Rebel at Spruce High

A frowning Kelsey occupies the third chair, and she’s got a lot to say. “Principal Whitman is a big, useless turd.”

I sit on a nearby crate full of printing paper. “What’d he say?”

“Other than interrogating me on who pulled the fire alarm? I truly wonder, had you lost a limb or something, if he would have even noticed. The fire alarm? Really?” She smacks her forehead and fumes at the floor. “If there’s one thing I hate about being a part of normal-people world, it’s the damned unfair treatment of anyone who isn’t in football.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Normal-people world?”

“On the streets, things made better sense. I knew my place. I could fend for myself in any manner I chose. If someone messed around with my food, oh, you’d better bet they’d meet Betsy.”

Betsy is the name of a pink switchblade she’s had since she was nine—or so she says. I never know if she’s carrying it on her, and I never ask. If she’s caught with it, I’m sure she’d be expelled or worse, as weapons aren’t allowed on school grounds, so I just assume she keeps it at home. Stashed under a pillow, perhaps.

“But here?” she goes on. “In normal-people world? I just can’t stand how many restrictions there are. My dads remind me every day, too. Can’t do this. Can’t do that. Law this. Felony that. Blah, blah. It really sucks sometimes to have an ex-cop for a daddy.” Kelsey eyes me suddenly. “What did the principal ask you?”

I suddenly find I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I just cross my arms, lean against the shelf of yearbooks at my back, and sulk. “It doesn’t matter. Hoyt and the guys probably got off with a slap to their football-gloved wrists. And I’m pretty sure Vann the new guy hates me now.”

Kelsey’s face wrinkles up. “Hates you? No way. He stood up for you. He was just short a set of brass knuckles is all.”

I shake my head. “No. I tried to thank him on his way into the principal’s office, but he …” The look Vann gave me replays in my mind. I shrug it away, only to have his last, rude words replay in my ears instead. “He probably thinks I’m a weak, spineless loser. I could see it in his eyes. He didn’t want to help me. He just felt … compelled, I guess.”

“Compelled? Hmm …” Kelsey leans back in her chair, arms crossed and studying me. “Maybe there’s more to this Donovan Pane fellow than meets the eye.”

“Yeah … Other than he’s a jerk. And a little bit of a prick. And also maybe a psycho, to some degree.”

Kelsey leans in and lowers her voice. “And kind of hot, too.”

Her lowered voice still carries and fills this cramped closet of a room. Both our fellow yearbook staff members turn their heads to us, their games of Solitaire momentarily forgotten.

Then the door opens, the frizzy-haired Ms. Reyes rushes in with a, “Sorry, sorry, got held up in the teacher’s lounge! Phew, I should bring you guys some of their jalapeño kolaches next time, mm-mm, good,” and finally the five of us dive right into the usual brainstorming ideas for the yearbook—now with the addition this year of Kelsey, who is quickly introduced to the others, despite us all knowing each other already. The rest of the hour speeds by, and it isn’t long before seventh period finds me in the comfort of the big Theatre Arts auditorium where the plays are performed. Scattered around the seats are tiny cliques of theatre people I’ve never really grown that close to, chirping and chatting and being their bubbly selves. And in the back row, I sit with my phone and debate venting all about my first day to my long-distance pen pal and occasional late-night-chatter Jimmy Strong. We bonded a few years ago over my beating his high scores at the arcade, and after getting some advice about surviving as a gay teen in a small town, he’s become like the big brother I never had. But with his own big brother being Spruce High’s football coach, I worry telling Jimmy too much might have an adverse domino effect.

So once again, I’ve simply resolved to keep it all to myself. It’s been my best plan of action so far, ever since the major incident that set my whole life back by a year in the seventh grade.

An incident I’m not sure I’ll ever fully recover from.

When the final bell rings and I’ve grabbed all my things out of my locker to head home, I catch sight of a poster on the wall outside the main office. It’s a poster that, upon first glance, seems to be promoting something called STAB. But it actually stands for Spruce Teens Against Bullying, a group I’ve never attended. I only spend half a minute’s time wondering what brilliant work they’re doing in protecting the vulnerable within these walls.