Rebel at Spruce High

And the old Vann would have. The old Vann would have made work of him the second I pulled him out of that mud pit. Hell, the old Vann would have shoved him up against a locker that first day he changed in front of me and I caught him looking at me. Old Vann has no restraint. He doesn’t hold back. He’s reckless as a mad dog off his chain leash.

But I don’t want to be that Vann anymore. It’s that same Vann who made bad choices up in New York City. I have to change if I have any hope of doing right by this sexy country boy, who has inexplicably become the only person in this town I can trust.

So let’s throw him a bone. “I had a lip ring. But …” I shrug. “Decided it wasn’t for me anymore.”

He opens his eyes. “Really?”

“Yep. And you’ll do just fine. For a friend. Like you said, we’re partners in chemistry as well as castmates. So … let’s do it.”

His face brightens, relieved. “Let’s do it!” A look of confusion crosses his face. “Uh … do what, exactly?”

“Get to know each other.” I point at his computer monitor. “And you can start by explaining what the hell Dread Knight is.”

Toby gapes at me. “Dread Knight? You don’t know what—” He shifts on the bed, getting closer to me and lowering his voice. “You don’t know what Dread Knight is?? Oh, dude, man, oh, you’ve got no idea what you’re missing out on. It’s only the greatest open world roleplaying game ever made! You can romance anyone in the game, no matter the gender. It’s super inclusive. You can even have a gender-fluid character. You can raise baby gorgons. There’s a side quest that involves out-sassing a weredragon. A spell that turns you into a crystal griffin, which you use to save a hot prince who’s been abducted by a cult of Halfling Pyromancers. You know what a Pyromancer is, right? They use fire magic. Oh, oh, and—”

I must have pressed the right button, because Dread Knight has Toby talking for a solid ten minutes while I kick back in the desk chair and listen. To be honest, after a while, I lose track of what he’s saying, and all I see is the way his lips move, the way his face lights up and turns his blue eyes into beaming gems, and how the energy and warmth of his smile alone could melt Antarctica. How can someone so beautiful be kept hidden in a dusty, tiny corner of the world like Spruce? And even within Spruce itself, he’s tucked away into this shed, his own family tossing him aside like that old Frisbee sitting out in the yard, forgotten—a country-boy Cinderella.

I want the whole world to realize they’re missing out on Toby. I want them to know what an incredible person I think he is—and then I want them to feel terrible for turning their cheek to him, making him feel small. I want Hoyt to realize Toby’s not alone and vulnerable anymore. If he wants to lay a finger on Toby, he’s going to have to go through me first. That’s my new mission here in this town: to protect Toby, the only person who matters in it. Now that I’m here, no one’s pulling anything over this boy’s pretty eyes.

Even if that means holding back a while longer from having my way with those lips of his, and that smooth, kissable chest, and whatever else I might find in those loose, shiny basketball shorts.

“You get what I mean?” Toby finishes. “Like, just put us out of our misery and tell us when the sequel is coming out!” He blinks. “Oh. Am I … Did I lose you there?”

“Sounds like an amazing game.” Some other chef has taken over on TV, a woman with short, spiky blonde hair, tossing a salad in a large wooden bowl. “So you’re a big gamer, huh? Is that your passion? You gonna dye your hair pink someday and stream your expert game-playing online for your massive following?”

“Oh. No, I don’t think that’s, uh … particularly lucrative. I’m good, but … I doubt I’m worldwide-competition good. I’m more of a … of a … well.” He points at the wall above his computer.

I look up. Hanging next to the one narrow window in the shed is an oil painting on canvas. It looks like a forest, except instead of trees, there are tall, glowing mushrooms the size of them. Across the forest floor are pebbles and tiny streams of water, which seem to pick up the bluish light from the lustrous mushroom trees. It’s an objectively remarkable, spectacular painting. “Damn,” I grunt. The longer I look at it, the more little details I notice here and there, like a small fairy I almost missed, who hovers near the base of one of the mushrooms, inspecting a tiny glowing stone. “This looks like … some kind of fantasy fungal wonderland.”