1 Even though I''m the Theatre Kid, my sister''s the dramatic one. "Ugh," Jasmine says as soon as she sees Nick, three lanes over in the parking lot. She rests her head against her car''s steering wheel, then jolts back up when her nose sets off the horn. "You okay?" Jasmine mutters something into the wheel. It''s got a pink fuzzy cover on it. "I can''t hear you." She sits up, sighs, and faces me. "Sorry.
It''s just hard seeing him." "It''s been months." "He broke my heart. You don''t know what it''s like." I''ve had my heart broken before. Maybe not as often or as hard as Jasmine, but still. "Can you do his list again?" "Jasmine ." "Please?" Nick is Jasmine''s millionth latest ex-boyfriend.
They dated all summer before Nick broke up with her because he "didn''t want to be tied down senior year." But now she''s stuck sitting behind him in Pre-Calculus. I''ve repeated his list so many times I''ve basically got it memorized. Still, I reach into my backpack, pull out my black stage manager binder, and flip to the end where I keep my lists. Given how many of them there are--and how often Jasmine needs them repeated--I have to keep them close. Man Bun Nick''s Breakup List: A crusty sock in human form Too much Axe Body Spray Not enough to cover the weird smell Smacks his lips at the beginning of each sentence Doesn''t like pickles Always looks like he''s holding in a fart Bad man bun It barely even qualifies as a bun. More like a little man garlic knot or something. "Plus there''s the whole thing where he broke up with you," I point out.
"Right. Right." "And you said you wanted to focus on yourself senior year." Jasmine gives me a sharp nod. She takes a deep breath, redoes her ponytail, and squares her shoulders. "Thanks, Jackson. What would I do without you?" I slip my binder into my backpack and shrug it on, grab my shmoodies, and follow her into school. The Riverstone High School Alumni Association ruined renovated the student entrance over the summer, replacing the rows of double doors set in red brick with an ugly white façade.
Huge letters spell RIVERSTONE above the doors, but they''re the same white as the wall, so you can only see them by the shadows they cast. At night, they''re lit by blue LED backlight, even though Riverstone''s school colors are purple and gold. 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 only spicy non-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 get pissed off embarrassed annoyed 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 and annoyingly classically 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 tall and handsome and 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?" "You''re auditioning?" He nods, blushing a little. "I thought it would be fun." I glance at Bowie, whose eyebrows are arched in surprise, then back at Liam. "Oh. Okay then." Liam gives me another smile; his smooth arm brushes mine as he heads down the hall, so warm it makes me shiver. I stare at his back for a moment--it''s wide and strong from all the swimming, straining the shoulder seams of his shirt--then turn back to Bowie and switch to sign.
"What is he doing?" "Auditioning, I guess." "But that''s--" A terrible idea. "What''s the worst that could happen? He doesn''t get a part?" It''s the fall musical--Jesus Christ Superstar--so everyone who auditions is pretty much guaranteed a role in the chorus if they want one. Especially if they''re a senior. But Bowie''s in the GSA; they don''t understand the cutthroat politics of senior actors. As a techie (and a junior) I''ve been excluded able to avoid most of it. "Whatever," I finally mutter. "You need a ride today?" "Jasmine''s got me.
Thanks." Bowie glances toward the ceiling. "Warning bell. See you at lunch?" "Yeah." After sixth hour, I power-elbow my way to Dr. Lochley''s office. The door is open, but I still knock on it before I head in. Dr.
L''s got her phone nestled between her shoulder and ear, and she''s staring at her computer with her lips pursed. She looks up at me, smiles, then focuses back on her screen. "Well, how am I somethingsomething done if I have to remember a million passwords?" she asks. She takes off her purple cat-eye glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. "This isn''t the Pentagon, you know." She mutters something I don''t catch, hangs up, and shakes her head, which sends the ends of her graying bob dancing around her jawline. Dr. Lochley is willowy and white, but she''s got a year-round tan.
She''s barely lighter than me. "Jackson. Good. Mind giving me a hand?" Dr. Lochley nods to a cardboard box filled with random props: a small sword, a plunger, a beach ball, a picnic blanket--and that''s just what I can see on the top. "Sure." Seventh hour, Dr. Lochley teaches Theatre IV, which is on.