Date Me, Bryson Keller(38)

While Mrs. Henning goes about assigning the roles for this class, my phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket and see a text from Kelly: I miss you, is that weird?

I take a deep breath and decide to be honest.

No, because I miss you too.





16


After school, I’m sitting in my bedroom at my desk, staring at the blinking cursor. It mocks me and my failure. I’ve been trying to fix this ending for the last hour. I sigh, get up, and throw myself face-first onto my bed. The words are just not coming. They’re being held hostage somewhere in my brain, and I don’t even know where to begin to rescue them.

My phone buzzes with a text. I pull it from charge and roll over to read the message. It’s from Kelly.

What are you doing?

I was trying to write.

Write what? he asks.

My sample for Henning. I don’t want to miss the new deadline.

Maybe you need inspiration, Bryson says. He sends a waving emoji. And a minute later a picture comes through. It’s a selfie of him making a funny face. Hello, my name is Muse. I am at your service, the caption reads.

Haha. You must be bored. What are you doing?

    I am incredibly bored. Crystal’s friends are over, so I don’t have much to do.

I sit up. Bryson and I need to talk. I’m currently home alone. If this isn’t a sign, then I don’t know what is. Do you want to come over?

For the first time in my life, I invite a boy I like over. I don’t count that time I invited Colby Matthews over under the guise of wanting to show him my superhero action figure collection. Colby Matthews had been really into superheroes, and so I, too, had shown an interest in them. That visit was an awkward disaster and I refuse to have history repeat itself. This time I will not suggest we play any sort of game that may result in a broken window.

I look around my room and see it through Bryson’s eyes. My room is a mess. I rush to pick up all the old—and new—clothes strewn across the floor. I try my best to neaten my desk, which is always littered with notebooks filled with half-baked ideas and scenes that need to be developed more. The pages of my sample mock me as I shut my computer.

I’m in the bathroom styling my hair in a way that will look natural and cool, and not at all overthought, when Bryson rings the doorbell. My heart pounds in my chest as I race down the stairs. When I reach the door, I pause and take a calming breath. What we started to discuss yesterday plays over and over in my head. Will we finish what we started? Will we confirm what is real and what is not between us?

I open the door and find a grinning Bryson. He’s wearing shorts, a golf shirt, and designer sneakers. I look down at my own outfit. I’m wearing a blue shirt with the word UNIFORM in bold across the front, brown shorts, and black socks. I changed just after inviting him over. I look somewhat semidecent, I think.

    “Hey, come in,” I say. “How’s your sister doing?”

“Fine. A bit bruised and blue. Her arm’s in a cast, but she’ll recover soon.”

“That’s good,” I say. “I’m glad.” Bryson pauses at the entrance and takes off his shoes. His socks have Pokémon drawings on them. I laugh. “Nice socks.” I turn and lead him toward the stairs.

Bryson stops at the foot of the stairs, his attention caught by the large family portrait that hangs on one of the walls.

“You look like your dad,” Bryson says. He looks at me and then back to the picture.

“Not everyone thinks so,” I say. “I remember when I was about twelve, Dad and I were returning from visiting our family in South Africa when some random stranger at LAX stopped my dad to ask whose child I was. Even at that age I remember the awkwardness of the situation and the hurt that crossed Dad’s face as he needed to explain that I was his child. Like it’s so absurd that because my dad has dark brown skin, he can’t possibly have a child that looks like me.” I shake my head. “You wouldn’t believe how many people actually question whether or not I am mixed race. It’s like they have this idea of how I’m supposed to look, and I clearly don’t, so to them I’m less authentic.”

    “That’s such crap,” Bryson says. “People really and truly suck major donkey balls.”

“Yeah, it’s been tough having to deal with the race policing.”

“I’m sorry,” Bryson says.

“It’s not your fault.” Bryson follows me up the stairs and we enter my bedroom.

“They say you can tell a lot about a person from their bedroom,” Bryson says. He walks around my room. I mentally pat myself on the back for trying to clean up. Posters of my favorite bands and musicians line my walls—a lot of them are of the Graces. Bryson pauses in front of the biggest of them all. It’s a picture of Ezra Grace. “This is a great shot of him.”

“I bought the physical album just to get it.” I point at the never-before-played CD. “I already owned their album digitally, but I wanted the poster.”

Bryson walks over to my desk and looks on the wall above it, which is covered with notes for the fantasy book I’m working on and pictures of my life. “When was this taken?” he asks. He points at a picture of me in a long wig and a pirate getup. In the picture, I’m standing between Priya, who’s dressed up as Rey from Star Wars, and Donny, who’s wearing a plain white T-shirt that announces him as the comment section—truly the scariest place. He actually came in second for the costume.