You can’t let the Daytons and Brodys of the world win.
“Okay.”
After conditioning, you swipe extra deodorant under your shaking arms, snap your locker shut, and hurry out of the locker room, avoiding the wrestling team pouring in to get changed for their practice. You almost want to wait and see what their workouts are like, because some of them have really impressive shoulders, but you’re worried they’d take it the wrong way, and anyway, you promised Nour.
So you fight the tide back across school to the library, where RC meets in one of the smaller rooms next to the café.
You get two cups of hot water, one for you and one for Nour, because one thing your mom does thatdoesn’tannoy you these days is fill your backpack with bags of Persian tea, “just in case.” So you hand Nour a cup of steaming tea and cradle your own and swallow your dread as you follow her inside.
The room is already full of students from every year, plus Mx. Lee, your biology teacher. Everyone’s talking and milling about, and Nour is quick to abandon you to go talk to Esperanza. It’s so packed, you’re almost afraid to enter, afraid that the room might pop like that pimple on your chin. But it’s a strange relief, too, that so many people are here. You don’t know why, you really don’t, but it makes you happy.
“First time here?” a soft voice asks as you hover near the door, still a bit afraid to press into the throng. You turn, almost spilling your tea, and find Cooper Norton. He’s in orchestra with you, second violin, but you’ve never really talked to him since he sits so far away from you. The light streaming in through the glass blocks highlights his sharp cheekbones, the rich brown of his skin, the pink of his lips. All the girls in your class like to talk about how hot he is, and you suppose he is kind of good-looking, with a broad, earnest smile. He wears a soft-looking green Meadowbrook sweatshirt, and he smells like almond and vanilla and sweet smoke from a summer fire when you’re making s’mores.
You wonder why he’s here, if he’s an ally or if he’s queer or some secret third thing.
“Farshid?” he asks again, and you’re surprised when he nearly pronounces it correctly.
“Hm? Yeah. It’s my first time.” You swallow, expecting him to ask if you’re gay, and you definitely don’t think you are. You’re just here to support a friend. Well, a friend of a friend.
But instead he says, “Welcome. There’s cookies.”
He gestures toward a table in the corner, and therearecookies, but they’re a bunch of sugar and you’re avoiding refined sugars right now. If they had some fresh fruit or nuts or something, that would be a different story.
You’re surprised to see Cooper here. You thought he was friends with Dayton. The two of them (and Tyler) used to cluster together in the halls, or take up half a table in the cafeteria, or wait for the bus together after school. But maybe they’re not friends anymore. If Cooper’s here, that means he doesn’t hate gay people the way Dayton does.
A little knot inside your chest untangles itself, and you manage to smile, a little one because your upper lip still feels weird and kind of burnt from trying to shave this morning. You wonder if Cooper has to shave.
“Farshid?”
“Huh?”
“Cookies?”
“Oh. No thanks. I’m good.”
9DAYTON
“What about this one?” you ask, offering Brody a sampler stick with the new CK on it.
Brody sniffs and shrugs. “I don’t know. They all smell the same.”
You don’t let your shoulders slump. You don’t.
Brody really isn’t into fragrance. He didn’t have to go with you to pick something new out for winter. But he’s a good friend.
“I’m sure whatever will be fine,” he adds, though his eyes slide past yours toward the corner where you know a couple of girls from your school—juniors or seniors—are looking at the makeup. He subtly straightens his posture and rolls back his shoulders to emphasize his chest. Even with the November frost, he’s still in a T-shirt.
You’re in an ugly sweater your dad got at his work Christmas party last year. It’s hideous—gray and brown and purple, the weirdest combination of colors, and a psychedelic pattern that looks straight out of the 1960s—but it made you laugh, and it’s warm and cozy. Your dad let you have it since he was never going to wear it.
You put back the CK and pick up another bottle. You don’t recognize it, but something about it is calling your name. It’s wrapped in orange-brown leather, and the label reads Vince Camuto. You’ve never heard of him, but you spritz another sampler stick and wafta bit your way. It’s… spicy. Woodsy, you think, with top notes of… hm.
You’re not as good at this as Cooper was, or Tyler. You haven’t spoken to the boys in weeks. Cooper wasn’t the only one who ditched you: Tyler did, too. Like you were toxic. Like you were nothing. Like you were abad kid.
You did your punishment. You wrote your apology. You took accountability. But that wasn’t enough for them. Nothing was.
Thank god for Brody. You lost two friends, but you gained a best friend. You might be invisible to the rest of the school, but Brody sees you. Brody gets you.
He just doesn’t get fragrance.
