Date Me, Bryson Keller(8)

So I lean in close, our faces inches apart. His laugh tapers off.

“What are you doing?” He leans back, creating space between us, but I don’t let that stop me. My face may be on fire, but so are all my insides.

I close the distance once more.

“I’m not joking,” I say. “Date me, Bryson Keller!”





3


What have I just done?

It’s a question that I repeat over and over in my head. Dread builds as I head toward English. I can’t be late to second period, too, so even though it means facing Bryson again, I still run. Usually, this would be the last I’d see of Bryson for the day, but not today. I have lunchtime detention with him.

Oh God!

Why did I do that? It’s another question that pounds in time with my galloping heart. What on God’s green earth possessed me to out myself to the most popular boy at Fairvale Academy? I’ve never been very into the whole coming-out business—maybe because the one and only time I did it, my best friend back then ghosted me. The sleepovers stopped, as did the invites to swim. It was like I didn’t exist anymore. Eventually we went to different high schools, but the scars of thirteen-year-old me ache even now, like a knee in winter.

So except for a few random boys I’ve chatted to online since then, I haven’t come out to a soul. Being a gay teenager stuck in the closet is so lonely and isolating.

    Oh God, why did I do that?

I’m not overtly religious. It’s not that I don’t believe in a higher power or anything. I kind of like the idea of someone always watching over me, at least up until the point I do things that will make Jesus blush. But right this second, I would not refuse some sort of miracle.

Any sort of miracle, really.

For the first time I am openly gay to someone at Fairvale Academy. I want to throw up. I can’t focus on any of this, not when the five-minute changeover is swiftly ticking away. I race from building A toward building B.

Fairvale Academy is divided into two main buildings, each consisting of three floors. Our classes, save for gym, are split between them. Aside from drama, my classes are held in building B.

I take the stairs two at a time and enter the large courtyard that divides the two buildings. I’m not the only student racing to beat the clock. I manage to sink into my seat just as the second-period bell rings.

There are twenty other students in the class, but there is only one I concern myself with. I pull my copy of The Great Gatsby from my bag and turn to the page where we left off. Bryson arrives just before the teacher does. He’s not smiling, and his brow is furrowed. I make sure I keep my gaze trained on the words before me. He takes his seat, next to the window. Bryson and I sit in the same row. There’s just one desk between us—and it’s still empty. It seems that Mary-Beth Jones is out sick.

    I curse her.

Our English teacher, Mr. Weber, is a barely-out-of-college type. This is his first official year teaching, so he tends to do everything by the textbook. Everything is the same, and everything is incredibly boring.

Mr. Weber reads from the book before pausing and looking up. “Focus, please, Bryson.”

For most of the period I try my hardest to ignore Bryson. But then I lose the war against myself. I turn to secretly look at him, and end up looking directly into his eyes. For the second time this hour, I stop breathing.

Quickly, I turn back to my book while fighting the heat that colors my cheeks. Blushing makes my spattering of freckles stand out more. They are both my most distinct feature and the thing I hate most about the way I look.

For the rest of the period, I force myself to stare at the same page. While the rest of the class moves forward, I relive asking Bryson Keller out. I did what Eric Ferguson wanted to do. I wonder if I was brave or stupid. It’s all too late now.

The end-of-period bell rings, and I shove my copy of The Great Gatsby into my bag without much thought. Leaving this classroom means leaving Bryson behind—at least until lunch.

I join the swarm of classmates feeding into the hallway and hope to lose myself in the crowd. A hand clamps down on my shoulder and instantly I know who it belongs to.

“We should talk?” Bryson says. His breath tickles my ear and I fight a shiver. In the crush of students, Bryson bumps into me, creating a warmth at my back.

    “Okay,” I say. I try to calm my nerves. He just wants to talk. Bryson is known for being fair. Earlier this year, the school wanted to allow only seniors who are athletes to leave the premises for lunch. It wasn’t the first time the teachers had outright shown that the athletes are truly the gods of this school. And as captain of the boys’ soccer team, Bryson is on the highest pedestal. But he argued that all seniors should be allowed—and he won. It’s one of the reasons why everyone loves him.

“Yo, BK.” Dustin’s voice cuts through the chatter that surrounds us. The bulky boy, who serves as a defender for the Cougars, pushes through the sea of bodies. His cocky gait is a sure sign that he’s very much aware of the hierarchy at Fairvale Academy and he knows his place at the top.

I never thought that I would ever be thankful for the ball of testosterone that is Dustin Smith, but as he nears us, I can’t help but feel relieved. At least 90 percent; the other 10 is disappointment, but that’s easy to ignore.

Bryson greets Dustin in what can only be described as a bro-hug, and I stand there awkwardly as they talk. Halfway through the conversation, Dustin stops and looks at me.