Rebel at Spruce High

That explains the glowing Lucille’s sign. Well, kinda. “Sure.”

As we cut through the living room, Winona gives me one last stare-down from the couch. Nighty-night, doggie. After shutting the sliding glass door behind me, I follow Toby to the shed. For a guy who doesn’t take part in any sports, he’s got an impressively lean taper to his back and waist, complete with a set of Adonis dimples right where his lower back meets the top of his ass, exquisitely visible with his slightly low-hanging basketball shorts.

Seriously. This guy has one really cute ass.

“Alright, so …” Toby holds the door open, letting me in first after having flipped on a lamp. “It’s kinda small, which I guess you saw already. But I’ve got TV, and a computer, and …” He nudges a pair of shoes over to the wall with his foot. “… and an outlet if you need to, like, charge your phone or something.” He bites his lip as he stares at his bed. “Wasn’t expectin’ company, or else I might’ve cleaned up in here a bit better. Sorry ‘bout that.”

I come in and drop back into his desk chair. After flipping on the fan, Toby goes to the corner of his room where a bunch of shirts hang on a couple of makeshift hooks. “Told you, you don’t need a shirt,” I say. “Isn’t it hot as hell out here?”

Toby peers at me over his shoulder, his mouth open, yet he doesn’t speak at first. “I … well …” He lets out a chuckle that’s half a scoff. “Well, you’re wearing a—”

“Whatever.” I shrug and kick back another swig of soda before I turn on the TV. Some kind of chef competition thing is on. I prop my foot partway up the leg of the desk, leaning back in the chair as I give Toby his space. He seems to regard his clothes for ten more pensive seconds before, with a resolved clearing of his throat, he pushes away, opting to stay shirtless, and drops down onto the bed, leaning back against the wall. Subtly, I sneak a look at him, where my eyes slide down his bare chest, lightly toned, and to his smooth stomach and bellybutton, a light dusting of hair making a happy trail to the waistband of his shorts.

Toby, unaware of my looking at him, keeps his eyes on the TV. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them, then settles on clasping his hands in his lap. “So …” he starts to say, rethinks it, then goes on: “So I wanted to say, uh … I know about … about …”

Why is he so nervous? “About what?”

“About the three strikes from the principal.”

I look back at the TV. Some dorky guy with glasses is mixing a bunch of powdery stuff into a bowl. “What’s your point?”

“I’m sorry that happened. I know it was, like, Monday or … or whatever. But I still feel bad you got in trouble on my behalf.”

I shrug, fidgeting with my soda. “Has that Hoyt guy been like that for a while? Messing with you? Being a little prick?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you put up with it?” I ask, still staring at the TV.

“I don’t know.” Toby lets out a sigh. “Hoyt and his friends … they’ve kinda had their run of the town since I was in elementary. It got really bad in middle school.”

The glasses guy is rolling out dough on a board. “Bad how?”

“You know I fell back a year, right?”

“No. When?”

“Seventh grade. It was ‘cause of them, but also maybe ‘cause I didn’t … stick up for myself better. Ugh, I can’t believe I’m saying that, letting my stepdad’s words come out of my mouth. But maybe it’s true. If I’d not let Hoyt and his friends get to me so badly, I … would be graduated by now.”

The chef takes to kneading his dough, his palms shoving into it again and again. So we’re both behind a year, I realize. “He’s been messing with you that long, you telling me? What’d he do?”

“It was a bunch of little things at first,” Toby explains. “A lot of the same stuff he does now. But back then, it sort of built up … and I had something like a meltdown. I failed several of my classes and even faked being sick for so many days, I got in trouble for it. Yeah, me, getting into trouble for avoiding the bullies.”

“That shit’s gonna stop right now.” I shoot my eyes at Toby. “I am dead serious about that. I won’t let anything happen again.”

Toby gives me a look. “But you’re on strike one of three.”

“You think I’m gonna let that principal decide who’s in charge in this town? Nah. Things are gonna change.” I face the TV again, slurping on my soda as the chef rushes a pan of something to the oven. “When the system’s broken and its leaders’ ears and eyes are closed to the real issues, you gotta make yourself be seen. You’ve gotta be the change. Rebel against it.”