Rebel at Spruce High

Kelsey nudges me. “I don’t think he regrets it. I’m stickin’ to my theory about Domino.”

“His name’s Donovan. And I don’t subscribe to your theory that he’s just ‘shy’.”

“After he wore that white shirt with the weird black dots all over it, he’s Domino to me.” Kelsey starts drawing shapes in the dirt with the toe of her shoe. “And I don’t think my theory is that farfetched. He’s new here. He’s figuring out who everyone is.”

“And has figured me out to be the school loser,” I conclude.

“That wasn’t where I was going with that.” She smacks my arm, causing me to curse and rub it. “Quit talking yourself down so much. It’s annoying. What I was going to say is, you ought to be the aggressor. Make the first move.”

“First move …?”

“Hell yeah. Show him the side of you I got to see when you came over for my birthday party last year. Remember that?”

“I do,” I admit suspiciously, then eye her, still rubbing my arm. “You hit me kinda hard.”

“Or better yet, show him the Toby who goes to the arcade and kicks ass.” She grabs my hand, stopping me from rubbing my arm, then stares at me with meaning. “Show him the Toby who doesn’t nurse his arm after he gets love-smacked by his friend.”

“Love-smacked, you call that?” I free my hand from hers to hug my knees to my stomach again. “First move. Okay. Fine. I’ll …” I let out a sigh. “I guess on Monday, first thing in chemistry class, before the bell, I’ll … strike up a conversation and keep it going.” I nod, satisfied with that, then turn back to her.

She’s squinting at me in disbelief. “Really? That’s all you got?” After I shrug, she sighs with exasperation. “You are impossibly dull sometimes, Toby.” She gets to her feet, hops up to grab hold of the bleacher seat above by her fingertips, then skillfully dangles there. “I think I was a cheerleader in another life. Fairly convinced.”

“And I was the star quarterback,” I muse with her.

She wrinkles up her face. “You mean we were Prom King and Prom Queen, too? And we eventually get married, have kids, start to hate each other, and you turn into a beer-gutted alcoholic while I lean into a mild case of meth addiction to take the edge off?”

“Jesus, Kels. Way to go dark, there.”

“You forget I spent several years on the streets. I’ve seen it all. Nothing surprises me.” She lets herself drop, landing spritely on her feet. “You, on the other hand, are the most sheltered boy I’ve ever known. And I’ve known lots of boys. I think that’s why I like you,” she realizes with a start, eyeing me. “You’re so refreshingly naïve. A little like how Lucky was when we first met.”

“Who’s Lucky?”

“A fellow street-rat friend of mine. A lot like you in some ways. Good in the arcade. Mean with a pinball machine. Could pull out a blank sheet of paper and … draw a whole world on it. He lived up to his name by getting lucky and meeting the man of his dreams. And I got myself dads.” She squats down in front of me, eclipsing my view of the school, her greenish-blonde hair picked up by the wind and the dust. “My point is, I think Domino is who you’ve been waiting for.”

With that, a distant bell sounds, catching us both by surprise, and it’s time for seventh period. As Kelsey heads off one way, I go another, taking myself straight to the auditorium where I sit in the back row and keep to myself. The period passes quickly, and after the final bell of the day at last rings, the hallway outside fills with the noise of students excitedly heading out. A few people burst into the auditorium, including Kelsey, joined by two other girls from our lunch table who are deep into discussion about something to do with who will get to stage manage the show.

I hear Ms. Joy before I see her, the jangling of her keys and her loud, smoky voice preceding her. She slips into the auditorium from a back door behind the stage, and then her thin, pale, haphazardly-dressed form struts into view, heels striking the floor with every step as she chats away irritably on her phone. At any time of day, she looks like someone’s cool (or crazy) older sister with an angry brownish-red perm who is just “totally over it”, and whenever she talks, she always has a spare hand to gesture in the air, bedazzled with no less than three rings and a giant bangle on her skinny wrist. She comes center stage and stops for a moment, appearing to be doing a quick headcount of who’s shown up for auditions. She frowns, seeming unimpressed, and says into her phone, “A light bunch this year, yep. Oh, for God’s sake, John, feed yourself dinner for once. Yes, I will be late.” Then she hangs up and steps down from the stage to take a seat in the front row.