I come up to him and make a swipe for the shoes, only to have him pull them away. “Now, hold on there a sec …”
“Give them to me.”
“Hey, we didn’t really resolve things in English class. Why do you hate me so much when I’m just being a pal to you?” He tucks my shoes under his arm like a football, then grins. “Look, all I wanted to say is, me and my buddies were talking, and we think it’d be great if you came to G-Man’s one of these weekends. You guys had a class last year, didn’t you? Oh, I just realized … G-Man’s a year behind, too, just like you! Buddy, why aren’t you guys best friends?” He snorts at that, finding it hilarious.
“Hoyt,” I warn him, my voice tensing. “Shoes. Now.”
“So listen, buddy, we hang out at G-Man’s every weekend. His ma and pa are always outta town. We usually show up at seven on Saturday, and stay ‘til … well, ‘til whenever. You gotta come.”
Tired of his toying, I make a grab for my shoes. My fingers hook on them, but Hoyt’s grip is too strong, and with a maneuver, he captures my hand under his arm, too, trapping me in place. Suddenly, my face is inches from Hoyt’s, and his lips curl up with pompous satisfaction.
I glare at him. “Why would I ever go to some stupid get-together with you and your friends?”
“It’s G-Man,” Hoyt replies in a squeaky, simple voice, like that answers all of my questions. “He’s friends with everyone. Isn’t he your movie theater hookup, too? Shoot, Tobes, pal, no one who’s anyone pays for a ticket when you’re buds with G-Man.”
“Let go of me and my shoes.”
His voice drops, low and quiet. “I know what’s good for you,” he tells me, nearly a whisper. “I’m just tryin’ to help your ass out. You let guys walk over you. I’m your real friend here. Spend some time around me, I’ll toughen you up real good. You’ve got a great body for baseball. Thought about joinin’ the team for the spring? C’mon, now.” He leans his head into mine, our foreheads touching. “Why you gotta make this so hard? I know what’s good for you.”
Then, with a shrug of his arm, my hand and shoes are released at once. Hoyt gives me a light, breathy chuckle, shakes his head, then struts around me, sauntering out of the locker room. I glare at his back, red-faced.
I can still feel Hoyt’s grip on my hand as I pull on my shoes with a huff, then march out of the locker room and head for the cafeteria. Hoyt is such an actor sometimes, it’s a wonder he plays football instead of performing on a stage. It’s been a good six or seven long years of dealing with that self-entitled ass, and I’m at the end of a rope I didn’t realize I was holding until recently. And there’s no way I’m going to any party of G-Man’s with him there.
Late now—and in a mood—I’m third to last in the long lunch line, and feel like half my time’s gone before I even start to make my way through the maze of crowded tables. Thankfully, in the far corner right where I was yesterday, I spot Kelsey beckoning me over where she’s made a spot for us among the theatre people, some of whom I know by name, none of whom I’ve ever spent a minute of time hanging out with outside of school. In seconds, I’m pulled into a whirlwind of hypothetical guesses as to what play Ms. Joy will choose for the fall production this year. Usually a play has been picked and announced by now so everyone can prepare, but some issue with not attaining rights has made Ms. Joy have to abandon her first choice—Noises Off, of all ambitious productions to possibly pick—for something else.
Of course, I’m paying absolutely none of this any mind, even when the striking and charismatic Frankie Lopez, who gets nearly all the lead roles every show, insists I audition this Friday. What actually has my attention is where Vann is sitting today—and the fact that I don’t see him anywhere. And as my already-shortened lunch period rapidly drains away, I grow even more frustrated.
Then the bell rings, and people scatter like spooked spiders as fifth period summons them. I peer down at my tray, realizing I’ve barely eaten half my lunch, yet again.
Thankfully, Kelsey has secretly been helping me, snatching a bite or six under my distracted nose. “So …?” she asks, her voice lilting suggestively. “What’s on your mind …?”
I turn to her, suspicious. “Why’re you asking me like that?”
“Is it the guy?” She digs straight into it. “The Vann guy? Yeah, I thought so. If I had a guy like that fight for me the way he did yesterday, I’d be swooning, too.”