Date Me, Bryson Keller(9)

“Why are you here?” Dustin looks from me to Bryson.

The lie is quick on my tongue. When you live in the closet, lies become easier to tell. “Henning paired Bryson and me for drama, so we need to plan a practice schedule.” I don’t look at Bryson’s eyes, because if I do, I know the lie will not be believable.

    “Okay.” Dustin must buy my words, because he says to Bryson, “Did Shannon finally get to you?”

Bryson shakes his head. “I haven’t seen her yet.” He sighs. “Why? Did you tell her I was going to be late today?”

“You should just get it over and done with. You know how she is. What Shannon wants, she gets. The more you avoid her, the worse it is,” Dustin says. “So, who is it?”

I swallow hard and even though I don’t want to, I turn to look at Bryson.

“Who’s what?” he asks. Bryson may not be a good liar, but his feigning ignorance is something that I’m extremely thankful for.

“C’mon, man. Your girlfriend this week?”

Before Bryson can answer, my name is called. At first, I think I’ve imagined the saving grace, but I look up and spot Donny walking toward me.

“What are you doing, Kai?” Donny asks.

“Hey, Quack,” Dustin says, using the nickname that the seniors gave Donny when we were freshmen. The name stuck at first, but it’s mostly just Dustin who calls him that now.

Bryson smacks Dustin on his chest. And I’m thankful for the small gesture.

“Uh, I’ll talk to you later, then, Bryson,” I say.

I pull Donny along as the changeover bell signals the start of the next class.

    Because math is just down the hall, we make it there before our math teacher, Ms. Orton, does. Donny pulls his workbook from his bag and caresses it like it is his most prized possession. For all the things that he and I have in common, the love of math is not one of them. On the list of things I hate, the subject sits snugly between phone calls and Leonardo DiCaprio and his Academy Award thirst.

I flip my notebook open to this weekend’s homework. Already I know it’s wrong. And already I simply don’t care. But Donny has made it his mission to ensure that I don’t fail. Thanks to him, I manage to scrape the bottom of a C grade.

“So what were you and the King talking about?” Donny asks.

I smile at our inside joke. “Uh, Henning paired us up for a project.” The best lies are the ones built on truths. There is no way I’m telling Donny why Bryson actually wanted to speak to me.

“Unlucky,” Donny mumbles just as the math teacher saunters into class. We all start to find x, but thirty minutes into it I give up. X is currently missing, presumed dead.

For the rest of class, I sit and watch the clock. Each ticking minute inches me closer to not only my punishment but also missing my deadline. Just as the bell rings, the intercom above the whiteboard crackles to life. The voice of the school secretary blares out, “Will Bryson Keller and Kai Sheridan please report to the auditorium. Thank you.” As if I could forget. “Will Bryson Keller and Kai Sheridan please report to the auditorium. Thank you.”

    “What for?” Donny asks. “I thought you needed to write.”

I swear. “That was the plan, but stuff happened.” My anger from before is nothing more than an ember—small and dying. “I was late.”

“Damn. That sucks,” Donny says. He has no idea. We part ways, and with no other choice I head toward the auditorium.

I walk toward my hour alone with Bryson Keller.





4


I stop before the auditorium doors and take a deep, calming breath to prepare myself for what awaits inside. It doesn’t work. I grip the strap of my messenger bag tightly. Exhaling, I take the plunge. The door swings open to reveal Mrs. Henning standing before the stage. She has a file clutched in her hands.

“Thank you for being on time now,” she says as she looks down at her watch. I head toward her. “Well, when Mr. Keller decides to arrive, please have him help you.”

“With what?”

“We need the props organized so we can start prepping for Romeo and Juliet,” Mrs. Henning explains. “Please be careful with them. Some may be crafts made by you students, but others have been donated by my peers. And thus, they are holy.” Mrs. Henning smiles. “Take care.”

I nod. It’s not like I have a say in the matter. She seems to realize this, too, as she purses her lips. She walks up the aisle but stops halfway.

    “Please stay for the full lunch break. If you leave or mess around, I will know.” There is no denying it. Among the students, Mrs. Henning is infamous for her uncanny ability to know everything and anything that happens within the auditorium—whether she’s present or not. A few months ago, someone damaged one of the seats by running across the backs of them on a dare, and as soon as she came through the doorway, Mrs. Henning knew just who it was. Now there’s an ongoing rumor that she may be a witch.

“Yes, ma’am.” I watch her leave before heading toward the stage. I want to get this over and done with as soon as possible.

The prop storage room is small and located at the back of the stage. It’s still a mess from our Hamlet production. I enter the crowded space, remove my soda-smelling blazer, and drape it across my messenger bag. I’m bent over, organizing a box of old shoes, when there is a tentative knock at the door.