It looks more like an IKEA than a high school.
Jasmine taps my shoulder. “You staying late?”
“Auditions today and tomorrow. Callbacks on Thursday.”
“All right. I’ll be in the pottery studio when you’re done.”
Jasmine settles her backpack on her right shoulder and marches off toward the A Hall. I head up the stairs to the D Hall and my locker, where Bowie is waiting for me.
Bowie Anderson has been my best friend since we were in first grade. I don’t know if it’s because we were the onlyspicynon-white kids in our class (with Bowie being Black and me being half Iranian), or because even at six years old we were both already finding safety in other queer people, or because Bowie was one of the few people that never made fun of my hearing aids. But we’ve been more or less inseparable ever since, except that Bowie joined the Gender & Sexuality Alliance first year, while I joined Theatre.
“Hey, Jacks.” Bowie stuffs their jacket into their locker.
“Hey. I got your shmoodie.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” Bowie shakes the blender bottle vigorously, pops the lid, and takes a big swig. They’ve got dark brown skin, the kind that looks a little purple in a certain light, and short twists. Their lean neck bobs as they swallow, and they wipe their mouth with the back of their hand. “Mango?”
“And papaya. Dad got a huge bag at City Market.” Along with two giant watermelons, a bushel of guavas, and the biggest apples I’ve ever seen. Dad always buys way more fruit than we can actually eat in a week, which is why I started making smoothies for me and Bowie in the first place, though I pronounced it “shmoodies” once by accident and the name kind of stuck. Normally I getpissed off embarrassedannoyed if people make fun of me for stuff like that, but Bowie’s allowed because I know they never mean it.
“How was practice?” I shake my own bottle and take a sip.
They groan and roll out their left shoulder. “Brutal. So many sprints.”
Bowie’s on the swim team. I’ve never liked swimming, since I hate getting my head wet, but I do like watching the sport. Bowie’s butterfly is a thing of beauty.
Plus, there are guys in Speedos.
I shut my locker and settle my backpack. Bowie looks behind me and cocks their chin. That usually means one thing.
Sure enough, Liam Coquyt is weaving through the hall, headed our way. He’s a senior, and the swim team captain. He’s tall and white andannoyinglyclassically handsome, with azure eyes and a sharp jaw and cheeks that always look a tiny bit flushed.
He smiles and runs a hand through his raven hair, which is feathery from all the chlorine.
I’ve heard more than one rant from Bowie about how hard it is to take care of natural hair when you spend hours a day in the pool—not to mention the racism of swim cap manufacturers and the governing bodies of the sport—but Liam looks like he doesn’t even condition.
“Hey, Bowie. Hey, Jackson.” He reaches behind me to tuck in the tag on my T-shirt. His smooth fingertips graze the back of my neck.
He’s always doing that.
Liam nods at my shmoodie. “You got one of those for me?”
One time—one time!—Bowie was out sick, so I gave their shmoodie to Liam. And ever since, he keeps coming by my locker in the morning, hoping for another one.
It’s not like he’s a stranger: He and Bowie are friends, which means he’s sort-of friends with me too, but not on the level of getting shmoodies. That’s only for best friends.
Still, he comes by every day, smiling and talland handsomeand sometimes I think about making an extra.
Just to be nice.
He stands by me, radiating body heat through his T-shirt, while he talks to Bowie about practice. I tune them out and drink my shmoodie; trying to follow conversations is exhausting, and I have to save my energy for class where I can. But then Liam flaps his hand to get my attention, a gesture he must’ve learned from Bowie.
“Yeah?”
“See you this afternoon, right?”
“What? Why?”
“Auditions?”
