Date Me, Bryson Keller(37)

“I don’t,” Mom says.

“I’m pretty sure the neighbors don’t, either,” Dad adds.

“We aren’t that loud,” I say.

Yazz pours herself some cereal and adds milk. “We’re loud because we love each other.”

“Jislaaik, you two fight all the time but are so similar,” Dad says as he takes the final vacant seat. He piles his plate with his own share of waffles.

    “Most parents would be thrilled to know that Yazz and I are so close.”

“Well, most parents did not raise you and Yazz,” Mom says. Dad holds up his hand and she high-fives him.

Yazz and I roll our eyes. Sometimes our parents’ corniness is too much to deal with. Thankfully, Donny sends a text that he’s arrived.

“I’m off,” I say. I grab my bag and pull on my blazer. I inhale and am thrilled to discover that Bryson’s scent lingers.

“Enjoy your day, boytjie!” Dad says.

“Bye,” Yazz says in between bites. “Congratulate Priya on her goal for me.”

I race from the house and head for the Quackmobile.

“No morning practice with Bryson today?” Donny asks.

“No. He’s out today.”

“Oh, right, I saw the post in the hospital this morning,” Priya says.

“Bryson’s in the hospital?”

“No,” I say to Donny. “His sister is. You seriously need to get Instagram. Stop living in the Dark Ages.”

“Donald refuses to succumb to my peer pressure and get Instagram. And so my feed alone is filled with our cute-couple selfies,” Priya says.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure you’re meant to let other people call your pictures cute,” I say.

Priya shrugs. “I call it like I see it.”

    “Are you saying Priya and I aren’t cute?” Donny catches my eye in the rearview mirror.

“I plead the Fifth.”

“It’s not too late to make you walk to school,” Donny says.

“I’d just take the bus.”

“Oh, right. That reminds me”—Priya twists in her seat so that she can look at us both—“I heard that Bryson might be losing his dare this week.”

“What do you mean?” I’m happy that Donny asks the question that I wanted to.

“Well, the soccer team was talking about how his girlfriend hasn’t posted on Instagram this week. And even She Who Shall Not Be Named doesn’t know who it is. And you know that’s a mission of hers every week: to find out just who Bryson is dating.” Priya lifts her phone. “I checked the hashtag and it’s truly barren.”

“Maybe they want to keep their relationship secret,” Donny says.

“Everyone knows this is just for fun. So why?”

“Maybe the person lives in the Dark Ages like Donny and doesn’t have Instagram,” I say. My face starts to redden. I can only hope my blush won’t be a dead giveaway that I know more than I’m sharing.

“Huh, maybe.” Priya nods. “That makes sense.”

Donny pulls into the school parking lot and we all climb from the Quackmobile. Even though I know the white Jeep won’t be there, I find myself scanning the space for it. Even arriving at school without Bryson feels strange.

    “I need to talk to my lab partner about something,” Priya says. “So I’m off. I’ll see you later.”

“Will you be okay by yourself?” Donny asks me.

I nod. “Go be the dutiful boyfriend that you long to be,” I tease.

Donny salutes. “Aye, aye, captain.” I watch as he runs after Priya. He catches up to her and grabs her hand in his. The sight takes me back to when Bryson held my hand.

We seriously need to talk.

A soccer ball rolls to a stop against my leg. I look up and find Isaac jogging toward me.

“You okay?” Isaac asks. “You look dazed.”

“Yeah. Fine,” I say. And I don’t even blush. Any other time, Isaac Lawson talking to me would have left me breathless and a stuttering mess. Instead, I pick up the ball and hand it to him. When our fingers brush, I feel nothing. The space that Isaac once occupied in my heart currently has a new tenant.

I head to the auditorium and take my seat. To distract myself while I wait for the start of class, I pull out my lines for our performance tomorrow. I can almost recite them all, but I need to be completely off script for tomorrow to be a success. I don’t want our pair to get a low grade because of me.

The start-of-period bell rings, and Mrs. Henning climbs the stairs onto the stage. Today she looks like she’s about to play in a polo match. She’s wearing white pants, with black riding boots to complete the ensemble.

“Good morrow, my thespians. Just a reminder not only that your performances are tomorrow but also that tomorrow afternoon is the new deadline for you to submit the writing samples. I will not extend it again. So if you’d like to be considered for the position of cowriter for our next production, please submit your pieces by lunch tomorrow.”

    I finished my script last night. Finally wrote the ending that I didn’t get the chance to write on Monday. And I hate it. It isn’t my best work, and I’m not sure how to fix it. I sigh. I need inspiration, but I just have too much on my mind to find some.