Date Me, Bryson Keller

by Kevin van Whye

  “I’m off,” I say. I grab my bag and pull on my blazer. I inhale and am thrilled to discover that Bryson’s scent lingers.

  “Enjoy your day, boytjie!” Dad says.

  “Bye,” Yazz says in between bites. “Congratulate Priya on her goal for me.”

  I race from the house and head for the Quackmobile.

  “No morning practice with Bryson today?” Donny asks.

  “No. He’s out today.”

  “Oh, right, I saw the post in the hospital this morning,” Priya says.

  “Bryson’s in the hospital?”

  “No,” I say to Donny. “His sister is. You seriously need to get Instagram. Stop living in the Dark Ages.”

  “Donald refuses to succumb to my peer pressure and get Instagram. And so my feed alone is filled with our cute-couple selfies,” Priya says.

  “Uh, I’m pretty sure you’re meant to let other people call your pictures cute,” I say.

  Priya shrugs. “I call it like I see it.”

  “Are you saying Priya and I aren’t cute?” Donny catches my eye in the rearview mirror.

  “I plead the Fifth.”

  “It’s not too late to make you walk to school,” Donny says.

  “I’d just take the bus.”

  “Oh, right. That reminds me”—Priya twists in her seat so that she can look at us both—“I heard that Bryson might be losing his dare this week.”

  “What do you mean?” I’m happy that Donny asks the question that I wanted to.

  “Well, the soccer team was talking about how his girlfriend hasn’t posted on Instagram this week. And even She Who Shall Not Be Named doesn’t know who it is. And you know that’s a mission of hers every week: to find out just who Bryson is dating.” Priya lifts her phone. “I checked the hashtag and it’s truly barren.”

  “Maybe they want to keep their relationship secret,” Donny says.

  “Everyone knows this is just for fun. So why?”

  “Maybe the person lives in the Dark Ages like Donny and doesn’t have Instagram,” I say. My face starts to redden. I can only hope my blush won’t be a dead giveaway that I know more than I’m sharing.

  “Huh, maybe.” Priya nods. “That makes sense.”

  Donny pulls into the school parking lot and we all climb from the Quackmobile. Even though I know the white Jeep won’t be there, I find myself scanning the space for it. Even arriving at school without Bryson feels strange.

  “I need to talk to my lab partner about something,” Priya says. “So I’m off. I’ll see you later.”

  “Will you be okay by yourself?” Donny asks me.

  I nod. “Go be the dutiful boyfriend that you long to be,” I tease.

  Donny salutes. “Aye, aye, captain.” I watch as he runs after Priya. He catches up to her and grabs her hand in his. The sight takes me back to when Bryson held my hand.

  We seriously need to talk.

  A soccer ball rolls to a stop against my leg. I look up and find Isaac jogging toward me.

  “You okay?” Isaac asks. “You look dazed.”

  “Yeah. Fine,” I say. And I don’t even blush. Any other time, Isaac Lawson talking to me would have left me breathless and a stuttering mess. Instead, I pick up the ball and hand it to him. When our fingers brush, I feel nothing. The space that Isaac once occupied in my heart currently has a new tenant.

  I head to the auditorium and take my seat. To distract myself while I wait for the start of class, I pull out my lines for our performance tomorrow. I can almost recite them all, but I need to be completely off script for tomorrow to be a success. I don’t want our pair to get a low grade because of me.

  The start-of-period bell rings, and Mrs. Henning climbs the stairs onto the stage. Today she looks like she’s about to play in a polo match. She’s wearing white pants, with black riding boots to complete the ensemble.

  “Good morrow, my thespians. Just a reminder not only that your performances are tomorrow but also that tomorrow afternoon is the new deadline for you to submit the writing samples. I will not extend it again. So if you’d like to be considered for the position of cowriter for our next production, please submit your pieces by lunch tomorrow.”

  I finished my script last night. Finally wrote the ending that I didn’t get the chance to write on Monday. And I hate it. It isn’t my best work, and I’m not sure how to fix it. I sigh. I need inspiration, but I just have too much on my mind to find some.

  While Mrs. Henning goes about assigning the roles for this class, my phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket and see a text from Kelly:

  I miss you, is that weird?

  I take a deep breath and decide to be honest.

  No, because I miss you too.

  16

  After school, I’m sitting in my bedroom at my desk, staring at the blinking cursor. It mocks me and my failure. I’ve been trying to fix this ending for the last hour. I sigh, get up, and throw myself face-first onto my bed. The words are just not coming. They’re being held hostage somewhere in my brain, and I don’t even know where to begin to rescue them.

  My phone buzzes with a text. I pull it from charge and roll over to read the message. It’s from Kelly.

  What are you doing?

  I was trying to write.

  Write what? he asks.

  My sample for Henning. I don’t want to miss the new deadline.

  Maybe you need inspiration, Bryson says. He sends a waving emoji. And a minute later a picture comes through. It’s a selfie of him making a funny face. Hello, my name is Muse. I am at your service, the caption reads.

  Haha. You must be bored. What are you doing?

  I am incredibly bored. Crystal’s friends are over, so I don’t have much to do.

  I sit up. Bryson and I need to talk. I’m currently home alone. If this isn’t a sign, then I don’t know what is. Do you want to come over?

  For the first time in my life, I invite a boy I like over. I don’t count that time I invited Colby Matthews over under the guise of wanting to show him my superhero action figure collection. Colby Matthews had been really into superheroes, and so I, too, had shown an interest in them. That visit was an awkward disaster and I refuse to have history repeat itself. This time I will not suggest we play any sort of game that may result in a broken window.

  I look around my room and see it through Bryson’s eyes. My room is a mess. I rush to pick up all the old—and new—clothes strewn across the floor. I try my best to neaten my desk, which is always littered with notebooks filled with half-baked ideas and scenes that need to be developed more. The pages of my sample mock me as I shut my computer.

  I’m in the bathroom styling my hair in a way that will look natural and cool, and not at all overthought, when Bryson rings the doorbell. My heart pounds in my chest as I race down the stairs. When I reach the door, I pause and take a calming breath. What we started to discuss yesterday plays over and over in my head. Will we finish what we started? Will we confirm what is real and what is not between us?

  I open the door and find a grinning Bryson. He’s wearing shorts, a golf shirt, and designer sneakers. I look down at my own outfit. I’m wearing a blue shirt with the word UNIFORM in bold across the front, brown shorts, and black socks. I changed just after inviting him over. I look somewhat semidecent, I think.

  “Hey, come in,” I say. “How’s your sister doing?”

  “Fine. A bit bruised and blue. Her arm’s in a cast, but she’ll recover soon.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “I’m glad.” Bryson pauses at the entrance and takes off his shoes. His socks have Pokémon drawings on them. I laugh. “Nice socks.” I turn and lead him toward the stairs.

  Bryson stops at the foot of the stairs, his attention caught by the large family portrait that hangs on one of the walls.

  “You
look like your dad,” Bryson says. He looks at me and then back to the picture.

  “Not everyone thinks so,” I say. “I remember when I was about twelve, Dad and I were returning from visiting our family in South Africa when some random stranger at LAX stopped my dad to ask whose child I was. Even at that age I remember the awkwardness of the situation and the hurt that crossed Dad’s face as he needed to explain that I was his child. Like it’s so absurd that because my dad has dark brown skin, he can’t possibly have a child that looks like me.” I shake my head. “You wouldn’t believe how many people actually question whether or not I am mixed race. It’s like they have this idea of how I’m supposed to look, and I clearly don’t, so to them I’m less authentic.”

  “That’s such crap,” Bryson says. “People really and truly suck major donkey balls.”

  “Yeah, it’s been tough having to deal with the race policing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bryson says.

  “It’s not your fault.” Bryson follows me up the stairs and we enter my bedroom.

  “They say you can tell a lot about a person from their bedroom,” Bryson says. He walks around my room. I mentally pat myself on the back for trying to clean up. Posters of my favorite bands and musicians line my walls—a lot of them are of the Graces. Bryson pauses in front of the biggest of them all. It’s a picture of Ezra Grace. “This is a great shot of him.”

  “I bought the physical album just to get it.” I point at the never-before-played CD. “I already owned their album digitally, but I wanted the poster.”

  Bryson walks over to my desk and looks on the wall above it, which is covered with notes for the fantasy book I’m working on and pictures of my life. “When was this taken?” he asks. He points at a picture of me in a long wig and a pirate getup. In the picture, I’m standing between Priya, who’s dressed up as Rey from Star Wars, and Donny, who’s wearing a plain white T-shirt that announces him as the comment section—truly the scariest place. He actually came in second for the costume.

  “Last Halloween. I was Jack Sparrow before Johnny Depp became a mess.”

  “Cute.” He moves toward my bookshelf. “You have a lot of books.”

  “It’s the way to my heart,” I say before I catch myself. “I mean, my friends and family know what I want for presents.”

  “When’s your birthday?”

  I startle at the question. “April fifteenth. Why?”

  “That’s soon. I better get book shopping.”

  “Do you plan to still be dating me by then?” I mean it as a joke, but Bryson fixes me with a look, and when he answers, he’s dead serious.

  “Yes.”

  “We should stop,” I say, suddenly panicked.

  I can’t fall any farther. Bryson Keller and this five-day relationship are quicksand. The more time I spend with him, the more I find myself sinking deeper and deeper. I’m not sure if he means the words he’s saying or if he’s simply playing the part of the perfect boyfriend. Delivering the lines that the role requires.

  “Stop what?”

  “This, whatever this is,” I say. “It’s getting too hard to figure out. Why are you doing this? Saying all these things?”

  “Because I mean them,” Bryson says. “You may not believe me yet—hell, a part of me doesn’t believe it, either—but I’ve decided to live in the here and now and trust myself.” The sincerity in Bryson’s words is impossible to ignore.

  We stare at each other. This is it. This is the whole reason I invited him over.

  “Please, trust me,” Bryson says. “I need you to trust me. This is all scary and new for me, too.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. I need him to say it. Is that unfair of me? I don’t know.

  “I don’t think I’m straight. I mean, I never really had a reason to question it until I met you.” His brow is furrowed. “Surely I should have known this about myself from the start?”

  I’m surprised by how easily he’s admitted it. “How are you so comfortable with all this?”

  “It’s hard to explain, but for the longest time something has felt off. I didn’t know what it was until this week, until you. It’s like spending time with you and listening to you talk about being gay made sense to me. Everything finally clicked. Like a puzzle.” Bryson shakes his head. He rubs his hands on his shorts, almost like they’re sweaty. Bryson’s standing near my bookshelf, and I’m at the foot of my bed. Even though there’s distance between us, this is the closest we’ve ever been.

  I’m nervous, and I can only imagine what Bryson’s heart must be doing.

  “I don’t know if it’s weird that I didn’t know this about myself,” Bryson continues. “I was on Reddit reading about first-time experiences with guys and I came across this one post. He shared how all through high school he thought he was straight, and then he got to college and met this guy who was gay and found himself attracted to him. Is that what’s happening with me?”

  “It’s different for everyone. There are no hard-set rules,” I say. His words bloom in my chest. They are everything I wanted to hear from him…needed to hear. I close the distance between us. I could reach out to touch him if I wanted. Our eyes lock.

  “I guess you’re right.” He runs a hand through his hair. “The truth is that I don’t know if I’m gay. Yes, I like you, but does that mean I’m gay, too? You’re the first guy I’ve liked. The only one so far. Maybe I’m bi?” He throws his hands up. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t I know? But, I mean, I’ve always believed love is love.”

  “It doesn’t have to make you anything. Besides, you can figure it out later. It’s been less than a week. Trust me, it took me a couple of years before I understood that I was gay. And a bit more time to accept it.”

  “Can…can I figure it out with you?” he asks. Bryson leans against my bookshelf for a heartbeat before standing straight. Bryson looks unsure what to do with himself. He shuffles on his feet, and it’s clear that the confidence that is synonymous with Bryson Keller is gone.

  “With me,” I say. “Let’s figure this out together.”

  He smiles then—it’s part relief, part joy.

  “Good.” Bryson exhales loudly. “Because this is all kinds of scary.” He holds up his thumb and finger so that they are inches apart. “But you make it a little less scary.”

  “You’ve been putting on a brave face.”

  “I was worried that you would run away. It’s a lot of pressure for me to say to you that because of you I’m starting to think that maybe I’m not straight.”

  “I won’t run,” I say.

  “Well then, we should celebrate,” Bryson says.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s go on a date. It’s Thursday afternoon. I doubt anyone we know will be around. I think it’s the perfect time.” It’s clear he’s put thought into this.

  This week I’ve already spent so much time with Bryson. We’ve gotten breakfast together before school and he’s driven me home. We even watched a movie together. Those could all be considered dates, but Bryson doesn’t seem to feel that way.

  “We don’t have to—” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

  “Why not?” he asks. “We’re boyfriends. Going on dates is what we should be doing.”

  17

  If anyone had told me last Thursday that this time next week I’d be on a date with Bryson Keller, I would’ve smacked them in the face and called them stupid. And yet, here I am.

  Here we are.

  In recent years this boardwalk has become a hot spot in Fairvale, but given the time of week, it’s emptier than usual. I scan the people around us and find no one I know. Bryson was right: no one really goes on a date on a Thursday afternoon.

  The Duckworths bought the pier from the previous owners and revamped it to be what it is today. It’s almost the perfect replica
of the Santa Monica Pier. Being best friends with Donny meant visiting this place so much when we were younger that I now know it as well as the back of my hand.

  The beachfront has a variety of stores that cater to almost every need. For those craving something sweet, there’s Candyland. There’s also a variety of smaller stalls that sell cotton candy, popcorn, and even candy apples. The latter is a family favorite of the Sheridans’. Sometimes Dad buys them and brings them home—we don’t even need to visit the boardwalk.

  Whenever I come here to eat, Angelo’s Pizza Emporium is at the top of my list. Angelo’s serves the best thin-crust pizza in Fairvale. It also doesn’t hurt that last summer Isaac started working there part-time. It felt like fate then, but looking at Bryson next to me, I now think it was just a stop on the journey.

  I try to hide my smile, but Bryson’s words from before replay in my mind. It feels like I’m dreaming. Maybe I need someone to pinch me, but I’m too scared. I don’t want to leave this place just yet, to leave this feeling behind.

  “We should ride the Ferris wheel before we go,” Bryson says. He points at the ride in the distance. It looks empty.

  I shake my head. “Hard pass.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not a fan of heights,” I tell him. “I’m told the view is amazing from up there, and I choose to believe those people.”

  “Noted.” Bryson smiles. “Well, there’s plenty of other stuff to do.” We head toward the crowd. We’re walking next to one another, close enough to touch, but not. Everything feels different between us now, like everything we do or say matters more than it did a day ago.

  Whatever this is, it’s something.

  It’s real.

  Tangible.

  Unexplainable.

  But it’s all happening to me—and it’s all happening with him.

  We join the surge of people, and almost instantly I’m assaulted by laughter and joy and the smell of freshly popped popcorn. Bryson and I line up at the ticket booth and purchase a strip of tickets that will allow us to play some of the games.