Date Me, Bryson Keller

by Kevin van Whye

  The doors open and we all turn as the man of the hour saunters into the auditorium. Bryson looks perfectly tousled—effortless and smooth. The sight irks me more than it should.

  “Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Henning.” Bryson stops at the front row.

  “Welcome, Mr. Keller. Glad you could fit us into your busy schedule. I hope you’re aware that you have a date with me at lunch. You too, Kai.” Mrs. Henning looks between Bryson and me. I wish I were the type of person who could voice an argument about the unfairness of being punished twice for the same crime. Seriously, where’s the justice in the world?

  “Kai, please explain the assignment to Bryson,” Mrs. Henning continues.

  Not at all happy with these turns of events, I nod and stand. Grabbing my belongings, I head down the steps and off the stage. I sit on one of the fold-down seats and place my things next to me. Bryson’s stealing glances at his phone.

  Annoyed, I say, “Here.” I hold out a copy of the assignment. “We need to choose a scene from a Shakespeare movie adaptation and perform it on Friday.”

  Bryson accepts the paper from my hand. “You okay?”

  “Great. Just great.”

  Bryson picks up on my sarcasm, because he looks up. His blue eyes have a habit of looking through you. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I lie. “Let’s just get this over with. We should make some time to get together. Let me know when works for you?” The sooner we make plans, the sooner I can try to convince Mrs. Henning to let me out of detention. I need to finish my script. This is my last shot. And I think an extension is out of the question.

  “I have soccer practice tomorrow and Thursday, and I have a game Wednesday night.” Before he can say anything else, his phone rings. I recognize the ringtone. It’s a lesser-known song from my favorite indie band—the Graces. I’m surprised that Bryson Keller of all people knows such a deep cut. Bryson stares at the screen and I see the caller ID—Dad. He swipes his thumb across the severely cracked screen and ignores the call.

  Bryson sighs. He picks up my blazer before taking the seat next to me. He rests his arm on the armrest and we end up touching.

  “You free this afternoon?”

  I look up from our arms. Our eyes meet and it’s totally unnerving. This is the closest I’ve ever been to Bryson Keller. I jerk my arm away. Bryson frowns.

  “Uh, yes. I’m free,” I answer.

  “Then how about we get together and at least decide on what movie we’re going to perform.”

  “Okay. Where?”

  “I know this great café,” Bryson says. “We can go there if you want?”

  “Sure.”

  “Meet me in the parking lot after school, then.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I stand.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “To beg for my life.”

  Mrs. Henning is seated in the front row, flipping through some notes. As I approach her, I take deep, calming breaths. She looks up.

  “What can I do for you, Kai?”

  “Uh, actually, ma’am…,” I start awkwardly. “I was wondering if—no, hoping that—that you’d let me out of detention today. I can do it tomorrow?”

  “Why would I do that?” Mrs. Henning asks. “You were late today. And so you must serve your punishment today.”

  “I was hoping to work on my script at lunch. I’m almost done and just need to do a bit more work to get it ready by the deadline. If I don’t, I won’t be able to submit.”

  “Time management matters, Kai. I understand that life happens, but I can’t give you any special treatment. On my way to audition for Elphaba, I broke my toe. But did I let that stop me? Of course not. I worked through the pain, made it on time, and was sensational.”

  There isn’t anything I can do or say now. The one thing I wanted for my senior year is slipping away. I would have loved to write the school play for my final year at Fairvale Academy—a small way for me to leave my mark. It was important to me, and now it’s all over—all because of Bryson Keller and this stupid dare.

  I head back to my seat. “Why were you late?” I ask. I want to tell him why I was. I want to tell Bryson Keller just how much he has messed up not only my day but my year. I’m angry and annoyed at him. Maybe it isn’t fair, but right now I don’t care.

  “Family stuff.” Bryson’s expression is clouded and heavy, and it almost dulls my anger, but then his phone vibrates with a text. “Everyone’s wondering who I’m dating this week.” He smiles then, showing perfectly white teeth.

  “Who is it?” I ask. I swear to God, if it’s Louise Keaton, I’ll lose it.

  “No one yet. It’s nine-ten and I am still single,” he says. “This hasn’t happened in ages. I miss it.”

  That all this has happened for no reason pisses me off, as does his nonchalant attitude. I am drunk on anger and disappointment. It gives me confidence that I never had before.

  “No, you’re not,” I say.

  Bryson turns to me again. “Huh?” he asks. He’s clearly confused. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not single.” I do it. I say the words that I never thought I ever would. “I’m asking you out. I’m first, so this week you’re dating me.”

  Just then the bell rings, but Bryson and I stay seated. We’re staring at each other. With each passing heartbeat, my confidence and anger shrivel up and die. Soon I am left with the aftermath of what I have just said, of what I have just done and what it all means.

  Bryson bursts out laughing. It’s too loud. It’s clear that he thinks this is a joke. And I know it would be safer for me to laugh it off, too. I’m a senior, in my final year of high school. For these four grueling years, I’ve managed to keep it a secret that I am gay, and just like that, I’ve kicked the closet door open. As I listen to him laugh, I realize that I don’t want him to think this is a joke. My being gay isn’t a laughing matter. I want him to know that I am serious.

  So I lean in close, our faces inches apart. His laugh tapers off.

  “What are you doing?” He leans back, creating space between us, but I don’t let that stop me. My face may be on fire, but so are all my insides.

  I close the distance once more.

  “I’m not joking,” I say. “Date me, Bryson Keller!”

  3

  What have I just done?

  It’s a question that I repeat over and over in my head. Dread builds as I head toward English. I can’t be late to second period, too, so even though it means facing Bryson again, I still run. Usually, this would be the last I’d see of Bryson for the day, but not today. I have lunchtime detention with him.

  Oh God!

  Why did I do that? It’s another question that pounds in time with my galloping heart. What on God’s green earth possessed me to out myself to the most popular boy at Fairvale Academy? I’ve never been very into the whole coming-out business—maybe because the one and only time I did it, my best friend back then ghosted me. The sleepovers stopped, as did the invites to swim. It was like I didn’t exist anymore. Eventually we went to different high schools, but the scars of thirteen-year-old me ache even now, like a knee in winter.

  So except for a few random boys I’ve chatted to online since then, I haven’t come out to a soul. Being a gay teenager stuck in the closet is so lonely and isolating.

  Oh God, why did I do that?

  I’m not overtly religious. It’s not that I don’t believe in a higher power or anything. I kind of like the idea of someone always watching over me, at least up until the point I do things that will make Jesus blush. But right this second, I would not refuse some sort of miracle.

  Any sort of miracle, really.

  For the first time I am openly gay to someone at Fairvale Academy. I want to throw up. I can’t focus on any of this, not when the five-minute changeover is swi
ftly ticking away. I race from building A toward building B.

  Fairvale Academy is divided into two main buildings, each consisting of three floors. Our classes, save for gym, are split between them. Aside from drama, my classes are held in building B.

  I take the stairs two at a time and enter the large courtyard that divides the two buildings. I’m not the only student racing to beat the clock. I manage to sink into my seat just as the second-period bell rings.

  There are twenty other students in the class, but there is only one I concern myself with. I pull my copy of The Great Gatsby from my bag and turn to the page where we left off. Bryson arrives just before the teacher does. He’s not smiling, and his brow is furrowed. I make sure I keep my gaze trained on the words before me. He takes his seat, next to the window. Bryson and I sit in the same row. There’s just one desk between us—and it’s still empty. It seems that Mary-Beth Jones is out sick.

  I curse her.

  Our English teacher, Mr. Weber, is a barely-out-of-college type. This is his first official year teaching, so he tends to do everything by the textbook. Everything is the same, and everything is incredibly boring.

  Mr. Weber reads from the book before pausing and looking up. “Focus, please, Bryson.”

  For most of the period I try my hardest to ignore Bryson. But then I lose the war against myself. I turn to secretly look at him, and end up looking directly into his eyes. For the second time this hour, I stop breathing.

  Quickly, I turn back to my book while fighting the heat that colors my cheeks. Blushing makes my spattering of freckles stand out more. They are both my most distinct feature and the thing I hate most about the way I look.

  For the rest of the period, I force myself to stare at the same page. While the rest of the class moves forward, I relive asking Bryson Keller out. I did what Eric Ferguson wanted to do. I wonder if I was brave or stupid. It’s all too late now.

  The end-of-period bell rings, and I shove my copy of The Great Gatsby into my bag without much thought. Leaving this classroom means leaving Bryson behind—at least until lunch.

  I join the swarm of classmates feeding into the hallway and hope to lose myself in the crowd. A hand clamps down on my shoulder and instantly I know who it belongs to.

  “We should talk?” Bryson says. His breath tickles my ear and I fight a shiver. In the crush of students, Bryson bumps into me, creating a warmth at my back.

  “Okay,” I say. I try to calm my nerves. He just wants to talk. Bryson is known for being fair. Earlier this year, the school wanted to allow only seniors who are athletes to leave the premises for lunch. It wasn’t the first time the teachers had outright shown that the athletes are truly the gods of this school. And as captain of the boys’ soccer team, Bryson is on the highest pedestal. But he argued that all seniors should be allowed—and he won. It’s one of the reasons why everyone loves him.

  “Yo, BK.” Dustin’s voice cuts through the chatter that surrounds us. The bulky boy, who serves as a defender for the Cougars, pushes through the sea of bodies. His cocky gait is a sure sign that he’s very much aware of the hierarchy at Fairvale Academy and he knows his place at the top.

  I never thought that I would ever be thankful for the ball of testosterone that is Dustin Smith, but as he nears us, I can’t help but feel relieved. At least 90 percent; the other 10 is disappointment, but that’s easy to ignore.

  Bryson greets Dustin in what can only be described as a bro-hug, and I stand there awkwardly as they talk. Halfway through the conversation, Dustin stops and looks at me.

  “Why are you here?” Dustin looks from me to Bryson.

  The lie is quick on my tongue. When you live in the closet, lies become easier to tell. “Henning paired Bryson and me for drama, so we need to plan a practice schedule.” I don’t look at Bryson’s eyes, because if I do, I know the lie will not be believable.

  “Okay.” Dustin must buy my words, because he says to Bryson, “Did Shannon finally get to you?”

  Bryson shakes his head. “I haven’t seen her yet.” He sighs. “Why? Did you tell her I was going to be late today?”

  “You should just get it over and done with. You know how she is. What Shannon wants, she gets. The more you avoid her, the worse it is,” Dustin says. “So, who is it?”

  I swallow hard and even though I don’t want to, I turn to look at Bryson.

  “Who’s what?” he asks. Bryson may not be a good liar, but his feigning ignorance is something that I’m extremely thankful for.

  “C’mon, man. Your girlfriend this week?”

  Before Bryson can answer, my name is called. At first, I think I’ve imagined the saving grace, but I look up and spot Donny walking toward me.

  “What are you doing, Kai?” Donny asks.

  “Hey, Quack,” Dustin says, using the nickname that the seniors gave Donny when we were freshmen. The name stuck at first, but it’s mostly just Dustin who calls him that now.

  Bryson smacks Dustin on his chest. And I’m thankful for the small gesture.

  “Uh, I’ll talk to you later, then, Bryson,” I say.

  I pull Donny along as the changeover bell signals the start of the next class.

  Because math is just down the hall, we make it there before our math teacher, Ms. Orton, does. Donny pulls his workbook from his bag and caresses it like it is his most prized possession. For all the things that he and I have in common, the love of math is not one of them. On the list of things I hate, the subject sits snugly between phone calls and Leonardo DiCaprio and his Academy Award thirst.

  I flip my notebook open to this weekend’s homework. Already I know it’s wrong. And already I simply don’t care. But Donny has made it his mission to ensure that I don’t fail. Thanks to him, I manage to scrape the bottom of a C grade.

  “So what were you and the King talking about?” Donny asks.

  I smile at our inside joke. “Uh, Henning paired us up for a project.” The best lies are the ones built on truths. There is no way I’m telling Donny why Bryson actually wanted to speak to me.

  “Unlucky,” Donny mumbles just as the math teacher saunters into class. We all start to find x, but thirty minutes into it I give up. X is currently missing, presumed dead.

  For the rest of class, I sit and watch the clock. Each ticking minute inches me closer to not only my punishment but also missing my deadline. Just as the bell rings, the intercom above the whiteboard crackles to life. The voice of the school secretary blares out, “Will Bryson Keller and Kai Sheridan please report to the auditorium. Thank you.” As if I could forget. “Will Bryson Keller and Kai Sheridan please report to the auditorium. Thank you.”

  “What for?” Donny asks. “I thought you needed to write.”

  I swear. “That was the plan, but stuff happened.” My anger from before is nothing more than an ember—small and dying. “I was late.”

  “Damn. That sucks,” Donny says. He has no idea. We part ways, and with no other choice I head toward the auditorium.

  I walk toward my hour alone with Bryson Keller.

  4

  I stop before the auditorium doors and take a deep, calming breath to prepare myself for what awaits inside. It doesn’t work. I grip the strap of my messenger bag tightly. Exhaling, I take the plunge. The door swings open to reveal Mrs. Henning standing before the stage. She has a file clutched in her hands.

  “Thank you for being on time now,” she says as she looks down at her watch. I head toward her. “Well, when Mr. Keller decides to arrive, please have him help you.”

  “With what?”

  “We need the props organized so we can start prepping for Romeo and Juliet,” Mrs. Henning explains. “Please be careful with them. Some may be crafts made by you students, but others have been donated by my peers. And thus, they are holy.” Mrs. Henning smiles. “Take care.”

  I nod. It
’s not like I have a say in the matter. She seems to realize this, too, as she purses her lips. She walks up the aisle but stops halfway.

  “Please stay for the full lunch break. If you leave or mess around, I will know.” There is no denying it. Among the students, Mrs. Henning is infamous for her uncanny ability to know everything and anything that happens within the auditorium—whether she’s present or not. A few months ago, someone damaged one of the seats by running across the backs of them on a dare, and as soon as she came through the doorway, Mrs. Henning knew just who it was. Now there’s an ongoing rumor that she may be a witch.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I watch her leave before heading toward the stage. I want to get this over and done with as soon as possible.

  The prop storage room is small and located at the back of the stage. It’s still a mess from our Hamlet production. I enter the crowded space, remove my soda-smelling blazer, and drape it across my messenger bag. I’m bent over, organizing a box of old shoes, when there is a tentative knock at the door.

  Bryson leans against the doorframe and looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time—the real me. I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I clear my throat awkwardly.

  “Oh, you came.” In hopes that I can ignore the very distracting presence across from me, I search for the partner to the shoe I’m holding. My heart’s racing in my chest. We’re alone and we still need to talk. Should I bring it up first? Should I stay silent? I’m torn about what to do, what to say, how to act.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Bryson says as he places his bag down next to mine. He’s holding two sandwiches. “Here.”