Rebel at Spruce High

I wonder if this day could get any weirder.

Mercifully, no one ends up sitting on anyone’s face. We play so many rounds of the game, it’s 3 in the morning before either of us realize it. After I take a shower (in his cluttered, tiny bathroom) and free myself from the paint-stained memory of why I’m even here, I put on a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt from my bag. We snatch some late-night snacks from the kitchen to take back to his room, then stay up with the TV playing lame infomercials in the background as we chat about anything that comes to mind. He mutters on about football and what a jerk his stepdad is between fistfuls of chips. I wax poetically about my own drunk stepdad and his hatred of my ‘arty side’ while chugging a soda. And when our yawns start outperforming our stories, we let the noise of another infomercial about the next best exercise machine take over as we drift off just after 5 o’clock.

Any weirdness, I’m amazed to say, wears off by the morning: Thanksgiving morning. His sister Gemma plays a big role in that when she returns promptly to Hoyt’s room the moment we wake up, demanding to play Candy Castle on his Xbox. Hoyt upholds his promise and surrenders his bedroom to the twinkling music and colorful explosions of her game on his small TV screen. The rest of the day is a blur of hanging out (or hiding out, depending on how you look at it) with Hoyt. When the afternoon rolls around, I find myself seated at the table with Hoyt’s family—stepfather included, who behaves just as Hoyt described: aloof and quiet. We enjoy a modest Thanksgiving spread of discount turkey from the market, stuffing, green beans, and sweet potatoes, to the tune of A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving blasting at full volume on the nearby living room TV for Gemma’s benefit. “Eat your fill,” Hoyt warns me privately, “or else all the leftovers are gonna be turned into some experimental turkey-stuffing-stew concoction we’ll be forced to eat over the weekend.” I chuckle and obey, going for seconds.

And when everyone is digesting in the evening, I find myself sitting on a narrow slab of cement that extends from his back door with my phone out, alone. My mom called several times while we were eating (my phone was on silent), then sent a text telling me she was trying to give me space, but wanted to know if I’m okay. I reply and tell her I’m fine and not to worry, though I doubt she’s as worried as she ought to be anyway. Then I text Lee to find out how the situation at home really is and whether “our dad” has calmed down. Upon sending the text, I can’t help but feel like an outsider checking in on my own life. And it’s even weirder when Lee replies back with a cheery: “Everything’s OK! Marly cried last night but all is OK now. Are you coming back home soon?” I stare at his question for an eternity before sending back a shrug emoji.

Then I thumb through my contacts and land on Vann again. I can only imagine the extravagant spread his parents prepared for Thanksgiving. Then again, realizing his mother doesn’t cook very often, I’m stumped trying to imagine what his day has actually been like. Should I call him? Or send a text, at the very least?

“No,” Hoyt weighs in, unasked, when he joins me on the slab of cement overlooking his weed-ridden backyard. “That city boy’s been bad news for you since the start. You saw what he tried to do to my man Julio.”

I give him a look. “Only after Julio ruined my costume. Thanks to him, I had to go with Billy to their house by the lake to change into a clean set of clothes—their house was a total mess, what with the renovations and construction going on—and I missed out on the costume contest I was looking forward to competing in.”

“Julio didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident.”

Again, with the accident crap. The truth is, I don’t know if it was deliberate or if Julio really did bump into that table on accident. “I guess the punch station was kinda flimsy …”

“Very flimsy. Look.” He throws his arm around me and pulls me against him, bringing his face close. “My buds and I, we might be kinda nuts, we might not be the sensitive crowd you’re used to, but at least you know what you’re gettin’ with us. Vann? He’s … He’s a loose cannon. He isn’t like us. He isn’t from here.”

I hug my knees to my chest. “I think that’s the exact reason I fell for him so hard. He’s … nothing like this place.”