Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
I glance at the side of Vann’s face while he concentrates on his sketch, despite Mr. Schubert carrying on with today’s lesson. Does Vann even take notes anymore? But as he methodically adds feathers to his latest demon dude, I find myself wondering if I’m just being foolish about all of this again. Vann could be straight, and this whole Kingsley ordeal is just him playing a role. I can’t be so lucky as Jimmy’s fiancé was, to have a best friend he thought was straight his whole childhood, only to wake up one day in his arms. Jimmy might be my confidant, but he is not the example of what usually happens in these situations. Vann can be very, very hetero for all I know, and I can be very, very out of luck. What if I kiss him and fall for him? Am I willing to watch my heart break the moment the curtain falls on our last performance, and there’s no more reason left to kiss him?
That reality would crush me.
I’m still thinking about it all through PE, when we are taken outside to jog on the actual track that goes around the stadium. In the piercing sun, I jog next to a dutifully-glued-to-my-side Vann, but I keep sneaking glances his way, my mind racing with so many questions. I wish sometimes I was as bold as him, able to just ask him what I want. Is that why I’m so drawn to him? His confidence? His refusal to hide in any shadow whatsoever?
We’re sweaty messes by the time we’re back inside, washing up and changing out of our gym clothes. “Heat here is ridiculous,” gripes Vann, his face creased with irritation, his eyes swimming with exhaustion. “Is this even safe? To force us to jog laps in that insane heat?”
I shrug. “Heat strokes are a real concern here. There are all of these new regulations for football practices and stuff,” I point out, regurgitating things Lee said during dinner over the years—and surprising myself with the fact that I’ve apparently been listening. “Like, they can’t do brutal two-a-days all week anymore like they used to. They can’t even require attendance for them. They—”
“What the hell are two-a-days?” blurts Vann as he peels off his shirt, then proceeds to wipe down his face and chest.
And there goes my concentration. Distracted as I am by my eyes being glued to his body, to his lean build, to his everything, my answer is delayed and comes in a spurt of fractured sentences I can only hope make sense. Vann doesn’t respond as he sits down on the bench and leans back against the lockers, eyes closed, and breathing deeply, his skin still glossy from sweat. I just stand there like an idiot and watch him, at a loss for words.
And maybe also thinking about him walking home with me tonight after my shift at Biggie’s.
And us hanging out after that.
Getting comfortable with the script …
“Hard practice two times a day,” mumbles Vann. “Sounds like something sadistic that only a real idiot would agree to.”
I open my mouth to make a funny point about the fact that we are about to do exactly that—hanging out tonight to go over the script again, after enduring a long afterschool rehearsal—but the impulse vacates me as I clutch my things and wait for Vann, still shirtless and sweaty, to recover. I ignore the yearning growl of my stomach, desperate for lunch.
I continue to ignore my various growls of yearning later in rehearsal as Ms. Joy leads us through an experimental character building exercise, giving us “plenty to think about and dissect as we enter the weekend”. It involves pairing up, sitting in chairs across from each other, and telling personal facts about ourselves while mirroring our partner’s hands without interruption. It has something to do with maintaining physical and mental focus—or whatever. Kelsey, who plays the café waitress, is paired up with Marissa. Frankie is nearby, too, with Emilio. Off somewhere to our right is Tamika, who joined in because we have an odd number. But all my attention is on Vann moving his hands in circles. He’s mirroring my movements as we spit out factoids about ourselves.
“My stepbrother used to wet the bed,” I mutter, zombielike.
“I had a cat that ran away in Chicago,” Vann responds in just as similar a drone. We’ve already shared fifty-seven things.
“But, like, when he was fourteen,” I amend. Fifty-eight things …
“The cat was named Ursula, same as the sea hag.”
“I sometimes wonder if I’m adopted, because my mom looks nothing like me, and I barely remember my dad.”
The voices of others deadpanning random personal facts to each other buzz around our ears like fruit-hunting flies, but Vann and I stay focused only on each other—and the now sixtyish things we’ve shared. Our facts seem to be taking a more personal turn.