Rebel at Spruce High

I join him with my reluctant mother following behind, and in time, the two of them are deep in a discussion about something to do with horses and a neighboring town called Fairview. I sink my teeth into a melt-in-your-mouth chocolate croissant as my mind wanders to a different breakfast table on the other side of town. Now, I’m regretting leaving so abruptly—and that look of pained disappointment on Toby’s face. Why do I sabotage everything good in my life? I feel like my heart is in the back car of a rollercoaster, dragged on helplessly by the momentum as I’m yanked left, then right, then left again with every twist of the track, every one of its occupants screaming with delight—except me.

But if Toby was next to me on that rollercoaster, laughing and shouting at every hill we drop down, instinctively reaching for my hand each moment it becomes too much, then letting go again to throw his hands in the air, screaming deliriously … I think I just might give in and throw my hands up too, enjoying the ride.

Maybe, despite my efforts, I will never be able to keep myself away from him.

08 | TOBY

Did I seriously just scare Vann off with my giant boner?

That was my thought for every hour of the day that remained of that fateful Saturday. I couldn’t concentrate on a damned thing. I have never hated morning wood more than I do the rest of the weekend. Seriously, my boner? That’s what got between us?

Literally?

Why didn’t I get his number, at least? Then I could shoot him a text, relieve myself of this humiliating burden of reliving our last moments together over and over. I grilled Lee for exactly fifteen seconds on what he said to Vann when he ran into him in the house, but Lee gave his usual non-answers and, once again, laid on his usual unasked-for advice to keep away from him. And as I sat around all Saturday wrestling with my emotions, I stared at my phone and willed Vann to somehow get my number and text me.

That night at work, I just went through the motions of taking orders, taking dishes, and taking breaths. Mrs. Tucker was not happy about having to provide me a second apron, but she did so free of charge, and it only made me dwell on Vann even worse. My mom showed up at 11:30 PM to take me home, and as she went on about the latest chapter she read in her salacious romance novel, I just stared out the window and replayed every moment of the night before when Vann saved me from my own dog. And then every little moment in my shed when I thought I was seconds away from kissing him, or from him kissing me.

Is it so crazy to think he could be into me? The way he pays so much attention to me, and the way he, despite his attitude, keeps gravitating back to me … I can’t be imagining it.

Sunday’s such a mess, it doesn’t even occur to me that I have pre-cal homework until I’m seconds from dozing off. Sitting at my desk ten minutes past midnight, I groggily set myself to doing the math, and every number and figure is Vann divided by this, Vann to the exponent of that, and Vann, Vann, Vann.

It’s just my luck that Monday morning second period English would place me, once more, at a desk in front of Hoyt. Today, he’s done me the courtesy of kicking off his sneakers before propping his feet up on the back of my chair. “Oh, how rude of me!” he had exclaimed just before doing so. “To kick up my shoes on your chair! They’ve gotta be so dirty, with all the running I was doing this morning. Here, buddy, I’ll take them off.” From the heat that emanates from his big socked soles, now propped on my shoulder instead of the back of the chair, I would say he indeed did a lot of running this morning. At one point, Hoyt starts gently wagging them, bored, and his foot keeps tapping the side of my face. Yes, he is trying to get me to shout or react or do something I’ll regret, and with the events of my fateful first-day lunch period still fresh, I’m determined not to give Hoyt any further attention. Every English period is going to be like this, and I have to accept it if I have any hope of surviving this school year.

When the bell rings and his feet finally relieve themselves of the home they’ve made atop my shoulders, Hoyt says, “Didn’t see you at G-Man’s this weekend. Did you get the poops?”

I’m shutting my books and gathering my notes. “Nope.”

“I thought we had a date. Why’d you stand up your best bud?”