Rebel at Spruce High

“We’re fine,” I announce with more harshness than intended.

“Can you drop the act? Please? You’re not on a stage here.”

“I’m seeing him Sunday. We’re going to hang out at the park in the afternoon. We’re fine.” After a breath, I bring down my tone to something gentler. “Thanks for your concern, but I’m fine.”

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat? I have a menu to offer of …” She thumbs through her phone. “… two and a half possibly delicious options for you to choose from.”

I quirk an eyebrow at her. “And a half …?”

“I don’t have confidence in the third option, so it comes with the risk of burning down your grandmother’s beautiful kitchen.”

Despite the tension in my body, I crack a smile. My mom, who apparently just accomplished what she set out to do, hops off the stool and takes my half-smile as an invitation to hug me. I let her, and for a moment, things between us feel just like they used to.

And it’s one of the last pleasant things I feel the rest of the weekend. All Friday night and all of Saturday, I’m a restless, irritable mess of emotions and frustration. Even Sunday morning has me twisted into a pretzel of desperation as I tear through my closet for the perfect thing to wear to a park on a Sunday afternoon that is both comfortable and unequivocally sexy.

I need to ignite that fire in him that can’t resist me. Toby has to, upon first sight, deeply despise the divide that’s been driven between us.

I get to the park ten minutes early—only to find Toby there as well, sitting on top of our usual picnic table with his feet down on the bench. He’s in a tight white undershirt and black slacks, with his Biggie’s apron balled up on the table next to him. When I come toward the table, he spots me, and a light flickers on in his eyes.

“Hey,” he greets me as I stand before him.

“Hey, Toby.” That’s a good start. We both sound amicable. I’m even sensing a bit of a racing heart on his side as his eyes flit down my body, taking me all in. “How’s your weekend been?”

“Busy,” he answers with a sheepish sort of chuckle. “Biggie’s was slammed last night for no reason at all, after having a fairly … uneventful afternoon.” He nods at me. “And what about you?”

Misery. Pain. Lonesomeness. Regret. Agony. “It was fine. I just started a few new sketches, developed a character, and tried my hand at illustrating Dread Knight and his familiar in my own way.”

Toby’s face flickers with pain.

I shouldn’t have brought up that couple. Halloween night is at once revived in both our eyes. Damn it.

“So anyway,” I blurt out, desperate to erase the image I just foolishly conjured up, “I might have a contact at the school to start up an Arts club for all kinds of Arts. Someone my mother was connected to through the principal, which … is kinda weird since I’m on his shit list. Am I still on his shit list?” I hop onto the picnic table next to Toby. My feet start bouncing in place. I’m a nervous wreck. “If I start up the club, think you’ll want to join?”

“Uh … y-yeah. Sure. If I got the time or …” He clears his throat as he stares down at the grass. “Or y’know, if I’m not working on the sets. I may be called in for Bloody Saturday for the winter show. It’ll be a lot worse than the one we had for Seaside.”

Bloody Saturday is a very long Saturday spent before the final weeks of a show’s rehearsal, where the majority of the set is built and painted, costumes are finished up, and sound and lighting are finalized. They last anywhere from eight to twelve hours. “When is it? Next weekend? I’ll totally be there.”

“Okay.” He tries on a smile. It falls right off. Then we descend into silence again.

And quite suddenly, I can’t put up with another second of it. “What’s happened to us, Toby?”

His eyes shut.

He’s been dreading this talk as much as I have.

“I’m sick in the stomach,” I go on, and now that the floodgates are open, we’re in danger of letting it all out. “Every day, I feel like I’m dying. I know the way I behaved at the Halloween party was … was wrong. It was bad. I should have been the bigger person, but I couldn’t stand the conceited looks on their faces. Look, I’m sorry. I’m really, truly sorry. But if you want things to change, you can’t just let them spill punch on you and say everything’s fine. It’s not fine, and it hasn’t been for a long time—since long before I moved here. Aren’t you sick of them getting away with everything?”