Rebel at Spruce High

I focus on the soapy dishes, determined not to replay the sight of Vann looking at that cast list. The way he stared at it for so long, it was like he forgot how to read. Then two and two clicked together. He turned his eyes on me with this dark, piercing look in them, and at once, I was afraid. Is he angry? Is he going to drop out of the play before the first rehearsal? In that single, scathing look, it was like he blamed me for the casting, like he thought I had some kind of hand in it, like I planned it.

Like the thought of kissing me in a play in front of the school was the deepest offense he could ever have imagined.

Instantly, any pie-slice of pride I had in being cast in my first show was thrown back in my face. I’m pretty sure my chin is still dripping with the figurative cream of humiliation. If Vann didn’t hate me before, he sure as hell hates me now.

And I’ve got a whole weekend to dwell on it.

And worry.

And wash greasy dishes.

My hands stop moving. “I should quit the play. I should give up my role to one of the girls. I mean—”

“Oh, Toby. No, no, no. C’mon, now, none of that.”

“There’s enough of a problem with fewer strong, leading roles for women than men, and so many female actors. Why do I have to go and steal one, like that? Why did I do that? Besides, you can’t just pop a guy in place of a girl in a script and call it gay. There is so much more … nuance and complexity involved when you change the relationship like that! Ugh, I’m such an awful—”

“Hey, you said it yourself, all the leading ladies graduated last year, right? Look, these are just nerves. You will do just fine come October. It’s way, way too early for stage fright.”

If only stage fright was my worst concern … “Looks like Tim and his wife are leaving,” I tiredly note, spotting them through the skinny window that separates the kitchen from the restaurant. I don’t really feel like talking about the play anymore. “Is Mick back from break yet? Never mind, I’ll bus the table myself.” I set my dishes aside, peel off my gloves, then make a move for the door.

Mrs. Tucker’s hand grabbing my wrist stops me. “Now you remember what I told you, alright? Our little thing?”

I’ve worked here since the day I turned sixteen. She’s like a second mother to me—whether I like it or not. “Yes,” I groan.

“C’mon, don’t give me sass. Remember the words: You have the permission to do anything your heart desires in life, whether it’s chasing a dream, or a job, or—”

“—or a cute guy, yeah, I remember your words.” I eye her. “I hope you realize it’s slim pickin’s in this town for a gay eighteen-year-old introverted gamer with an art-and-drama-nerd streak.”

“Tell that to my moody and neurotic pastry-chef son,” she retorts teasingly, then swats my butt with a menu. “You have permission to follow your heart and take over the big stage and teach that high school what it’s been missin’. The mayor is so shortsighted sometimes,” she adds suddenly, her mind wandering off. “He was opposed to doing any sort of risqué thing with the arts at Spruce High. I’m surprised he approved of it. Y’know, maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing for Strong to run against him in the spring.”

That drops my jaw. “Coach Strong’s running for mayor??”

“No. Worse. His mother.” She nudges me, then pushes open the door. “Now skidoo. We’ve got tables to turn. I’ll go dig Mick out of whatever hole he’s hiding in.” And with another swat of a menu at my ass, I’m out the kitchen door and back into the fray.

It’s around ten o’clock—just an hour before we close—that the chaos of Biggie’s Bites finally starts to ebb. And just when I think I have a moment to sit down, the door flies open, and in comes a cheery, loud quartet of last year’s graduates—whom I would have graduated with had I not fallen behind a year. Leading the four of them is TJ McPherson, sweet, baby-faced, easy on the eyes, but a little pampered for my taste in his giant countryside mansion. The other three used to be good friends with me when we were in fifth grade. Then they got in with the cool kids and ditched me—the pain of which was only further exacerbated by my falling behind a year and watching them soar off ahead of me, coughing in the dust of their departure. Needless to say, I’m not happy to see them.

I slip right into the kitchen before they can spot me. “Mick,” I hiss over the noise of the running sink. Mick’s doing dishes. “Hey. Please. You gotta cover for me out there.”