Rebel at Spruce High

“Oh, you were in the office when I called Tanner.” It hits Billy, and he lets out a strained laugh. “Now I get it. No, you don’t have to worry. It’s just … We’re just goin’ through a little somethin’.”

I suspect I already know what it is. “If you want, I can talk to my best friend Kelsey and—” Did I just call Kelsey my best friend? Is she? Is this an accurate statement? “—find out what the Kings went through in adopting her. They’re a gay, married couple right on the outskirts of Spruce and Fairview, so … maybe it could help.”

Billy, who quite instantly appears stunned at what I’ve pieced together with just a few clues and mental glue, stares at me like a frozen block of Billy-shaped ice and sweat.

I realize just as instantly I might have overstepped. “Sorry. I’ll just go. I didn’t mean—Anyway, she was in the foster care system. It’s probably different than what you’re doing. I won’t tell anyone. I’m gonna—I’m gonna go.” After another clumsy spill of words I can’t recall saying, I make a fast departure. I suspect a still-bewildered Billy watches me the whole way out.

When I swing onto the back of Vann’s bike, take the helmet from him, then slide my arms around his tight, toned waist, I lay my head on his back, smell him, and instantly feel at home. “You all good back there?” he asks as his motorcycle growls between our legs. “Ride away, cowboy,” I tell him with a relieved and happy grin spilling over my face, and off he goes.

But apparently it isn’t my house we’re heading to. “Isn’t it a bit late for a joyride?” I ask loudly as we zip down the road—away from my neighborhood. “I mean, I’m not opposed to one, of course. Everyone’s out and about tonight, but—”

“Nope!” he shouts over his shoulder. “This isn’t a joyride!”

“Are we making a rendezvous at TJ’s lovely estate??” I tease as I take note of our general vicinity—the rich area. I’m seriously at a loss. “Are you guys best friends now? What’s goin’ on?”

He doesn’t answer any more of my questions.

Five minutes later, he doesn’t have to. He comes to a stop and cuts the engine off in front of a big house. We pop off our helmets, and then soon we’re walking up the long driveway to the garage, him rolling his bike along.

“Where are we?” I ask him, numb, but I think I might have figured it out already. “Is this … Is this your …?”

“The better question,” he interrupts me, “is how long it’s been since you’ve gone swimming.”

I nearly drop my helmet, fumbling with it. “S-Say what?”

Vann smirks, amused.

When he takes me inside the house, he tells me to keep quiet. I’ve been to the Strong Ranch a few times, and I’ve got to say, this house is quite comparable to the size of theirs, minus a few acres of livestock and farmland. After asking me in a whisper if I want anything to drink or eat, which I politely decline, he takes me straight out to the backyard. Past a large, L-shaped patio lies a swimming pool stretching before us, lit by small lamps that line its oblong shape. At one end sits a hot tub, slightly elevated from the pool, around which tropical-looking trees and flowers grow. Even at night, or perhaps especially at this hour, the pool is picturesque and breathtaking. I was definitely in shock already, just walking up the driveway as the reality slowly began to dawn on me. Now, I’m speechless.

“Empty your pockets on the table,” he tells me as he does the same. “Believe it or not, I haven’t even stepped foot in my own pool yet.” He takes off his clothes one piece at a time, starting with his leather jacket, then his t-shirt. “But it’s an unseasonably warm night for October … and why not?” I watch him in a daze as I take out my phone and wallet and set them on the table next to his things. As he starts to unbutton his jeans, he eyes me. “You just gonna stand there? Or you gonna jump in with me?”

My thoughts come as slowly and stickily as syrup. “I … I didn’t know you lived out here. In the nice part of town.”

“Oh. I see. You want help.” He stops just after unzipping his jeans, and with them left half open and showing the shiny black material of his boxer-briefs underneath, he takes hold of the base of my Biggie’s shirt and starts working it over my head. “Don’t worry,” he tells me as I start to protest. “All of the windows of my parents’ bedroom don’t face out here. And there’s no neighbors. We’re all alone. You’re mine, and I’m yours.” My shirt drops to the ground. Next, his fingers go for the zipper of my slacks.