Date Me, Bryson Keller(15)

    I turn to Bryson and say, “Let’s do it. Let’s date for the week.”

Bryson’s eyes widen before he offers me a small smile. “Are you sure?”

I’m a nervous wreck, and I’m positive my face matches our tie once more. But I’ve already taken the first step. I might as well continue walking. I nod, more for myself than for him.

“As long as we can keep it a secret, why not? This is only a game. Why should my being gay keep me from playing, too?”

Bryson smiles. It’s tight-lipped and nervous. It’s cuter than should be legal. “Well then, I, Bryson Keller, pledge to be your perfect boyfriend for the next four days.”

With a matching smile of my own, I climb out of his Jeep. I start to collect my things.

“Leave your blazer so I can drop it off at the dry cleaner’s.”

“It’s fine.”

“It would make me feel better,” Bryson says. “The only reason your blazer got messed up is because of me and this dare. So let me take care of it, please?”

Bryson leans forward and I think that he’s reaching for my hand. I jerk back. Bryson stills. He’s leaning over to the passenger side and his hand hangs there as I belatedly realize he’s waiting for me to give him the blazer. I pass it over, berating myself for being so awkward.

Bryson folds my blazer so that it sits neatly on the passenger seat. He unlocks his phone before holding it out to me. “Save your number so I can text you. We can plan more about how you want this week to go.”

Even though I was serious when I asked him out this morning, I didn’t think we would ever get to this point. Because of his phone’s cracked screen, it takes me two tries to hit the final seven of my phone number. Satisfied, I hand the phone back to him.

    “Sweet.” He places his phone down. “I’ll text you later.”

I watch as he drives off. I stand there until his taillights become nothing more than a memory. It all catches up to me then. Like a wave crashing into the shore. Even though it’s fake, I’m dating someone—a boy.

Holy shit, I have a boyfriend.

And it’s none other than Bryson Keller.





6


The first thing that greets me as I walk into our house is the smell of something burning.

“Mom, I’m home,” I shout from the entrance hall.

“I’m in the kitchen, Kai,” my mother calls back.

“Why?” I head toward what I know will be a disaster zone.

My mother is not a good cook. She’s skilled at a great many other things, like singing in the church choir, making sure we survive holidays with the extended family, and guessing who the killer is before the end of a movie or book. Cooking is not one of them.

“Thank God you found us, Kai,” Yazz says. “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

Every few weeks Mom gets it into her head that she wants to cook us a family meal. And every few weeks this familiar scene takes place. Truth be told, I blame all the cooking shows that she spends her time consuming. The television has been lying to people for too long. Just because you watch something does not mean you can actually do it. I seriously think that all shows should come with the warning of Do not try this at home, not just WWE.

    “What’s Mom burning?” I stage-whisper to Yazz as I lean against the large island in the center of the kitchen. There’s a comic book open before her. She’s been obsessed lately, which makes sense, though, given how much she loves to draw.

“It’s meant to be a casserole. At least that’s what Nana’s recipe calls it,” Yazz whispers back. “But I don’t actually know what this is.”

Pots and pans litter the granite countertops. Mom’s armed with a very large knife, and chunks of potatoes lie massacred before her. Her bob is pushed back with a headband. Mom’s wearing the WORLD’S BEST CHEF apron that Dad, Yazz, and I got her as a joke one day. In retrospect I think she missed the humor of the gift and sees it more as encouragement. We will never make such a mistake again.

“When will this torture end?” Yazz asks as Mom sends another potato off to its early grave.

“Dad’s not home yet?”

“No,” Yazz says. “If he was, do you think any of this would be happening?” She points at the mess and shakes her head exasperatedly.

“You two do know I can hear you, right?” Mom asks.

“Of course,” I say, just as Yazz says, “That’s the point.” We turn to look at each other and smile.

“Other children try to encourage their parents.”

    “Mom, please, I’ve been encouraging you to stop all afternoon.”

Mom walks to the fridge and removes some carrots. She returns to her chopping board. We watch as she dices them—poorly. They all end up different sizes. Yazz reaches for a few of Mom’s victims. With no other choice, I take a seat beside my sister. I grab a piece of carrot and pop it into my mouth. The only thing Mom can’t ruin is raw vegetables.

“How did your assignment with your friend go? What was it for?” Mom asks me.

“Drama.” I groan. “I have to perform.”

“Just try your best, honey. It may not be much, but it’s something.” Mom and Yazz share a look before laughing.