Heteroflexible

Billy isn’t the only person to find us. While chatting with some girls from the dance department who find us and offer their congrats on our performance, one particularly special girl breaks through the crowd to offer her own words.

Camille.

Despite her grunge/punk look she’s usually rocking, tonight she is absolutely radiant in a low-cut black satin gown that hugs her every curve. She wears some long black gloves that reach her elbows with jewels adorning them on the tops of the hands. It’s a mixture of artwork and fashion, what she’s wearing tonight.

She moves with grace when she approaches us, and all her focus is on Bobby. “I swear, Bobby, if I didn’t already know better, I’d say you were a dance student already, training for months on that spectacularly moving piece you just performed.”

Her words make Bobby smile. “Thanks, Camille. I appreciate that. It … really means a lot, especially coming from someone as talented as you.”

“Talented? Or do you mean clumsy and uncomfortable in this gown?” She rolls her eyes and picks at her gloves. “These things might look pretty, but they sure as pig shit aren’t practical to wear while eating.”

Some girls titter behind her, and Bobby lets out a full-on belly of laughter.

I shake my head, smiling appreciatively. “You can take the girl outta Spruce, but you’ll never take the Spruce outta the girl.”

Camille gives me a wink. Then, after a second’s hesitation, she leans toward Bobby, bringing her lips right up to his ear. Words are whispered, and I watch Bobby smile.

She gives him a squeeze on his arm, shoots me one more sly and knowing look, then says, “Enjoy your success, boys. The whole town’s got their eyes on you now.” Then with a kind smile, she is off with the other dancers, who were apparently in the middle of speaking excitedly with her about what schools in Europe are like.

Like some kind of fairy of inspiration, Camille waltzed back into my life this summer, and much in the same way she came in, she saunters right out with that graceful stride of hers.

I turn to Bobby, curious. “What’d she whisper in your ear?”

Before he can answer, we’re approached by someone else.

Someone who makes all of the muscles in my face and body stiffen with tension and anger.

Anthony Myers, in a white dress shirt with a loose vest over it, approaches the pair of us cautiously with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his slightly ill-fitting, tight gray slacks.

His head is bowed slightly when he addresses us. “Hey, Bobby. Hey, Jimmy.”

Bobby doesn’t say a word. He only stares the boy down like he could cut him into twenty-two pieces with his laser eyes.

I lift my chin. “Myers.”

“I …” Anthony clears his throat, shuffles his feet, then finally manages to say, “You both performed pretty amazingly. You guys, uh …” He clears his throat again, sounds almost like he’s gagging on nothing but air for a second, then resumes. “You guys should be really proud of your efforts.”

Bobby rolls his eyes.

I take a protective step in front of Bobby. “If that’s all you got to say to us,” I start, “then I’ll say thanks for your compliments, and you can head right on off now.”

“That isn’t all I got to say.” Anthony straightens his back. “I’m also here to say I … I-I’m sorry.” His eyes shift nervously back and forth between me and Bobby. “About what happened.”

“Sure ya are,” grunts Bobby, not having a word of it.

“I am. I really am. In fact, I …” Anthony swallows hard. “What I was tryin’ to tell you earlier, Bobby, is that … I had some words with Mr. Lemon. Some important words. I really, uh … gave it a lot of thought. After that day. And I realized—”

“He means he went to church,” Bobby sasses privately to me, which makes me smirk, amused.

“It was church that I went to,” Anthony asserts, having heard Bobby’s aside. “And Trey Arnold gave a sermon-thing on assumin’ responsibility for the things we’ve done, even unconsciously, and that we should know that a secret is somethin’ that eats you from the inside-out. And I realized I had a big ol’ secret …”

“Aw shoot, Myers is about to come out to us,” mumbles Bobby.

“My secret was that I was jealous of you two, all the attention you got, and how it made me and Jazzy look like these villainous creeps our senior year. I never got over it. And I used it against ya, Bobby, ever since you were hired. And I instigated the fightin’ at the theater. And ain’t none of it was right, and—” Anthony’s eyes tear up suddenly, which sobers both Bobby and myself, our humor and jokes swallowed up. “And so I spoke to Mr. Lemon, and I told him the truth, and … a-and I got let go instead.”