So afraid.
That weight presses on you again, like your bedroom is made of quicksand, and you wish itwoulddrag you down, pull you out of this life and into another one far, far away, where you don’t have to feel this way.
But all you can do is grab your pillow and cover your face and scream.
17DAYTON
“Seriously, my dude, don’t you have enough?” Brody asks as you sample the new Bvlgari. It’s a bit spicier than you’d normally go for, but something about it is calling your name. It’s warm and smooth and complex, perfect for winter. Perfect for Valentine’s Day. Not that you have a Valentine. Or a date for the Sweetheart Dance.
It’s not like you can ask someone. Girls ask the boys for Sweetheart; that’s how it always goes. Though you wonder what happens if it’s two girls. Or two boys. Or what happens if one or both are nonbinary? Who asks then?
Why does it have to be so complicated anyway? Can’t you just get assigned random dance partners like you do for group projects? Or count off, like in conditioning?
You think about Mariana Herrera, who’s been smiling at you every day in German, and wonder if she’s asked anyone to Sweetheart, or if she even wants to go.
You don’t think about her dimples.
Okay, maybe you do.
“Rebel Base to Dayton. Come in, Dayton,” Brody says, talking into an imaginary headset.
You give him a playful shove. “First, you can never have enoughfragrance, because you never know what kind of day you’re going to have. What the weather will be like. What kind of mood you’ll be in. It’s good to have options. And second, I can’t afford it anyway, but it’s nice, isn’t it?”
You waft the sampler in Brody’s direction. His eyebrows rise up, like he’s thinking about it, but then his eyes slide past you and he swats you away.
“Quit it man, you’re being super sus right now.”
You glance over your shoulder at the cluster of girls trying on fragrances of their own.
“I’m not being sus,” you say. It’s not gay to offer him a sample of cologne, especially on a slip of paper.
It’s not like you made him sniff your collarbone, the way Mariana did that one time.
“Why are you smiling at me like that?” Brody asks. “I don’t like you like that, man.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not smiling at you. I’m just smiling.”
“Uh-huh. You’re thinking about Mariana, aren’t you?”
You try not to smile wider, but Brody can tell.
“You’re in loooooove,” Brody teases.
“Cut it out.”
But his grin just widens. “I bet you lie in bed every night thinking about her while you whack it.”
He makes the gesture again, though lately he’s taken to doing it down between his knees, like that’s how far he has to reach, which you’re pretty certain is not only an exaggeration on his part but anatomically impossible as well.
You try not to react, but your face is heating up. Your stomach is clenching. Your smile is slipping. There’s no way Brody couldpossibly know that you did it for the first time over break. No earthly way. It’s not like there’s a neon sign over your head or something.
But, well, yeah, you might be doing it most nights now. And yeah, maybe you think about kissing Mariana sometimes. You can’t tell Brody that, though.
You can’t tell him anything about it. Not how awesome it feels (and itdoesfeel awesome). Or how weird you feel after (super weird). You’re not sure if it’s shame or guilt or just, like, hormones. And you’re not sure if youshouldfeel shame or guilt or hormones, either.
You wish Brody was the kind of guy you could talk about that stuff with. He’s your best friend. But he jokes about it so often, you’re afraid he won’t take you seriously. Or worse, turn on you, the way your old friends did.
You can’t risk it.
