Chapter 3 Dayton
DAYTON
As if getting in-school suspension wasn’t bad enough, you’re also grounded.
Your mom and dad won’t say for how long.
Your dad brought you home after the meeting with the principal. It didn’t count as part of your suspension; Dr. Matthews just thought it was best you go home for the day, since it was already halfway through Friday by then and your dad had driven to school and all.
But now it’s Saturday, and you’re bored, stuck in your room without your Xbox or your phone. You don’t even have any homework to do. You didn’t get the chance to go by your locker before leaving. Your dad was eager to be gone.
He’s already given you three different “How could you be so stupid?” talks.
And your mom? Well, she gave you a long lecture about how disappointed she was.
How she didn’t raise you to speak that way.
But at least she got it out of her system.
Now she’s just grateful you got in-school suspension instead of out-of-school.
That way she won’t have to deal with you at home.
Not like she deals with you that much anyway. She’s always too busy with work.
The worst thing is that your brother’s barely talking to you, either. Marshall’s got more than one queer friend, and it doesn’t bother you. It really doesn’t. You’re fine with all of them.
You don’t hate gay people. You just …
You’re not even sure what you were just, anymore.
It feels like it was someone else who did it.
Even though you remember saying it. You don’t remember why.
Or you do, but the reasons don’t make sense now, not in the way they had before you did it.
A pouch of Pop-Tarts doesn’t seem to matter that much anymore.
Still, it was just one word. A word you’d never used before. Marshall knows you don’t hate gay people. So why is he treating you like you do?
A rumble of thunder shakes the windowpanes. You didn’t notice that it started raining. Now you can’t even get out and go for a walk. Your mom always lets you or Marshall get out for exercise, even when you’re grounded.
You can’t even remember the last time you were grounded. Maybe sixth grade? You don’t get in trouble. Not like this.
You roll over on your bed, fix the legs of your shorts where they’re twisted and bunched around your thighs, and stare at the popcorn ceiling.
Sometimes your dad talks about scraping it off to “increase the resale value.” But so far it’s still there, the texture smoothed by the soft gray light of a rainy day.
You were supposed to go to Sephora this afternoon, you and Cooper and Tyler.
Tyler’s mom was going to drive you. There’s a sale on fragrances, clearing out the fall ones to make room for winter even though it’s officially been fall for only a few days.
Tyler’s in it for the sale—at this point his bathroom is probably half bottles—but Cooper’s still searching for a new signature scent.
“We’re not boys anymore,” he announced solemnly at his birthday party last weekend. “We’re young men.”
You haven’t been able to talk to any of them since it all happened. You didn’t even get to answer their texts before Dad confiscated your phone. But you picture them texting you now. Wondering what’s up. Piling into Tyler’s mom’s car and driving to your house only to find out you can’t come along.
You huff and roll out of bed.
“Where are you going?” Marshall asks as you walk past his open door.
He’s stretched out on his bed, scrolling on his phone.
Your brother’s got a good six inches in height on you, and his face is less round, but you still kind of look alike.
Same hair, though he’s started growing his out a bit.
Same eyes. Same nose. Same smile, you think, though Marshall seems to get a lot more attention from girls for his than you do for yours.
Which isn’t fair, since you had the same orthodontist.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I need to text the guys. We were supposed to go out today. But Mom and Dad still have my phone.”
Marshall chuckles. “Good luck with that, then. You know what they’re like.”
You do.
No exceptions, that’s Mom’s rule. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, that’s Dad’s.
“I know.”
You sigh. God, maybe Dr. Matthews is rubbing off on you. Or maybe sighing is just a thing you do more of when you grow up.
“But the guys are probably on their way. I haven’t even been able to tell them I’m grounded.”
“They probably guessed,” Marshall says, putting down his phone and crossing his arms. “You screwed up, bro. Big-time.”
“I know. I’m sorry. What else do you want from me?”
Marshall just shakes his head. But you must look really pathetic, because his frown softens.
“Here. You’ve got two minutes. Don’t look at my photos.” He holds out his phone.
One, you’re definitely not going to look at his photos, because, gross.
Two, you don’t tell Marshall often enough, so: “I love you.”
He scoffs as he hands you his phone, but you realize he doesn’t have anyone’s number. You switch over to Instagram and send Cooper a DM.
It’s Dayton not Marshall
Can’t make it today my dude
Grounded
You and the guys never called each other dude before. Much less my dude. But last week Tyler sent the group a meme of a bunch of forty-year-olds playing Roblox and calling one another my dude that had you all in stitches, so now you all use it ironically.
You wait for Cooper to answer. Maybe he doesn’t recognize Marshall’s account. But it’s got Marshall’s face as the profile pic, and Cooper’s been at your house often enough to recognize your brother.
Maybe he and Tyler are already at Sephora. Maybe Cooper’s already spritzing the little sampler wands and waving them, talking about top notes and woods versus florals. And Tyler’s already pronouncing all the different names in a dramatic French accent.
Maybe Cooper’s got his notifications muted. Or maybe he just doesn’t have signal. It comes and goes in that Sephora.
But they wouldn’t go to Sephora without you. Without at least checking on you.
Five seconds. Ten. Thirty.
Marshall raises his eyebrows, holds out his hand. You’re about to give it back, but finally, finally, Cooper responds.
We figured.
That’s all it says. Two words.
We figured.
You don’t know what that means.
Somewhere in the house, a door opens and closes.
Mom emerging from her midlife crisis home gym, probably.
Marshall gestures for his phone back. But you want to hold on.
Beg for more time. Ask Cooper what you missed and what people are saying.
But surely that’s all in the group chat.
You’ll be able to check whenever you get your phone back.
So you just send Catch you Monday? and hand Marshall his phone back.
“Thanks,” you say.
“I’m still mad at you,” Marshall says, wiping his screen against his T-shirt like you got germs on it.
“I didn’t even do anything to you!”
“You hurt my friends, you hurt me,” Marshall says. “And you haven’t taken any accountability.”
“What does that even mean?”
Before Marshall can answer, your mom calls from downstairs. “Dayton? You better not be goofing off.”
“I’m not,” you shout as you head back to your room. Flop onto your bed. Try not to feel so freaking lonely.
You’ll catch up with your friends in school. Well, after school. It’s not like they’ll be in ISS with you.
Still, this will all blow over. It’s not like you beat someone up or something. It was just one word.
Everything will be fine.