“Really?” I smile. I arranged to borrow Mom’s car, but it would save me from night driving, which makes me super anxious in LA. Besides, no one wants to go to a concert alone. “I’d love that.”
“Great,” he says just before the opening chords of “Left Behind” start to play.
When the light changes to green, Bryson turns right, and we head toward the heart of town. Fairvale, California, is barely what anyone would call a city, and the lifestyle of this place lives up to its nickname of Sleepy Shores. The town is nestled close to the beach. Open any window and you’ll be able to not only feel the sea breeze but smell it, too. We have all the popular franchises that any city has, and we even have a mall. The town is just big enough so that not everyone knows everyone.
In between songs I ask, “Where are we going?”
“Off the Wall.”
Off the Wall is a café I’ve visited before. The last time was when Donny had begged me to accompany him on a double date. Priya was dating her ex-boyfriend then, and so Donny had wanted to get over his crush on her. The date was a disaster because Donny didn’t stop talking about Priya. And of course I wasn’t into the girl his date had brought for me. It was then that I vowed never to go on another straight date again.
Bryson parks the car, and we climb out of the Jeep. We enter the café, which is quaint and filled with various mismatched furniture. There’s a warmth to the randomness of it all. Almost like this place is inviting you to relax and take a breath. Reminding you that you don’t need to be so serious all the time. Bookshelves line the walls and soft music wafts through the space. Above all else is the intoxicating aroma of brewing coffee.
“What are you having?” he asks as we approach the counter.
“Iced mochaccino with lots of whipped cream, please.” He looks at me with a frown and I shrug. “I like sweet things.”
Bryson places our order: one Americano for him, and one iced mochaccino with extra whipped cream for me. Before I can find my wallet, he’s already paid.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says as the barista hands him his change. Bryson puts it in the tip jar and heads to find a place to sit. We end up in a corner booth toward the back of the café. I scan the room for any familiar faces—not because I’m scared, just because I’m curious. My being here with Bryson for a school project is perfectly normal, so I’m not anxious about being seen by others. My being gay isn’t written on my forehead. No one knows that I have asked Bryson Keller out this week.
And no one knows that he has agreed to date me, either.
I stumble as a thought occurs to me: Is this a date?
I sit down and Bryson digs free the drama assignment. He runs a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up slightly in the front, in a way that can only be described as cute. He places the worksheet down on the table, making it clear as day that this is not a date, not that I thought that in the first place—I swear.
“So we have to choose a scene from a Shakespeare adaptation and perform it,” I say.
“Do you have a favorite Shakespeare play?” Bryson asks.
“Not really,” I say. “You?”
“Romeo and Juliet. Not the play, but the movie. The old one, from the nineties.”
“Well, we should choose a scene from that, then.”
“No, we don’t have to do the one I like.”
I laugh. “It’s not that. It’s just that I know Mrs. Henning loves that movie, too. She mentioned it when we first started reading Romeo and Juliet.”
“Oh yeah, nice catch,” Bryson says. “It’ll be smart to perform from the teacher’s favorite movie.” He makes the okay sign with his fingers. Just then the barista brings us our drinks. I take a large sip and savor the sweet chocolaty taste. I take another just for good measure.
“Bryson?” We both pause at Isaac’s voice. Bryson looks over my shoulder and smiles at my crush. Isaac comes to stand at the edge of our booth. I look up and meet his gaze. He offers me a small nod, which I barely manage to return. “What are you doing here?”
“Drama assignment,” Bryson explains.
“Oh, right, I need to start that, too. Having any luck?”
“Working on it,” Bryson says. “You here alone?”
“Natalie’s in the car,” Isaac says. Just then an order is called. “That’s me.”
“I’ll see you, then.”
Isaac saunters off and I try not to watch him leave.
“You have something on your lips.”
“Oh God, did I have it there this whole time?” I ask. Bryson nods with a smile as I roughly wipe my lips. Trust me to embarrass myself in front of the boy I like.
“Weird, Natalie said she hated the coffee at this place when we dated.”
I look up. “Are Isaac and Natalie dating?”
“Yeah,” Bryson says. He’s looking at his phone, trying to hunt down clips of the movie. “It’s pretty recent, though.” He looks up when he feels the weight of my eyes on him. “Wait, do you like him?” Bryson whispers.
I’ve never had anyone ask me that question before. And it feels strange to have it be Bryson, but strange doesn’t always mean bad. I simply nod.
“Huh, so that’s your type?” Bryson’s brow is furrowed, and his eyes are looking anywhere but at me.
“I don’t think I have a set type,” I say. “I just liked him.”
“Past tense?” Bryson quirks an eyebrow. It’s annoyingly cute.
“It’s not like I ever stood a chance with him.” I know that it was impossible for me to like Isaac, but his dating someone stings nonetheless. The fantasy of our future dissolves like a burning photograph. “That’s the problem with liking straight boys. The story always ends the same.”
I take another long sip from my drink. Bryson stares at me.
“What?” I wipe my lips. “Do I have something on my face again?”
“I’m just curious about something.”
“What is it?”
“Why do you assume that everyone you like is straight?”
I shrug. “I mean, I don’t always know. But Isaac probably is. He’s dating Natalie now, so it doesn’t really matter.”
“Yeah…Isaac is straight. But I just mean in general, why are you so sure that the guys you like are straight?”
I bite on my straw as I think. I’ve never really thought about it. It’s strange to be having this conversation with Bryson Keller. He waits for me to answer, and finally, with an exhale, I do.
“I think it’s what society has made me believe. Everyone says straight is the norm. Look at our school. The number of out kids can be counted on one hand. I’m pretty sure there are other closeted people like me and maybe even a few who haven’t figured out their sexuality yet.” I chew at my lip. “Maybe assuming everyone around me is straight is a defense mechanism.”
“Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have asked?” Bryson sighs. “It’s just so shitty.”
“Yeah, it is. But I’m glad I outed myself to someone like you.” I laugh but it’s hollow. “This could have ended badly for me.”
He meets my gaze. “I won’t tell, but on the off chance that anyone does find out about you being gay and gives you crap about it, call me.”
“My personal bodyguard?”
“A friend,” Bryson says with a wink. His phone rings again and he moves to answer it. “You need me to pick up something?” He pauses. “Okay. Got it. I’ll be there soon.”
While Bryson talks on the phone, I finish off my mochaccino and study the boy before me. He’s different than I thought, but not in a bad way.
Bryson hangs up the phone. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. Do we need to go?”
Bryson nods. “That okay?”
“Sure. I don’t want to miss dinner, either.”
We leav
e the café, with my thoughts preoccupied by Bryson. In the car, one of the Graces’ ballads thrums as I give directions to my house. I live about fifteen minutes from the café, but it takes us longer because of afternoon traffic. It feels oddly strange to have Bryson taking me home…but thrilling, too.
We come to a stop outside the two-story house that I have called home since I was three years old. The house is off-white brick with French windows and a dark wood door that I helped Dad stain. Ivy covers the side of the house, and from where we’re parked we can just see the balcony that’s off my parents’ bedroom. There’s a two-car garage, and above it hangs a basketball hoop that Dad and I use from time to time. We used to live in an apartment, but then Mom got pregnant with Yazz and my parents decided to take a leap of faith and invest in a fixer-upper. Over the years the house has grown and changed just as I have. It’s not as large as the homes of some of the other kids at school, but it’s special because we put the time into making it ours.
I turn to Bryson and say, “Let’s do it. Let’s date for the week.”
Bryson’s eyes widen before he offers me a small smile. “Are you sure?”
I’m a nervous wreck, and I’m positive my face matches our tie once more. But I’ve already taken the first step. I might as well continue walking. I nod, more for myself than for him.
“As long as we can keep it a secret, why not? This is only a game. Why should my being gay keep me from playing, too?”
Bryson smiles. It’s tight-lipped and nervous. It’s cuter than should be legal. “Well then, I, Bryson Keller, pledge to be your perfect boyfriend for the next four days.”
With a matching smile of my own, I climb out of his Jeep. I start to collect my things.
“Leave your blazer so I can drop it off at the dry cleaner’s.”
“It’s fine.”
“It would make me feel better,” Bryson says. “The only reason your blazer got messed up is because of me and this dare. So let me take care of it, please?”
Bryson leans forward and I think that he’s reaching for my hand. I jerk back. Bryson stills. He’s leaning over to the passenger side and his hand hangs there as I belatedly realize he’s waiting for me to give him the blazer. I pass it over, berating myself for being so awkward.
Bryson folds my blazer so that it sits neatly on the passenger seat. He unlocks his phone before holding it out to me. “Save your number so I can text you. We can plan more about how you want this week to go.”
Even though I was serious when I asked him out this morning, I didn’t think we would ever get to this point. Because of his phone’s cracked screen, it takes me two tries to hit the final seven of my phone number. Satisfied, I hand the phone back to him.
“Sweet.” He places his phone down. “I’ll text you later.”
I watch as he drives off. I stand there until his taillights become nothing more than a memory. It all catches up to me then. Like a wave crashing into the shore. Even though it’s fake, I’m dating someone—a boy.
Holy shit, I have a boyfriend.
And it’s none other than Bryson Keller.
6
The first thing that greets me as I walk into our house is the smell of something burning.
“Mom, I’m home,” I shout from the entrance hall.
“I’m in the kitchen, Kai,” my mother calls back.
“Why?” I head toward what I know will be a disaster zone.
My mother is not a good cook. She’s skilled at a great many other things, like singing in the church choir, making sure we survive holidays with the extended family, and guessing who the killer is before the end of a movie or book. Cooking is not one of them.
“Thank God you found us, Kai,” Yazz says. “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Every few weeks Mom gets it into her head that she wants to cook us a family meal. And every few weeks this familiar scene takes place. Truth be told, I blame all the cooking shows that she spends her time consuming. The television has been lying to people for too long. Just because you watch something does not mean you can actually do it. I seriously think that all shows should come with the warning of Do not try this at home, not just WWE.
“What’s Mom burning?” I stage-whisper to Yazz as I lean against the large island in the center of the kitchen. There’s a comic book open before her. She’s been obsessed lately, which makes sense, though, given how much she loves to draw.
“It’s meant to be a casserole. At least that’s what Nana’s recipe calls it,” Yazz whispers back. “But I don’t actually know what this is.”
Pots and pans litter the granite countertops. Mom’s armed with a very large knife, and chunks of potatoes lie massacred before her. Her bob is pushed back with a headband. Mom’s wearing the WORLD’S BEST CHEF apron that Dad, Yazz, and I got her as a joke one day. In retrospect I think she missed the humor of the gift and sees it more as encouragement. We will never make such a mistake again.
“When will this torture end?” Yazz asks as Mom sends another potato off to its early grave.
“Dad’s not home yet?”
“No,” Yazz says. “If he was, do you think any of this would be happening?” She points at the mess and shakes her head exasperatedly.
“You two do know I can hear you, right?” Mom asks.
“Of course,” I say, just as Yazz says, “That’s the point.” We turn to look at each other and smile.
“Other children try to encourage their parents.”
“Mom, please, I’ve been encouraging you to stop all afternoon.”
Mom walks to the fridge and removes some carrots. She returns to her chopping board. We watch as she dices them—poorly. They all end up different sizes. Yazz reaches for a few of Mom’s victims. With no other choice, I take a seat beside my sister. I grab a piece of carrot and pop it into my mouth. The only thing Mom can’t ruin is raw vegetables.
“How did your assignment with your friend go? What was it for?” Mom asks me.
“Drama.” I groan. “I have to perform.”
“Just try your best, honey. It may not be much, but it’s something.” Mom and Yazz share a look before laughing.
I know what that look means. I was once cast as Joseph in the Nativity play at church, and I spent most of it just staring blankly at the audience—and when I did deliver my lines, they were mumbled. It was a complete disaster. The one plus side of that was that Sunday school allowed me to be in the background from then on. Which suited me just fine.
“Ag nee,” Dad says from behind us. Sometimes he uses Afrikaans phrases, like this version of “Oh no.” “I thought I smelled something burnt.” He rests one hand on my shoulder and the other on Yazz’s.
“Save us, please,” Yazz says, her eyes never leaving the page of her comic book. She pushes her large black-rimmed glasses back into place.
Dad crosses the kitchen in long strides and hugs Mom from behind. Even after twenty years, they continue to act like a young couple in love. The thought makes me think of Bryson. Are the dare’s rules the same or different between two guys? Just how exactly will our relationship work? Granted, it will only be four days—a relationship shorter than the life span of a housefly. So it’s not like it’s real or anything.
Distracted, I pop a carrot into my mouth and end up choking. Yazz pats my back—hard.
“I feel the same way,” Yazz says. “The sight is rather unpleasant.”
With a final sigh, she stands and leaves the kitchen. Mom takes the vacated seat. She picks up a carrot and chews.
“Besides drama, how was school?” she asks. “Anything exciting happen?”
“No, what? Why would you ask that?”
She stares at me with her mouth open and half a carrot hanging there. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”
“No,” I say too quickly and
too loudly. I am a murderer still holding the murder weapon. Before I can confess to Mom, I make a hasty retreat out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
“It’s obvious that something happened,” Mom calls after me.
“Maybe he’s embarrassed,” Dad offers.
“I wonder if it’s a girl.”
“You think so?” Dad asks.
I should say, Actually, I have a boyfriend. But the thought of coming out to my parents scares me. I’ve heard them discuss “homosexuality” and how it’s a “sin” before…but that’s always been about other people. Will their feelings change when they find out their son is gay, too? The uncertainty keeps me from saying the words.
Among all my family, I’m referred to as a late bloomer. My one saving grace has been that brief relationship with Louise Keaton. While my cousins have all been actively dating for years, I have feigned no interest. I often wonder how long my excuses will last. How long until the obvious truth will be revealed? Sorry, Mom and Dad, it’s never going to work out between any girl and me. In fact, dear family, I am very interested in dating—just not girls.
Give me an Adam’s apple and some stubble, and let’s set the date, shall we?
My bedroom is at the end of the hall on the second floor. The wall color changes with each new year to a different shade of blue—my favorite color—and currently the walls are painted a very light blue. There are two large bookshelves that take up the left wall, and they are overflowing with all my favorite books—mostly fantasy and young adult. There are also a few of Mom’s mysteries shoved in there because her shelf is too full.
My computer and desk sit before the window. The desk is littered with some of my yet-to-be-done assignments, and my idea journal is open to where I previously worked. Just last night I spent a good twenty minutes world-building for this fantasy book that I have been writing for the better part of the year. It’s my goal to finish this draft before I graduate and head off to New York City for college.
I fall face-first onto my bed. I pull my phone free and scroll through my social media notifications looking for his name. When I realize what I’m doing, I stop myself. How did I get to the point of waiting for Bryson Keller to text me?
Date Me, Bryson Keller Page 5
