Chapter 7
When the release bell rings, I skulk down the hallway and pray I don't run into Daisha. To get to the parking lot, I have to pass the theater room like an invisible stealth ninja. Once I've successfully done that, I hurry to Felix's car. It's gone.
Me:
omg your car is gone
Me:
towed? stolen?
Him:I told you earlier. I'm at a dentist appointment and can't take you home today!
Oh, shit. He did. Now I've got to walk home.
I've been outside one minute, and already enough sweat is pouring off me to make the Great Lakes blush.
I wish I didn't have skin right now. I've got a mile-long walk ahead of me.
Why couldn't Felix have his appointment when it's cooler outside?
Yes, I could take the bus, but I could also stick my face into a beehive.
The sun is slapping me across the face with its big thermonuclear dick, and thanks to the factories, the air also carries the lovely fragrance of “You're going to die thirty years younger than you're supposed to.” My head is stuck under the skirt of Mother Nature, and it is nasty.
The cicadas buzzing in the trees sound like they're laughing at me.
I'm surrounded by a field of grass fried to a deathly yellow by months of this.
Signs of life or joy or even dreams do not exist in this Podunk shithole, unless your dream is to be a nutria taking an acid bath in a creek behind a chemical plant.
My mind goes back to Ms. Easterling. I'm curious to see what she looks like now, if only because I'm nosy. I also feel tempted to check out the musical reveal after Daisha's compliment.
Tiny lizards dart one by one across the sidewalk in front of me, like they're deliberately throwing themselves to their deaths under my feet. Who could blame them in this town? I have to tiptoe around them to avoid killing any until I almost trip over the curb.
The sweat is bleeding into my eyes, and my hands are slippery from all the wiping.
The chances of me dying of a sunstroke have leapfrogged to near certainty.
If I die, my body will probably melt into the concrete before anybody can find me.
I can't think of anything more embarrassing than dying in Oyster Pit.
Imagine actually having this stupid town's name sprawled across your obituary.
Okay, so I've thought about it and decided I'll trade my extreme physical discomfort for extreme social discomfort. I turn and run back into the school.
The theater room is packed with students and buzzing with conversation. Half the room is wearing a special theater letterman jacket. I stand there in a corner, hoping nobody sees me and wishing I could blend into the wall behind me.
I only know of some of these people. There's Mike Crabtree, the baseball-playing junior with a flair for acting, who's also the nicest and most attractive guy in school, which has earned him the nickname Sweet Mike.
One hundred percent straight and dating a rich, beautiful sophomore named Stacey Chen.
Meg Dunnstock, a big and blunt sophomore with a fluffy blond mop of hair.
Openly gay and doesn't give a shit who knows it.
And Naz Ahmadi, a nonbinary junior with parents from Iran, noticeably missing their beloved nose ring.
Of course, there's also Aubrey and Roland, sitting by themselves like weirdos.
Ms. Easterling enters with long red hair, wearing an embroidered blue floral maxi dress with matching heels, laughing with her students.
She's got cute red glasses with cat-eye frames.
I remember being a freshman in her speech class.
She was so intimidating and grumpy, which soured me on her.
By just looking at her now, you can feel her joy radiate from across a room.
Byron hops to the front on a pair of crutches, his oh-so injured foot hanging above the ground. A wave of quiet sweeps through the room and everybody sits.
“Stop staring at my foot,” Byron hisses at somebody in the front.
He gives a welcome speech and congratulates several of the thespians who qualified for the state convention, his right crutch falling to the ground when he tries to applaud.
He goes on and on about his own accomplishments before handing over the stage to Ms. Easterling for a special announcement.
“Before I reveal this year's musical, it's my great pleasure to announce to y'all that we received a grant from OutBroadway for twenty thousand dollars to put on the musical I chose,” she says. Gasps and claps and whistles fill the room.
“This is one of the biggest honors of my life because we need it to do our musical justice, and to give those rich private schools in Houston a run for their money.
I also want to express that this year's musical is very close to my heart.
It's about the courage to be yourself, which many of us can relate to.”
Darren and Carsten bring a wrapped poster tube onstage.
“Drumroll, please,” Darren says. Everybody pounds the floor with both hands, creating an effective suspense. Carsten unwraps the tube.
They pull out a rolled-up poster and slide the rubber bands off it. As they unroll and reveal only a quarter of the poster, even more gasps and screams light up the room.
It's a poster for a show called Pansgender! The title is in rainbow font, and a silhouette image of Peter Pan and Captain Hook fighting fills the space below it.
“YES!” Naz leaps into the air and twirls, while everybody laughs.
Ms. Easterling reads off a card.
“Pansgender! The Broadway smash that won thirteen Tonys and had audiences on their feet, laughing and crying and teaching them to love themselves for who they are!
The queen of Spain called it ‘the greatest musical of all time'! Set in an alternate Never-Never Land, where abandoned queer kids have found refuge under the leadership of a nonbinary Peter Pan, the infamous Captain James Hook seeks revenge on them while trying to suppress his own gender dysphoria. Meanwhile, a hungry queer crocodile is looking for his next meal…”
“You had me at nonbinary Peter Pan. Let's fucking go!” Meg shouts, shooting devil horns with her fingers.
“Language, Meg,” Ms. Easterling says.
“Auditions are in two weeks, everybody,” Byron tells the room. “We expect you to bring your best self and song. This is the real deal.”
Somebody raises their hand and asks, “Didn't the GSA already get banned for being too gay?”
“Technically the GSA was disbanded because the sponsor was ‘reassigned.' But really, we know the reason why,” Naz answers. “Ms. Easterling got a prestigious grant for this, and there's no reassigning the only theater teacher at school. So I'm not worried!”
Darren rolls in a cart full of desserts. “And now, Kool-Aid and baklava!” he shouts with a little leap.
I wait in line for some baklava and then find a corner to eat, but now I'm in the proximity of Aubrey and Roland having their own private emergency conference.
“Am I having a nightmare? Am I going to start seeing Mr. Easterling in the girls' bathroom?” Aubrey asks him. “Also, why does he think it's appropriate to do a show sexualizing Peter Pan?”
“You just know Dr. Collins approved it all with a big smile,” Roland says.
Meg, overhearing them, chimes in. “Peter Pan was traditionally played by a woman. I once saw a version where Captain Hook played the mom. Nobody whipped out their torches and pitchforks because of that.” Aubrey glares at her dismissively, then catches me gawking at her.
If I was brave enough, this is where I would say, “I know, poor Ms. Easterling has to run into you when she goes to the bathroom now,” but I'm not, so I shrug and continue to munch on the baklava as I let the current of the room take me somewhere else.
Unfortunately, it happens to be right behind the In Crowd.
“Can you believe Wade is here after what he did to you?” Darren says in a low voice, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm there.
“I don't know, but I respect the audacity,” Byron says.
“Do you think he's going to try out for the show?” Carsten asks. Darren snorts, and liquid from the Kool-Aid box he's sipping on flies out his nose.
“He'd be a great pirate. He's got the scar and everything,” Byron responds, and they break out into laughter. I freeze mid-bite into my baklava.
“Nah, Pansgender!'s too lighthearted for him. School Shooter: The Musical is more up his alley,” somebody chimes in.
Darren mocks me in a vampirish voice. “It's dark! Like my soul!” They all laugh.
I don't know why, but the plumbing behind my nose and eyes starts to leak.
I shouldn't be surprised or even offended by this.
They are the worst. Social terrorists, like Sutter Breedlove.
But it hurts. I came here in good faith for one person and got skewered by a trio of wannabe Greek gods who spend all their free time taking selfies together in a hot tub.
Someone's hand lands on my shoulder, startling me. The paper plate with the baklava and plastic fork spills on the ground.
“Eek, didn't mean to scare you,” Daisha says, helping me clean it up. The In Crowd turn their heads and notice me kneeling down behind them.
As soon as I have everything in my hand, I storm past her without saying anything and dunk it in the trash can by the entrance. I didn't want to come, I knew I shouldn't have come, and look what happened. I wish them luck with their stupid musical, because I'm not going to be a part of it.