Chapter 17
Idon't believe it. It's not even seven a.m. and there's a DM from Roland waiting for me.
Good Morning!
He is officially the most annoying guy I have ever met.
“Do you think he's—” Felix starts to say to me in the car, but I shake my head.
“No way. He's found a fellow meathead he wants to practice his French with,” I rationalize.
Sra. Breedlove passes back our first tests. She slips the 100 with a smiley face on top of my folder and taps me on the shoulder.
“I'm submitting names for consideration for the Spanish Honor Society. You'd be a great candidate,” she says, unfolding a pamphlet about the organization.
“Oh, weird. Do I have to do community service projects and stuff?” I ask, glancing over my test.
“No. But this would look good on your transcript to colleges.” She quickly registers the look of disinterest on my face. “Uh-oh. Don't tell me you're not going to college. Why not?”
“I don't think I need to go to college to be successful. My aunt went to college and she's not a shining example of career success.”
“It's good to keep your options open. And you're an intelligent guy,” she says. “I'm surprised you're not taking any AP classes.”
“Meh” is my only response. It's a lot easier than explaining that I can't handle the stench of overachieverism and the elitist rat race of my classmates clambering over each other to get into their Ivy League dream schools so they can become masters of the universe and get invited to a private island by some shady rich guy who dies under mysterious circumstances in prison.
Yeah, I'll stay quiet.
She refolds the pamphlet. “Okay, then.” I can sense her embarrassment as she walks away.
I feel bad, but is it my fault if she has the wrong idea about what kind of student I am?
Also, maybe I shouldn't feel bad. As I've learned, adults are always out for themselves.
She probably wants a big number of students in her group for bragging rights.
The bell rings, and as we get up I approach Daisha at the door.
“Can we talk for a second?”
I explain to her Roland's plan.
“How did you hear about this?” she asks.
“I have my sources. You can't tell anybody I told you. Trust me that this is ironclad intelligence.”
“Hmph! They'll get a little surprise visit from us at their meeting, then,” she says in a low voice.
___________
It's the night we record Dinah's first podcast episode. I'm fiddling with a light while she checks herself in selfie mode on her phone.
“We gotta get A/C in here. Look at me, I got swamp tits. I need to change my top,” Dinah says, but Clint stops her before she can run out of the garage.
“Your top is fine. Listen, I've been thinking about your intro,” he says, handing her a can of hairspray.
She sprays a cloud thick enough to make me sneeze. “No need. I've got your music, then I'll say, ‘Welcome to Dinahmite!,' and then—”
“No, no, no. You need gravitas. Importance. What if I introduced you and started the show with some momentum?”
“She doesn't need an introduction on her own channel,” I say.
“Actually,” Dinah says, “that sounds kind of nice.”
“Also,” Clint continues, “I could stay in frame a little bit, you know? Like a sidekick. Or a cohost.” He says the last part quickly and quietly, but she's busy adjusting her makeup and doesn't even hear.
“Wade!” She yells, and I run to her side. “You're going to monitor comments online in case we get any spies or saboteurs, right?”
I nod.
“We're live in thirty seconds,” Clint says.
Dinah nervously grabs her vape and takes a prolonged drag, inhaling like she's a witch swallowing the soul of a child. Clint inches himself into the frame with a rolling chair.
Five seconds till we're live.
“Now,” I say, hitting record on the camera. Clint leans farther into the frame as he shreds his guitar.
“It's Dinah o'clock!” She grins and nods to the riff, although it's hard to see her clearly with the vapor still floating around her. “Dinah! Dinah-mite!”
And so begins the world's stupidest podcast. While Dinah and Clint talk about bats and testicles, I dip a spoon into a jar of peanut butter while monitoring the comments that don't exist since nobody is even watching this intellectual massacre.
A buzz comes from my phone, which I forgot to turn off. Dinah stops mid-speech to glare at me. It's another DM from Roland. I click it so I can go to the settings and disable notifications again, but nothing in the history of the universe prepares me for what I see.
It's a flaccid dick and a message.
Now show me yours
The most obnoxious, homophobic, not-single-at-all straight dude at my school who thinks I'm a hot French exchange student just sent me a dick pic.
On purpose.
Lost in my shock, I swallow a big chunk of peanut butter that I forgot to chew. The chunk lodges in my throat, which stretches painfully. I drop the phone and fall on my hands and knees, my panicked moans distorted and peanut butter-y.
“What the hell are you doing?” Dinah pulls her headphones off and throws them to the ground.
I grab my throat with my hands. My cheeks tingle. Still, all I can think about is Roland's junk.
“The boy is choking!” Clint gets up from his stool.
I nod and run out the door like I'm on fire.
Clint and Dinah chase me in a circle around the backyard until Dinah catches me and Clint kicks me in the back, compounding my misery.
“You idiot, you don't kick a choking person!” Dinah yells as she wraps herself behind me and gives me the Heimlich.
“Water! Hot water!” I manage to hiss through my throat.
Dinah runs into the house and back out with a glass of hot water and pours all of it into my mouth. The water burns like hell, but a hole slowly forms through the mountain of peanut butter. I gasp for air.
“You ruined my first episode!” she says, storming off back into the garage.
___________
“Yikes on a bike!” Felix holds the phone up, frozen, his mouth agape. “Honestly, I thought it would be smaller.”
I hold an ice pack on my back to soothe the pain from Clint's kick. “I don't know how to respond. What should I do? I'm not sending a pic of my own dick. Besides, Roland is eighteen years old. I am not.”
We can't send the pic to anybody. That would be like revenge porn. I'm not interested in graduating from high school straight into prison.
Felix and I stare at my phone like it's a bomb about to detonate.
“We have to say something,” he says finally. “He's probably freaking out that Pierre hasn't responded.”
“Good! He should be freaking out! Who sends that without warning?” I run my hands through my hair. “What would a hot French exchange student even say to this?”
“Something ambiguously flirty,” Felix suggests.
We check Roland's profile again and see he's online, probably anxiously awaiting Pierre's response.
I take a deep breath and type.
Wow… wasn't expecting that
Three dots appear immediately, disappear, then reappear. He finally responds.
Sorry if that was too forward. You can delete it
Actually… please delete it. I'm sorry. I was joking
“He's panicking,” Felix says. “Maybe don't be ambiguous.”
Me:
I'M SHOWING EVERYBODY
Him:
… … … …
Me:JK JK, it's fine. I was surprised. A good surprise!
Him:
Whew. Glad you liked it
Me:
Very impressive btw
Him:Thanks. But don't tell my girlfriend lol
“Of course he has to mention Aubrey,” I mutter. “Classic ‘no homo' move.”
Felix smirks. “Let's push him a bit.”
Me:Just because we have girlfriends doesn't mean we can't appreciate aesthetic stuff
Him:Exactly! It's like appreciating Michelangelo's David. Like not gay in the gay sense lol
Me:Two straight guys admiring the art of physique, right?
Him:
So we're cool?
Me:
Of course
Him:Normalize noticing that another guy looks good without being gay lol
“We are watching someone's sexual identity crisis in real time,” Felix says.
I nod, feeling a weird mix of amusement and empathy. It's not like Felix and I weren't acting weird when we came out to each other.
Me:I know, right? It's normal to notice but society makes it weird
Him:Yeah! Like, I can think a sunset is beautiful without wanting to marry it
Me:Exactly! Though I've never received a sunset pic quite like yours
Him:Sorry again about that. I feel like I can be loose with you. I know we barely know each other. I'm so weird, aren't I?
Me:
Not weird. I feel it too
It's nuts that for the first time in my life I'm flirting with a guy, but it's Roland Bartholomew Greenway. I'm sort of turned on and sort of retching. I stop and look up at Felix. “Maybe we're getting too real with him.”
Him:I dream about living in France sometimes. Away from everyone who thinks they know me
Me:
What would you do in France?
Him:
Be myself. Whatever that could be
“This is getting deep,” Felix says. “Should we ghost him and send some incriminating screenshots to the IntegriTruth Student Council and school newspaper?”
“Yeah, let's wrap this up with a few more messages and block his pathetic ass,” I say.
Me:I like this version of you. The one who's brave enough to send pictures and talk about real feelings
Him:Thanks. Again, I'm not gay or anything
Me:No, me neither! We're two guys being real. We do this stuff in Europe all the time
Him:Exactly! Not like the weird Pansgender people who have to shove everything in everybody's faces
“Oh, swallow a smelly sock, you closet queen,” I yell out loud.
Him:So, when are you going to send me yours?
“Block him already,” Felix says.
But I'm too angry right now. I hate Roland even more than Sutter Breedlove, and I—
Hmmmmm.
“Do you remember the story about the Yellow Rose of Texas from history class?” I ask Felix.
“Is Pierre our digital Yellow Rose?”
I remind him about what we overheard in Sra. Breedlove's conversation with Ms. Easterling: Sutter leaving his window open for his weekly late-night rendezvous.
“Are you saying we should…” Felix says.
“If we catch our own Santa Anna in a sex trap, we could definitely win this war. How would IntegriTruth Students be taken seriously by anybody if their president climbed into Sutter Breedlove's window to take advantage of Sutter's last name?”
“I don't know. What if Sutter hurts him?”
“Roland deserves a good punch in the neck for once,” I say.
“The screenshot idea would have the same effect with less work. More importantly, it's safer,” Felix says.
“What if Sutter never bothers me again because he'll be too busy hating Roland after this?” I ask.
I want to teach Roland a lesson for good. And if I can punk Sutter Breedlove at the same time, I must take advantage of this golden opportunity. Plus, Sutter lives on the far edge of town, closer to McMurtry, so it's believable that he'd go to McMurtry High School.
I clear my throat, crack my knuckles, and launch into a frenzy of typing like an overcaffeinated concert pianist.
Actually, I have a better idea!