the drama of the moment. It’ll all blow over.” I hope.
“I don’t know. Things are so effed up.”
It’s true, things are fucked up around here—just like the Wild West. It all started when Tori’s dad, Mayor Devlin, kicked off his campaign for re-election last spring. During his first term, he was investigated for hiring his friends to city jobs and cashing in on political favors. It was a huge story—the Minneapolis media even covered it. He was never charged with anything, though, and he’s been on a mission to clear his good name ever since.
This year, his campaign has focused on ethics, morals, and family values. He’s been all over town talking about saving this and protecting that. Before all this Devlin business,
I don’t remember things being such a big deal. I don’t know, it seemed like people just kept their opinions to themselves. But now everything is up for debate. You can feel the tension in the air.
And that’s not the worst of it. Last month, Ms. Dunn—our humanities teacher and one of the people who started the Devlin investigation—was stabbed to death at school. She was Riley’s favorite teacher, so Rye’s had a double dose of shit to deal with.
Nobody really knows how the murder went down, and I … well, I have more details than I should. Details I’ve tried to erase from my memory. Images that creep into my dreams.
The official word is that Ms. Dunn was killed in the supply room at the end of the day. The janitor found her on his evening rounds. School had been in session less than a week. The newly sharpened pencils hadn’t even had a chance to dull yet. It was a stranger who did it, they say. A random criminal looking for money or shelter or something to steal. They say it was quick and Ms. Dunn probably didn’t even know what hit her.
They lie.
Technically, the investigation is still going on but without a murder weapon or a suspect, it’s slow going. Of course, I got a peek at my stepfather’s report and a look at the crime scene, so I have a bit more information than the average resident in the Heights.
A bunch of the morons at school are convinced it was Carl the Janitor. Poor old guy. There’s no way he had the strength to kill Ms. Dunn in that way, but that didn’t stop the assholes from tormenting him until he quit last week.
Yeah, between the Ms. Dunn murder mystery and the Devlin campaign, the local mob has been out with their torches. It’s basically a free-for-all at school, and with Tori and her family at the helm, the teachers are too afraid to do anything about it. Nobody wants to risk their job or their funding … or their life for that matter. Everyone is scared.
That’s why I’m glad Riley and Emma broke up. There, I said it. Things will be much better for Rye now, even if she doesn’t see it yet.