Date Me, Bryson Keller

by Kevin van Whye

  I type a quick note about my mom cooking tonight in the three musketeers group chat before opening up Instagram. One of the first posts is from the Fairvale Academy Herald. For the past two months, every Monday, the newspaper has updated the feed with who the belle of the ball is for the week. But now all we have is a very large question mark.

  My eye catches on Shannon’s username: Seriously, who is it?

  It’s the most liked comment on the picture.

  I can’t help but wonder what everyone would say if they found out that it was me. In a perfect world, no one would bat an eye and I’d be free to post about my “relationship” with Bryson—just like the girls before me.

  I pull open my Thinking playlist. Almost instantly the latest slow-tempo song from the Graces comes to life all around me. The ballad is about feeling lost and insecure. My music choice has always been a point of teasing from my cousins. While they like hip-hop and R&B, I have always preferred rock or indie music.

  Being mixed race is tough—it’s like being caught between two races. I’m expected to look a certain way or act a certain way or like certain things. It’s like there’s a list of things I’m meant to be, and if I’m not, then I’m not authentic enough. I’m not Black enough for some and not White enough for others.

  As the music plays, I lose myself in my memories of today. Coming out has always been this thing that I dreaded and feared, but now I feel a sense of relief. Even if Bryson is the only person who knows I’m gay, there is at least one person who knows me—the real me.

  My today is worlds apart from my yesterday.

  Sometime later, Mom calls me for dinner. The exchange from earlier seems to be forgotten, but I’m quiet and watchful. This happens whenever the talk of me dating girls comes up. Lying to those closest to me is exhausting, but at any hint at my possible sexuality, I become a knight protecting his kingdom—armed and ready to defend my secret until the very end, or at least until I’m away at college.

  Even now when I close my eyes, I can perfectly recall the way Lee Davis started treating me after I told him that I thought I was gay. And every gay kid has heard the stories and watched the movies. We’ve been told we aren’t normal for so long, been punished and ridiculed, that hiding who we are is second nature to us. Sometimes hiding is the difference between life and death. It’s why the closet still exists. It keeps us hidden and, more important, it keeps us safe. Living your truth is important, but sometimes living the lie is what keeps you warm, fed, looked after…breathing. Which is something a lot of people looking in from the outside don’t get.

  Oh, times have changed.

  No one cares anymore.

  Being gay isn’t a big deal.

  But it is.

  For me, right now, at this dinner table, it is the thing I am most scared of anyone learning. I know that my family loves me, but I’m a puzzle that’s incomplete. If they ever see the full picture, will they feel the same way?

  Mom holds out her hand to me. This is a family tradition. We always eat dinner at the table and we always say grace before eating. I put my hand in hers, and Mom closes her eyes and starts to pray.

  Saying grace has become a thing that I am conflicted about. I do it more out of habit now than belief. I’m still trying to figure out just where and how I fit into the religion I’ve grown up with.

  “Amen,” we all say before we dig in.

  I pick at my food with no real appetite.

  “Ag man, I promise I cooked, Kai,” Dad says with a chuckle. “So it’s safe to eat.”

  Dad was taught to cook by his mother from a very young age. He is the designated chef in the Sheridan household, and if he can’t perform his sacred duty, then a stranger is chosen, and we order takeout.

  “It’s good, Dad.” It’s true. Somehow Dad has managed to rescue the casserole—and us—from certain death.

  “Any news from Tisch?” Dad asks me. The impending arrival of my letter has become a daily topic. For me, though, it feels like I’m waiting for my very own letter to my very own Hogwarts. Magic and adventure await me, too, in a city where no one knows me, and where I can be my true self. It’s a powerful fantasy.

  “Not yet,” I say. “I think I’ll hear any day now.”

  “Even if it’s a no, you can still achieve your dreams,” Dad says. “You’re talented and we believe in you.”

  “Ew,” Yazz says. “Can we save the kumbaya stuff until after dinner?”

  “You’re too young to be this cynical,” Mom says to Yazz. “Life is still meant to be about unicorns and rainbows for you.”

  “It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Mom. Don’t you read the news?”

  “She has a point there, honey,” Dad says with a dry chuckle.

  “Why did we have to raise such smart children?” Mom asks no one in particular. “Oh, Kai, the concert is this Friday, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But I don’t think I need the car anymore. I have a ride.”

  Mom and Dad share a look. It’s Mom who asks the question they both want to know the answer to. “With who?”

  “A friend.”

  “Who exactly is this friend?” Dad asks, just as Mom says, “We’ll have to meet them before we agree to let you travel with them.”

  “No, but seriously, who is it? It’s not Priya or Donny, so who?” Dad asks.

  Sometimes it’s as clear as day that my parents’ favorite television shows are the ones about detectives. Their third-degree interrogations are expected. It’s almost as if they’re Sherlock and Watson.

  “I have other friends, Dad,” I say as I spoon some casserole into my mouth. “And I’ll ask him to come in and say hi.”

  “Oh, it’s a him,” Mom says. “That’s disappointing. I hoped it was a date.”

  I hold my breath. I don’t want to show any reaction.

  “Me too,” Dad says. “I was about ready to give him some dating advice.”

  Mom meets my gaze. “If your father ever tries to advise you on how to date, please do the opposite of everything he says. He was truly terrible at it.”

  “It worked on you, didn’t it? So it couldn’t have been all bad,” Dad quips.

  “I was charmed by how bad and awkward you were.”

  “Then Kai won’t have any problems,” Yazz says. “We can all imagine just how bad and awkward he’ll be at dating.”

  I force myself to join in on the laughter. For the rest of dinner, I just go through the motions. I analyze everything my parents say to me, looking for any hint that they suspect anything.

  After dinner, with a mumbled excuse about homework, I retreat to my bedroom, closing the door behind me. Between these four walls is the only place in my world where I can let my truth fly free.

  Are you there, Loneliness? It’s me, Kai.

  7

  Bryson does text me.

  I’m lying on my bed, reading the next few scenes of Romeo and Juliet. It’s a habit of mine to read ahead. I always want to be prepared for the inevitability of being selected to perform. I’m still a bumbling mess whenever I’m assigned a role, but I am certain I’d be one hundred times worse without having done this preparation.

  I spot a message from an unknown number and reach for my phone. Another one comes through. I swipe to unlock my phone and open the messages.

  Sorry, I meant to message you earlier, but I had to cook.

  It’s Bryson btw.

  Another message: Keller, that is.

  I smile. As if anyone at Fairvale Academy would need the clarification.

  I reply: I know. You cook? Color me surprised.

  I take this opportunity to save his number. I start entering his name but stop midway before deleting it. Instead, I save him as Kelly. The CIA should seriously recruit teens living in the closet.

  Bryson responds: Yes. I am a
man of many talents.

  I sit up and rest my head against the wall.

  Huh. Who would have thought it?

  Bryson replies two minutes later. Not that I am watching the clock or anything.

  Well, I’ll cook for you sometime.

  I drop my phone.

  Haha. You dropped your phone, didn’t you?

  Another message follows hot on its heels, and it sends more heat rushing to my face.

  You’re probably blushing right now. Haha. It’s awesome.

  I exhale. Here in my room I can be anyone. I can have the confidence that I never would have dreamed of when it came to Bryson Keller.

  Why do you like me blushing so much? I ask. I add a tongue-out emoji for kicks. Let’s see just how much Bryson Keller likes me flirting. Sometimes in life you have to give just as much as you get.

  I don’t know. I guess I like how honest it is. Your mouth may lie but your face can’t. It’s like a siren.

  Well then, I promise to blush for you a lot. I’m not much for emojis, but sometimes one is required. That it’s my second in such quick succession is unprecedented. The winking face mocks me as I hit send. Who have I become?

  I watch the dancing ellipsis as I wait for his response. And when the dots disappear, I worry that maybe I overstepped. Maybe I shouldn’t have flirted with a straight guy. I move to lie on my back. I’m holding my phone above me when I see his reply. I drop my phone again and it smacks me right in the middle of my face. And only that pain proves that this is all real and happening.

  On my screen is a selfie of Bryson Keller. His face is pulled into an overdramatic shocked expression. And he captioned it: Are you flirting with me?

  Let’s see if you’re blushing. Send me a selfie. You have to give as good as you get. I read his new text and am surprised to find that they are words that I just thought. I start to type a response saying no but I stop halfway. When, if ever, will I be given a chance like this? Yes, this relationship is fake, but for a few days it can feel real. For these five days I am allowed to act cute with my boyfriend.

  A boyfriend who wants a selfie of me.

  With a pounding heart, I open my camera and tap the front view. Instantly I am assaulted by the sight of me. My curly hair sticks up in different directions. It’s longer than I normally keep it, and in a week or two I will need to visit the barber with Dad. The galaxy of freckles on my face stand loud and proud against the redness of my skin.

  Whoever thought that the front-view camera was a great idea was surely mistaken. Just as quickly as I opened it, I close it. This is a bad idea. There’s a reason my Instagram only has fifteen photos total, and why only five of them are of me and my face.

  Ticktock. His words mock me. They urge me on.

  I open the camera again and extend my arm. There’s a click and a flash as I take the picture. I turn to study it. It’s terrible—a crime against humanity. For the next two minutes I try to perfect the art of the selfie, until finally I succeed. The last photo that I take before giving up isn’t half bad. I’m posing with my arm behind my head, and my brown—almost black—eyes surprisingly don’t look vacant and/or dead. I’m also smiling wildly—showing off perfectly straight teeth that are a result of years of braces and a great orthodontist. And before the shambles of my confidence scatter on the wind, I hit send.

  I add a caption: happy now?

  He responds not even a minute later.

  See. I shall make a boyfriend out of you yet.

  It’s followed by a stream of confetti-cannon emojis.

  And I know that it shouldn’t, but my heart catches on the word boyfriend. On the fact that he has referred to himself as that. It’s physical evidence of this, whatever it is, actually happening.

  As we chat, it almost becomes like he’s sitting next to me. So much so that I imagine him doing just that. There is no distance between us now, there are no phones and texts. It’s just him and me here in my bedroom.

  Bryson’s light brown hair is damp from a shower. He’s wearing a white tank top that shows off his toned and tan shoulders and basketball shorts revealing the light sprinkling of hair on his legs. His large feet are bare, too. Okay, so maybe I’ve had this exact fantasy one or two times before.

  “So, we should talk about our five-day relationship,” he says.

  “Yes, we should,” I reply nervously. The tension from earlier comes crashing back into me. It’s always surprising that something so unseen can be so heavy.

  “Well, the basics: I usually give my weekly dates rides to and from school….Is that something you want? Or not?”

  I think on it. I’m pretty sure that none of his previous “dates” have had to stress about something so trivial. And yet, one wrong move and I can have rumors spreading about me.

  “I mean, just because two guys are together…doesn’t make them gay?” I say. “So I’m pretty sure that will be fine. And if anyone does ask, we can use the drama assignment as our cover. Which isn’t actually a lie—we do need to work on it. Besides, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me.” I laugh nervously. “When else would I ever get to date the most popular boy in school?”

  “Haha, who, me? I don’t know about that. Anyway, just let me know if it ever feels too much for you,” Bryson says. “No dare is worth the risk of outing you before you’re ready. You can end this at any time. If you feel like it’s too much. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable.”

  I’m pretty sure I swoon when I read that.

  “Does everyone have this option?”

  “Yes,” Bryson says. “I’d never want to force someone to play this game if they’re uncomfortable. It’s why we have the rules. But on top of that, if at any time during the five days someone wants to break up, we can.”

  “Has that ever happened?” I ask.

  “No. Not yet,” Bryson says. “You know, you’re strangely more talkative over text.”

  “That’s because you can’t see me. I’m a really anxious person. So on top of all that, I also have this huge secret that I would prefer no one knowing until I leave this place.”

  “You’re going to be out in college?” he asks.

  “That’s the plan. Or should I say, dream,” I reply. “I mean, I know Fairvale Academy is a pretty welcoming and accepting place on paper. We have the right clubs, but I’ve heard the jokes. The teasing that we’re just meant to accept as lighthearted, even though it hurts. So I just don’t want to put myself through that.” Not again is what I don’t say.

  “So, it’s those dickheads at school?”

  I want to point out that some of the dickheads happen to be on his soccer team, but before I can type that out, another message comes through.

  “I’m pretty sure dickheads describes most of the soccer team. I once brought up the jokes they make, and everyone teased me about being gay, too. I probably should try again. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I say. “I mean, the dickheads are a big reason for me staying closeted, but I think the bigger reason is my parents.”

  “You don’t think they’d accept you?” he asks. “You don’t think they already know?”

  I move to lie across my bed. “Maybe deep down a part of them suspects. And maybe they’d rather ignore that suspicion so that they don’t have to face that their son is gay. It’s funny, just today I was feeling down about that very thing. My mom and dad are eagerly awaiting any news of a girlfriend.”

  “It’d probably be a huge shock to them to know that you have a secret boyfriend, right?”

  “That’s the understatement of the year. What would your parents say if they found out you were dating a boy for the week?”

  “I mean, my mom is pretty cool. Her younger brother is gay and everyone is fine with it. So I think she’d be perfectly fine with a gay son. As for my dad…well…we aren’
t that close anymore, and I don’t know enough about him now to know how he’d react….And a part of me feels like he’s lost the right to have an opinion on the matter.”

  I knew that Bryson’s parents were divorced, but I didn’t know the details. And before, I wasn’t all that curious, but now I am. Talking to Bryson Keller like this makes him more real.

  “Sorry…if I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Don’t be,” Bryson says.

  “How would Dustin react to knowing you have a boyfriend? Even if it’s only for five days?” I’ve never actually heard Dustin being homophobic, but then again, I haven’t really gone out of my way to spend time with him.

  “Dustin’s really cool. Once you get to know him, he’s a lot different from how everyone thinks he is. He out of anyone has always been there for me, so I know he’d be there for me…if I was gay.”

  I stare at those last few words: if I was gay. That’s the truth of the matter. Bryson Keller isn’t gay. This is all just a part of the dare.

  “Makes sense,” I say. “Well, anyway, thanks for being my first-ever boyfriend.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he says. “You know, I really can’t believe how different you are right now.”

  “That’s because right now I can be whoever I want to be. The real me. I promise to try to be like this in person, too. I mean, I only have four days left.”

  “Yes! Better make them count. I look forward to getting to know the real Kai Sheridan.”

  “Don’t fall for me for real, Bryson Keller. I’m quite charming.”

  “Hahaha. I’ll keep that in mind.” He pauses, then continues to type. “Is this your first relationship—real or fake?”

  “I mean, I dated a girl before.”

  “Really! Who? For how long?”

  “Louise Keaton,” I say. “It was freshman year and it lasted less than two weeks.”

  Bryson sends a series of laughing emojis. “So you have experience with short relationships?”

  “Some would call me a master at them.”