Rebel at Spruce High

I’m worse than the scum on the bottom of Hoyt’s shoe, which I happen to know annoyingly well. Why am I doing this to Vann??

“Okay, so I’m pretty sure you’ve pushed a tiny snowball at the top of an icy peak,” Kelsey tells me during yearbook, “and now it’s rolled down the mountainside and become a boulder of ice.”

I can barely focus on typing up an article for the band page of the yearbook, let alone whatever it is Kelsey’s going on about. “A boulder of ice …?”

“Yeah, when you said something to Coach Strong. About me.” She leans around her computer monitor to get a look at me as she talks. “Billy and Tanner are, like, suddenly besties with my dads. They talk every day on the phone. They even came over for dinner last night. I think something’s going on.”

“Something?” I ask distractedly as I rub my head and reread a sentence on my page for the twentieth time. The words still look scrambled up. I’m a terrible writer.

Kelsey huffs. “Look, if you and Vann are going to be broken-up ex-lovers and sad and mopey all the time, I’ll just go shopping for a new best friend. You’re, like, the worst. You’re even worse than Lucky when he fell for that banker guy.”

I don’t know the first thing about any banker guy. “I’m sorry. My head is kinda messed up. Halloween really … freaked me out.”

She studies me for a second. Then, deciding to abandon her own work, she scoots her chair around the desk and puts it right in front of me. “Is there something I can do? Should we maybe hit up the movies this weekend? Oh! You can take me to the arcade and show off how amazing you are by battling me in every game.”

I smirk at her. “You hate the arcade. And thanks, but …” I sigh and close my layout application on the computer. “I don’t think my heart’s gonna be into anything for a while.”

“At least come to rehearsals,” Kelsey insists. “The props don’t paint themselves. Plus, Ms. Joy misses your annoyingly cute face.”

I smile. It’s forced. “Thanks, Kelsey.”

She winks, then punches my arm. “I’ve got your back, Toby.”

Whether she’s got my back or not, it doesn’t save me from the day-to-day grind of being near Vann, of sitting by Vann in class, of changing clothes next to Vann in gym, or of seeing him mount his bike every day after school and tear off into the dusty distance. There seems to be a cold front every week as fall lets the first cool claws of winter scratch at our doors, and there’s nothing quite like cold weather that makes you crave the embrace of someone.

Days of torment turn into weeks of torment. I make a useless comment in chemistry about how the weather’s getting colder by the day, and Vann just gives me a mild nod, a smile, then returns to his drawing. Some other day in the locker room, I fumble with my shoes when trying to put them on, sending one flinging across the aisle. Vann fetches it and hands it back to me, and before I can thank him, he’s already halfway out of the locker room. Then on one Friday, I spot him in the hallway after the last bell, and as I approach him, I think up ten different things I could say to spark up a convo. But suddenly Mr. Hewitt, the graphics design teacher, comes out of a side office door and meets with Vann. After a quick handshake, the two go into his office, and my chance to chat with Vann is gone. He didn’t even notice me.

I have to remind myself that I did this. And this is supposed to be the right thing to do, despite how horrible it feels.

It’s on the final day before Thanksgiving break that I finally have a conversation with him that’s more than three words long. “So are you starting up that Arts club idea?” I ask him in the hall as we head from third period to the gym.

“Getting a few balls rolling.” He eyes me. “How’d you know?”

I decide for some reason not to mention that I saw him go into Mr. Hewitt’s office. “I didn’t. Was just curious.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Found a sponsor: my graphics teacher. He’s all about it, but wants me to consider a club with a digital twist. Like some kind of Photoshop/animation thing or something, since digital graphics are the way of the future … or whatever.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

And then we’re silent again.

We don’t speak until we’re in the locker room changing, and I decide I can’t leave well enough alone. “Hey, I just realized I could learn from you and the club about 3D graphics design, just in case I ever get around to founding that gaming company I’ve always dreamed of. It’d really come into use.”