“No thanks,” Jordan says while I’m still contemplating the horrors of unplanned exercise. He doesn’t mind sweating out of uniform; he just has this thing about treating his Yeezys right.
Donno rolls his eyes and chucks the ball my way. “Bradders. You in?”
I’m not, but I can’t resist the urge to keep it off the ground. A quick tap with my right foot, my left, then my knee, then my chest. “No thanks,” I say, and do it again.
“Show-off,” Jordan murmurs.
I stick my tongue out at him and kick the ball back to Donno, who snorts derisively. “Christ, you’re a pair of wet wipes.” He’s our team captain, in possession of a killer left foot, floppy golden hair, and sparkling blue eyes. His smiles are always wide and mocking, barely hiding his fangs. I used to have the most unholy crush on him. “What about the rest of you pillocks?”
The guys milling around this makeshift pitch practically stand to attention. I imagine rigid salutes and a chorus of Sir, yes, sir! to match their worshipful looks. Donno has an ego problem—I’m qualified to point this out because I also have an ego problem—and the team really doesn’t help.
Jordan and I leave them to it. There’s a weeping willow at the edge of this field creating a pool of cool, green shade that’s calling my name.
Five minutes later, we’re curtained off from the rest of the world by a veil of leaves. I lie back, head on my rucksack, and crack open my well-loved copy of All Systems Red. I’m rereading the Murderbot Diaries again, mostly to torture myself with the fact that I’ll never write anything this good.
Or possibly anything at all.
But I don’t entertain defeatist thoughts. Dr. Okoro taught me not to invite them in for tea.
“Hey, Brad,” Jordan says out of the blue. “What do you think of Minnie Digby?”
I study him over the top of my book. “Minnie Digby?”
“Yeah.” He looks down, probably hoping his mop of curls will hide the blush on his light brown cheeks. “You know, the one who hangs around with—”
“I know who Michaela Digby hangs around with.”
He smirks again. “Oh yeah. Of course you do.”
“I’m a good friend, so I’m ignoring that comment.” Jordan has a twisted mind that contains batshit theories about me and persons I will not stoop to name. （Okay, fine: her name is Celine Bangura, and she is my archnemesis. Happy?）
I shut my book—which is a real sacrifice, considering Murderbot’s currently deciding whether or not to rip someone’s arm off—and try to answer his question. “I think…” That Minnie Digby keeps poor company. That if she ever dares to disagree with her glorious leader about literally anything, ever, she’ll be dropped on her arse at the speed of light. That—
Uh, Brad? Mid-conversation?
Oh yeah. I put my completely reasonable amount of righteous Celine-hate aside and say something relevant. “I think Minnie’s gay.”
“What?” Jordan squawks. “Like, you have a feeling she’s gay, or—”
“As in, I heard she was gay.” Also, my gaydar is excellent and she’s giving solar-powered rainbow strobe lights, but I won’t mention that.
“Oh.” My best friend droops.
“Hey, I could be wrong. How do you know her, anyway?”
He sighs. “She’s in my Lit class this year. She said something this morning about, like, toxic canon and how literary gatekeeping being intertwined with heartless cisheterosexist white supremacist capitalism has poisoned Western creative culture.” Jordan’s usual monotone is ever so slightly animated, which means he’s foaming at the mouth with fascination.
“All right, Minnie Digby. I bet everyone loved that.” This school is not the most progressive. By which I mean: this school sits at the edge of a conservative borough and half of our classmates parrot everything their posh parents tell them.
“Mrs. Titherly wanted to strangle her,” Jordan says dreamily. Maybe he’s in love. Maybe Minnie’s bisexual like me, and he has a chance. After all, Jordan’s cute—I know some girls don’t like short guys but I’m hoping Michaela is too enlightened for that. In ten years’ time, I could be at their wedding telling a story about this moment.
I can see it now: my suit is impeccable and all my best-man jokes land perfectly. Celine is the maid of honor but she’s sadly absent because I snuck into her room and turned off the alarm on her phone. And then I locked her door from the outside.
I snort discreetly and tell him, “If you like the girl, say something.”
“Like what?”
“Like, ‘Hey, Minnie, I also hate Dickens. Let’s get pancakes.’？”
“Bruh. Not Dickens. Everyone loves Dickens.”
Well, that can’t be true. I had to read A Tale of Two Cities last year and almost clawed my own eyes out.
“Anyway.” Jordan is back to gloom. “I don’t know if I like her. I just wanna know what you think of her.”
“And then what? You write a letter to her parents asking if you can take her to a museum?”
He laughs. “Screw you.” The school bell shrieks, and we groan in tandem. “What d’you have next?”
“Philosophy.” Which it’s too damn hot for. Existential crises should be saved for rainy days; happy sunshine just undermines the whole vibe. “You’ve got a free period, right?”
“Yep.”
I beam at him. “Walk me to class, bestie.”
“Nope. I’ll see you at soccer practice.”
Ugh. “Jordan. We’ve talked about this. You cannot keep calling it soccer.”
He snorts. “Well, I’m not about to call it—”
As if on cue, a football whips through the weeping willow’s leaves and slams between us.
“Pack in the gossip, ladies,” Donno calls, jogging after it.
“Hey.” Jordan scowls. “Don’t call us that. You’re supposed to be the team captain.”
“Yeah, and I’m using motivational language to get you off your arse.” Donno holds out a hand to help me up. Being friends with him is like having a poisonous pet snake who loves you so much they only bite you once a year. When I was thirteen, he saved me from feeling like I was completely alone. Now I’m seventeen and he gets on my damn nerves, but he’s got my back, so I’ve got his. Even if he occasionally makes it difficult.
“You in Taylor’s philosophy class?” Donno asks as he hauls me to my feet.
“Yeah, why?”
“Me too.” He claps me on the back and jogs off to the rest of our group.
“I thought you were in different classes?” Jordan asks.
“We were last year.” Apparently, the schedule’s changed.
Even knowing that, I don’t put two and two together until I’ve trekked across campus and reached Mr. Taylor’s room. If Donno’s tiny Philosophy class has merged with mine, guess who I’ll be discussing Voltaire with this year?
Celine Bangura.
I stand in the doorway and stare at her like a creep. She doesn’t notice me because she’s talking to Sonam Lamba, so for once, I’m watching her smile instead of scowl. There’s some kind of rose-colored makeup on her chubby cheeks which stands out against her dark brown skin. Her braids are long and fine and pool on the table, almost black with a few neon-green strands that frame her face.