“Donny, when you’re at Caltech, please invent an alarm that will actually wake me up,” I say by way of greeting.
Donny and Priya have both already been accepted into their first-choice colleges. In a few months’ time, Donny will be off to Pasadena and Priya to UCLA. I’m currently waiting to hear back from Tisch. Every time I think about my dream being on the line, I feel sick. Any day now I will hear if I made the cut.
It’s sad to think that these morning routines will be coming to an end soon. Donny and I met freshman year, and we’ve been best friends ever since. Priya adopted us several days later, insisting that without her, Donny and I would be lost little sheep. We’d never admit it to her, but she was probably right.
“There is a way,” Priya says. “It’s called willpower.”
“You sound just like Yazz.”
“The Force is strong in that one,” Priya says.
“Priya made us watch Star Wars again.” Donny catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “You should have come with.”
“Nah, you guys need your date nights,” I say.
“If a theater is showing any of the Star Wars movies, then it is a given that I must attend,” Priya says. “It’s a family tradition. My dad literally made sure it was the first movie I could ever remember watching. My father is nothing if not dedicated.”
“Does your mom still want him to get rid of his figurine collection?” I ask.
Priya snorts. “I think that will only be possible if he dies. There are three things my father loves more than anything in this world: his family, his job, and his Star Wars collection.”
“My dad’s the same with Manchester United,” I say. “Just this weekend he woke up at three a.m. to watch them get thrashed by Chelsea.”
“I wish my dad had a hobby,” Donny says. “Then he wouldn’t be nagging me about my grades all the time. He wants me to be better at math.”
“Impossible,” I say. “Until you, I didn’t even know someone could get such a high math grade.”
Donny laughs. “Math skills and bad family names are Duckworth traditions.” He twists to look at me when we stop at a red light. “Did you do the homework?” he asks. “I struggled on the last two equations.”
“Please, Donald. Let’s not ruin Kai’s morning by asking him about math.” My suckage at math is a longtime running joke among my friends, as is the legendary test on which I got one equation right and no more—that’s a success if you ask me.
Priya is allowed to call him Donald, but no one, absolutely no one, is allowed to use his full name: Donald Duckworth IV. I kid you not, the family name has been passed down from one generation to the next like some prized heirloom. Spoiler alert: it’s not.
Priya looks at me. “By the way, did you finish your script? The deadline is today, right?”
I groan. “I have a bit left to finish at lunch today. I think I have a date with the computer lab.” For each of the plays that we study, my drama teacher, Mrs. Henning, allows her students to audition to write a school play based on it. The deadline for the Romeo and Juliet one is after lunch today. I still don’t have an ending. All my ideas blow, and I’ve spent hours staring at a blinking cursor, the blank page matching my blank mind. But it’s now or never. Last year I came close to being selected: my modernized version of Hamlet was the runner-up. This year I want to be chosen. It’s one of my goals for my senior year.
“That’s cutting it close.”
“You don’t need to tell me that, Priya,” I say. Priya only allows her friends to call her by her shortened name. She says it is a reward for all those who put in the time and effort to learn how to say her full name correctly. There is one thing that Priyanka Reddy doesn’t tolerate, and that is laziness. Donny is just Donny to everyone—so he’s the exact opposite. Maybe they truly are meant to be together.
“Still not going well?” Donny asks.
“Each word is like pulling teeth.” I close my eyes. “I just haven’t been inspired. Retelling Romeo and Juliet is tough.” Especially when I have no real dating experience is what I don’t add. “But I’m determined. I have to win this year.”
“Potential is what matters. I’m sure Henning is looking for that instead of perfection. You’re talented. You’ll do great!” Priya opens the glove compartment and finds her makeup bag. As much as this is Donny’s car, it’s also a part of our group. The Quackmobile holds little pieces of all of us.
The truth is, Donny’s family has more money than they know what to do with. When the term old money is thrown around, the Duckworth family is definitely on the list. For Donny’s birthday last year, his parents bought him this beautiful red Mustang—with racing stripes to boot. Donny was ecstatic at first, but then he saw the vanity license plate, QUACK IV, and outright refused to drive it. Of course, Priya and I convinced him otherwise, because who cares about some stupid license plate anyway? And from that day on, the three musketeers had a steed to ride.
We pull into the school’s parking lot after a quick ten-minute drive. My house is the closest to school—not in a gated community—which is why I get picked up last.
“Oh, the latest issue of the Herald is out,” Priya says, looking at her phone.
“For someone you hate, you follow Shannon’s newspaper editorials pretty diligently.”
“I can hate the person but appreciate their work.” She glares at me. “I contain multitudes.”
“Anything good?” Donny asks, changing the topic.
“There’s an interview with Bryson’s latest ex.”
“Who asked Bryson out last week?” I ask.
“Isabella from my biology class,” Priya says.
“Which one?” There are four seniors named Isabella.
We climb from the Quackmobile and Priya opens her Instagram. She clicks on #DateMeBrysonKeller and holds up a picture to us. It’s of a brunette girl and Bryson.
“Isabella Mendini.” Priya turns the screen back to her and sighs. “It should be illegal for Bryson to have this bone structure.”
She isn’t wrong. Of course, my admiration is only done from afar and in secret. My heart beats for another.
As if my thoughts have summoned him, my unrequited crush saunters into view. Isaac is tall with curly blond hair and blue eyes that remind me of the ocean. He has his blazer thrown over his shoulder, and he’s holding a soccer ball under his arm. Why does he need a soccer ball to go to school? Who knows? But it’s a common sight when it comes to Isaac.
We head toward the school entrance, studying the chaos that surrounds us. Ever since the dare started, Monday mornings have become a circus. A crowd lingers at the entrance, mostly spectators. Bryson has kept to the rule that only seniors can take part. It seems that they’re all waiting for the arrival of the man of the hour.
“It’s amazing how the dare has spread,” Donny says. When it first started, it was mostly the girls from cheerleading and the soccer team who asked Bryson out. Then the girls from drama class. But now the dare is out there, and people with no real connection to Bryson and those activities are stepping up to ask him out for fun.
“I heard Eric say that if he could ask Bryson out, he would,” Priya says.
I try not to react to the news of another boy wanting to ask Bryson out.
“Eric?” Donny asks. “The gay one?”
I’m pretty sure, like 85 percent sure, that Donny will be fine with me being gay. Generally, he seems really supportive. It’s him saying stuff like this, though, that makes me hesitate.
Priya smacks Donny on the arm. “Eric Ferguson,” she says. “That’s his name.”
I plan on telling both Priya and Donny…after we’ve graduated from high school. I don’t plan on coming out until then, because even in a school with out-and-proud students and an active LGBTQ club, “gay” is still a label. It doesn’t matter that Eric is a state champion in ch
ess or even that he’s the vice principal’s son. Those are all second to his sexuality. That’s the thing with labels: they tend to stick to you like unwanted gum. It’s why I’m so careful not to be labeled. More than anything, I do not want to be Kai Sheridan, “the gay one.”
Donny shrugs. “I mean, we didn’t really specify that a boy couldn’t ask Bryson out, did we? So anyone could ask him out if they wanted.”
All this talk about gayness has my warning sirens blaring. I try not to move, try to blend in with my surroundings.
“Either way, it doesn’t really matter,” Priya continues. “I’m pretty sure Eric has a boyfriend now. So I guess we’ll never know.” She looks down at her watch. “I need to stop at my locker before assembly.”
Every Monday morning Fairvale Academy holds an assembly in the auditorium, and our principal delivers this week’s announcements and recaps the glory that the sports teams have brought. I don’t mind, though, because my first-period drama class is held in the same building, so I don’t need to leave when the assembly ends. It’s very convenient.
“Don’t be late,” I say.
“Right. I really can’t afford detention for being tardy.” Priya rolls her eyes. Anything that upsets the teachers means us forfeiting our lunch breaks as punishment—being late tops the list. For greater infractions, we earn demerit points—six and we get a Friday afternoon detention. And if you accumulate thirty, you’ll find yourself at school on a Saturday with Vice Principal Ferguson.
“Well, I’ll catch up to you guys later,” I say. “I have an appointment with Big Bertha.”
“No more soda. You drink too much of it. It’s going to kill you.”
“Yes, Mom,” I say to Priya.
“Let a man live,” Donny says.
“Enabling bad behavior is part of the problem.” She turns to me. “We’ll save you a seat.” With that, Priya heads off.
Donny jogs after her. I’m envious of them. I close my eyes for a second and picture Isaac walking with me to my locker—doing normal, everyday things that straight couples get to do.
I open my eyes with a sigh. Judging from the crowd, it seems like Bryson is running late today. I walk over to the vending machine, which is sandwiched between two rows of lockers. Ever since the school board initiated the Great Sugar Culling, this vending machine has been the last of its kind. And I can’t survive without my daily sugar fix.
The vending machine is old and in need of service, but all the students are too afraid to mention it for fear that Big Bertha will be next to receive the ax. As I’m waging war against it, Shannon Flockhart and Natalie da Silva stop by Natalie’s locker.
“It has to be this week. I have to be the one to ask Bryson Keller out today,” Shannon says. “The deadline’s next week.”
“And what if you miss your chance again?” Natalie asks. She looks down at her watch. “Maybe someone already asked him out.”
“Not possible. Dustin says Bryson is coming in late today. So I just need to catch him after first period. I have it all worked out.” Shannon sighs. She leans in close to whisper to Natalie, but Shannon’s never grasped that whispering means actually lowering your voice. “And then I can have the finishing touches for my story. A firsthand account of dating the most popular boy: an in-depth look at private high school culture and the phenomenon of the ‘it’ boy. This will definitely get me off the waitlist for Stanford.”
“You’re doing this all for a story?” Natalie asks.
“I can focus on more than one thing. I can get my story, get off the waitlist, and win the heart of my dream boy. I have it all worked out.”
“You do know this is supposed to be a game, right? He’s specifically not looking for anything serious.”
Finally, with a hard kick, Big Bertha releases my bounty. They turn to look at me—surprised. I blush and bend to pick up my soda. Deciding that I’m not a threat, they return to their conversation. I’m not eavesdropping, I swear.
“Love happens when you least expect it,” Shannon says.
“So, what? You and Bryson are perfect for each other?”
“Yes,” Shannon says. “I knew from the moment we kissed.”
“As your friend, I feel like it’s my job to remind you that that was during a game of spin the bottle, so I don’t think it counts.”
“It doesn’t matter. All I need is five days to show Bryson Keller that we are soul mates.”
Shaking my head, I leave Shannon to her fantasy. Everyone is entitled to one. After all, in mine Isaac and I rent a studio apartment in New York City, and we have a puppy named Dobby the House Dog—we’re really very happy together.
The can opens with a satisfying click. I’m taking my first sip when Louise Keaton barrels into me, sending the can flying. Soda sprays everywhere, but mostly on me.
“Shit!” I say, looking down at my dripping, stained uniform.
Louise seems oblivious. She’s chattering away on her phone. “What! You see Bryson’s car? Where?”
Briefly, I wonder if this is personal, because Louise Keaton is my ex-girlfriend. I’m not even sure I can call her that, because our “relationship” lasted less than two weeks. Freshman year, I asked her out to fit in. Everyone was dating, and Louise said my freckles reminded her of the stars. I appreciated her poetic soul and so I took the plunge. Our relationship was fine…until we went to see a movie on Friday night. Having to lie to Louise when we were alone was too much. I broke it off. Now if anyone asks me why I don’t date, I lie and say my parents are extremely strict.
I shout after her, “Thanks a lot, Louise!”
She’s already bolted down the hallway, and I am left alone. The front of my shirt sticks to me and I can smell the soda. Everyone starts to stare at me, and I flush at the attention. With no other choice, I change direction and head to the nearest bathroom. The bell rings. I’ll be late to assembly.
I can only hope that I won’t get caught, because I can’t afford to forfeit my lunch break—not today. I need to finish my script if I’m going to have any chance of meeting the deadline.
I peel off my blazer and loosen my tie. I try to wash off as much of the soda from my white shirt as possible. In the end I am wet, and the scent of the soda still clings to me. Staring at the damage in the mirror, I know that it won’t get any better than this. Annoyed, I make my way to the auditorium.
“Missing assembly, Kai,” Vice Principal Ferguson says. She stands at the auditorium door. She has the same bright red hair as her son. Her crimson lips are pursed in displeasure. She looks me up and down. “What on earth happened to you?”
“Sorry, ma’am. Someone bumped into me and caused this mess.”
“Hmmm. You’re late, untidy”—she scrunches her eyes and studies my jaw—“and unshaved. I’ll have to write you up for this. Come along.”
I groan. I know that I am about to receive my first-ever batch of demerits. As I follow Vice Principal Ferguson, I can’t help but curse Louise Keaton and Bryson Keller himself.
This is not how I wanted my Monday morning to be going.
2
With a handful of demerits, I head toward drama. I’m late for this, too. The large metal double doors swing open with a screech, announcing my arrival. Mrs. Henning circles on me in a flurry of bangles and scarves to pierce me with her accusatory gaze.
“You’re late, Kai.” I can feel the blood rushing to my face. I hate being singled out more than anything. “You should know by now that the stage waits for no man. And excuses mean very little in the theater.” Mrs. Henning shakes her head. “Hurry up and join us. You’re disrupting the class.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Very well.” Mrs. Henning returns her attention to the rest of the class. “As you can see, everybody has already been paired up. But lucky for you, there is another latecomer this morning. Find the assignment bre
akdown on the chair up front. You and he will be partners. Be prepared to present on Friday. No exceptions.”
I nod and make my way up to the stage. It’s a long walk. The auditorium is large and was recently renovated. There are rows and rows of crimson seats to pass.
The rest of the class is already seated in a circle onstage. They have their copies of Romeo and Juliet open in front of them. We do have an actual classroom with desks and proper chairs, but Mrs. Henning believes that Shakespeare belongs in the theater and it must be performed instead of read. In her words, “it is a sin to do otherwise.” So each class we take turns playing a role. She encourages us to use the space around us, to become the characters.
I find a spot and sit cross-legged, placing my ruined blazer next to me. I pull my well-used copy of Romeo and Juliet from my messenger bag and turn to the page where we last left off. The one perk of my being late is that I have avoided being assigned a role. This is my least favorite part of drama.
The only reason I even took this class was because of Mrs. Henning. She fought to have a script-writing course included in the curriculum, which is why she has always been my favorite teacher, that and because her tales of fame and fortune are hilarious. Mrs. Henning was “the leading lady of daytime television.” She played the dual roles of identical twin sisters who were the hero and the villain in the daytime soap My Face, Your Life. I spent an afternoon on YouTube watching clips from the show. It had everything—rich people being terrible and murders and affairs and even alien invasions. Totally addictive.
I listen to the readings and find the right scene. It’s the brawl scene: Mercutio has just died and we’re leading up to the death of Tybalt. Isaac has been cast as Romeo, and I once more curse both Louise and Bryson for making me late. I almost missed out on having a legitimate excuse to stare at him.
Too soon, we reach the end of the act and Mrs. Henning holds up her hand to pause us. “Good work. I think we should stop for the day. Why don’t you all break into your pairs and discuss the assignment?”
I study Isaac and his partner, wishing that I were lucky enough to work with him. At school I’ve never really spoken to Isaac aside from a few hellos here and there. It’s the same with the rest of the soccer team. We don’t run in the same circles. The soccer players are the kings of Fairvale Academy, and I am nothing but a lowly peasant, which has always been fine with me. I don’t need popularity, because being anonymous is safest for me. I can exist with my secrets intact.
Date Me, Bryson Keller Page 2