Out of Blue Comes Green, page 4
Now they’re both looking at me like I should say something. I’m still processing her issues. And while I’m used to people staring, this is different. Unlike the criticism in Tiyana’s eyes or the amusement in JT’s, something kind lingers in the new girl’s.
“This is Madi,” Libby says to me.
I nod at her. “Hey.” It’s a guy thing I’ve been perfecting. Slight movement of the head. No emotion on the face. Little inflection with the word.
Madi’s cheeks pinken a bit. “Hey.”
I break our stare, so I don’t start to think she’s interested in me. That’s a blunt-edged sword that stings forever after.
“I should thank you,” Madi says. “For letting me be Libby’s partner.”
“It’s not really partners,” I say. “You just sit by each other.”
She smiles too broadly. “Yeah, of course.” She keeps looking at me.
“Anyway,” I say, “we might have to switch seats.”
Madi’s smile disappears.
Libby leans in, ignoring my words. “Madi’s new. Today.”
I suppose I could feign interest—first day of the second semester of her senior year is an awkward time to start a new school—but I only want her to leave.
Libby whacks me with the back of her hand.
“What?” My skin reddens.
Libby dips her head toward Madi a few times, but I pretend I don’t know what she wants me to do.
Instead, I take out the novel I got for English class this morning. Too much reading every night and unlike most of my classmates, I’m not going to skim the summaries online.
Madi grasps my book, tilting it up so I can’t read. “Oh, I love The Great Gatsby,” she says. We have to write a persuasive essay proving either that Gatsby could repeat the past with Daisy or he couldn’t. “Aren’t you glad we’re reading it?”
I’m about to answer when I check myself. Guys don’t generally answer questions like this. Too emotional. I give her a single nod.
“I thought I saw you in AP Lit this morning.” Madi pushes her hair back behind her ear.
Libby kicks my shoe under the table, so I say, “Yep.” That’s it.
Madi taps my copy of Gatsby again. “It’s so sad how he thinks he can remake himself as a rich man, and Daisy will love him.”
“I’m not at that part yet.”
Madi’s cheeks pinken again. “Libby didn’t tell me your name.”
Shit.
“This is Kay—”
I kick Libby under the table, much harder than she kicked me, before she can say my full name.
“Kay?” Madi says. “Like King Arthur’s brother?”
Libby and I both raise eyebrows at her.
“You haven’t read T. H. White? The Once and Future King? Kay kills a griffin in one scene.” Her words spill out of her mouth almost before her tongue can keep up with her.
I laugh. What a strange girl. “Kay, like in Kinkade.”
Libby rubs the back of her neck. “King Arthur? Is he that guy with the Round Table?”
I mock her, rubbing the back of my neck too. “Seriously? How do you not know who King Arthur is?”
“I do. I just said he’s the guy with the Round Table.”
“No, you asked if he was the guy with the Round Table.”
“Same thing.”
I shake my head at her. “Not the same thing.”
Madi puts out her hands, one to each of us like she’s holding us back from each other. “Guys, it’s not a big deal.”
“We’re not fighting.” Libby fake-glares at me.
The color drains from Madi’s face. “Oh, is he … your ex?”
Libby and I gawk at each other, then burst into laughter. “Oh, no,” Libby says. “Not ever. Not a chance.”
“You’ve got that right,” I say. But it’s hard to put words together. My whole body is tingling. She just called me “he.” She thinks I’m a boy. Honestly thinks I’m a boy.
I guess I have that head nod thing down.
Chapter 6
FOR THE NEXT FEW HOURS, the head nod gets me a few reply nods as I maneuver through the hallways between my new semester two classes. I think I should try it on Christine. Show her my masculine ways.
But I’m an idiot. Not only is that a ridiculous thought, I won’t see Christine again until art class tomorrow. The rest of my classes are all Advanced Placement—Christine is not exactly a Try Hard—and then I have Drama. She could be in Drama. Nah. She’s not the type.
I come across Libby between classes, and she’s got something in her hand. Before she gives it to me, I see that it’s one of the light blue flyers that have been all over the walls around the school. Something about prom. When she shoves it into my hand, I glare at her. “What do I want this for?”
“Read it. Read it.” She tries to control her smile. She’s wearing that bright pink lipstick I hate, but she thinks it’s perfect for her dark skin tone.
I skim the flyer until I see what she’s excited about. Live Student Bands Wanted! The school wants a live student band to perform at prom instead of getting a DJ? Terrible idea, one. And nothing I’m interested in, two. But that must be what Elise meant earlier when she stopped me in the lunchroom.
I shove the paper at her with a disdainful snort. “Pass.”
She shoves the paper back. “Are you kidding? It’s a chance to play every kind of music there is.”
“Mmm. Classical? Reggae?”
“Shut up. You know what I mean. Pop, rock, indie, R & B. You know how much I want that.”
I stop myself from rolling my eyes. She’s always talking about wanting to play with different bands. Blue isn’t her dream like it’s mine; she doesn’t want to be pinned down to one group. In fact, to be a music producer like she wants, it’s better to have experience in a variety of genres. I hate talking about that with her.
“They’re not going to want us.” I crumple the paper into her hand.
“What? Why not? What’s wrong with us?”
“We’re not exactly Mr. and Ms. Popularity.”
She puts an arm around my shoulder and walks me toward my class. “That’s why it works. We’re the edgy kids. We’re rock ‘n’ roll.”
I laugh so hard I can’t catch my breath. “Pretty sure when you’re the one who has to call yourself edgy, you’re not edgy.”
“Ha, ha, ha. Laugh all you want. But I’m right. And the school will thank us for making prom awesome for the first time.”
“Nope. Not going to happen.”
Libby side-eyes me. “It’s our ticket in.”
I shake my head. She really buys into everything she hears.
“We play prom. Bekkah thinks we rock. Tells her dad—”
“Just stop right there.” Bekkah Ingram’s dad is a myth.
“We could really go somewhere.”
I move to go into my class, but she holds me back. Her arm still around my shoulder, she makes me reminisce. “Remember when we did the talent show. Everything so in sync. The lights bright above you. Jamming on your guitar. Gene pickin’ on the bass. And I did that amazing drum riff. They went crazy for us.”
As she describes that night, I feel the rush again. Singing into the microphone. Hearing my guitar fill the auditorium. And all the time Libby and Gene were right along with me. It all fell together perfectly. Then it was over too fast. Like being extracted from a dream.
I scowl at her. She’s selling me on her vision. But prom cannot possibly be the same as the talent show.
I give her a little shove so she lets go of me. “I’ll see you later.”
Only a year ago, Blue wasn’t even a band. Libby and I played music in her basement sometimes, but we didn’t talk about it too seriously. Since her mom’s death six years ago, she’s been living with her aunt and uncle and Gene. When we’d play, her Uncle Doug kept lingering on the stairs. Then he started singing along to some of our songs, saying how good we sounded. Each time his wife, Lexi, told him to leave us alone, he came down another stair to the basement. Before long, Gene started doing the same as his dad: settling on the stairs during our rehearsals. Then he started bringing his bass, picking out notes along with the songs. Soon after, we roped Gene into being our bassist, though I’m sure Doug wished we’d asked him. Even though he’s only a freshman, Gene can actually play just about any instrument, but we don’t want him getting a big head and thinking he runs the band.
Bad enough he had a say in naming it.
He didn’t like any of my suggestions. I came up with some great stuff: Depressed Poets, Sedated Losers. Really quality names. But Gene acted like they sent the wrong message. “Why does it have to be so negative?”
“Depressed and sedated are negative?” Libby snorts.
He showed off a riff on the bass and said, “By definition, yeah.”
I attempted a more impressive riff on my guitar, but I missed a string. “What’s your idea, then?”
“I don’t know. Something less negative.”
“Sunshine? Rainbows? Oh, I’ve got it. The Galloping Unicorns. The Sunshiny, Rainbow-colored Unicorns. We could have a logo made out of glitter.”
Libby ponders for a moment. “Why not something that sounds negative but doesn’t have to be? Like Blue?”
Drama is in the choir room, which is odd since it’s not a music class, but whatever. I only need a credit; I don’t need a special room. It’s a hike from my other classes to the choir room in the music hallway, far down on the opposite end of the school. Inside, I see multiple tiers to stagger the choir members, a line of eight chairs or so on each. A piano takes center stage down front. Despite my love of music, I have never taken a choir class. If I did, I’d have to admit that I’m truly a soprano. Some things I can’t change about myself.
I skim through the faces of the students who are early, searching for a friend. A few people I know, of course, but there’s no one I want to know better. I stride up a few tiers to a lonely corner and take the chair there. Sliding out my drawing tablet, I pick up where I left off this morning after scoring the seat beside Christine. I turn my pencil to get the curve of her nose right. (Sasha, not Christine.) Sasha’s fur was so short, but still thick. Every day after school, we’d sit together in my room on my bed, and I would pet her, tell her about my day, and everything would be fine. JT and everyone else would cease to exist. Sasha was the one who always understood me.
The door clangs shut, and I start to assess each person who enters the room, determining whether I’m in danger of losing the empty chair beside me. But I don’t know any of them very well. With each one it occurs to me anew that Drama could be an okay place to end the day. Most of these people look as awkward as I am. Some of them as mentally messed up as I am. Perhaps we could make a therapy group on the side.
The next person in the door is a teacher. Long black skirt, black top. “Afternoon, everyone.” She flutters around the piano, grabbing a stack of papers, which she hands to a student in the front row. She waves her hands as if to say Distribute, distribute. “I’m Anna Sands, Ms. Sands.” She enunciates the z sound in Ms.
A few people cheer for her. Members of the Theater Department.
Ms. Sands bows with a flourish. “We’re going to be taking a lot of risks here, so it’s important that we trust each other.”
Maybe they will be taking some risks. Not me. I shade in the dark side of Sasha’s nose.
“Consider me a friend. Someone who wants you to be in touch with your inner actor.” She changes her tone as if she’s reading our Tarot cards and circles her hands around, summoning magic.
Most people laugh a little.
I hold my amusement in. Getting in touch with my inner actor. If there’s one thing I’ve had tons of practice with, it’s acting. Granted I haven’t done the best job of playing a girl all these years, but I have persuaded quite a number of people, even ones I wasn’t trying to. Of course, my success is largely due to my supporting cast continually insisting I am a girl.
The classroom door opens to a late student. Wait. I recognize her. It’s that girl from lunch. Mandy? She knocks into a chair in the first row—smooth—then starts up the tiers. I hope she doesn’t think that just because we both know Libby, I want her to—
She sees me watching her and takes it as an invitation. A moment later, she fills the empty chair beside me. “Hi,” she whispers. Her “Black Lives Matter” and “Free health care for all” pins clank together when she drops her bag, the top edges frayed from use.
Ms. Sands stands, paused and waiting.
Mandy—that doesn’t sound right—calls down to her, “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“The first thing we’ll be doing,” Sands continues with a tiny but not dismissive wave to Mandy, “is two truths and a lie. Work on your ability to sell what you say.”
It’s so hard not to roll my eyes at this prospect. I keep shading Sasha’s nose.
“Is that your dog?” she whispers to me.
I’m not answering that. Cool guys who are asked questions don’t reply.
She shuffles her feet. “Sorry.”
Madi? That sounds right.
The stack of handouts gets to our row. I take one and pass them on, skimming to see if there’s anything I really need to read. It’s just a course outline.
Madi gets out a pencil and starts circling and underlining things. Listens to Ms. Sands for a minute, then circles something else. Her eyes roam up and down my body until I straighten my plaid button down to be sure I’m not giving away the truth. But she’s not checking to see if I’m female; she’s trying to figure out why I’m not writing anything down.
“Choose a partner and get started.” Ms. Sands waves her arms, conducting our mingling.
I haven’t heard the instructions, but I assume it’s standard Two Truths and a Lie rules. Madi’s on her feet nearly dancing. She has far too much enthusiasm for a regular teenager. “Do you want to go first?”
I never agreed to this. Whatever. “You can go.” I reluctantly rise.
“Oh.” Her dancing slows. “Oh. Okay. So, the first thing.” She pauses for too long. “I have an older brother.” She smiles like she’s tricked me already. “Second. My family just inherited a million dollars.” Her lips purse. “Third.” She looks blank. “My family just declared bankruptcy.” That feels truer than the others, especially when she shifts her gaze.
“Are you sure that’s what you want to go with?” Stupid choices. Again, I’m keeping myself from rolling my eyes. Still, as the only person in the world who sees me as an actual boy and speaks to me on a regular basis, I should probably be nice to her. “So, you do have an older brother, that’s pretty clear.”
She rubs the back of her neck.
“And your family is either wealthy or poor.”
She smirks. “Guess that wasn’t too smart.”
Judging from her uninspiring clothing, torn backpack, and strip-mall haircut, I make my decision fairly easily. “I’m going to go with poor. So, the lie is the million dollars.” Too easy.
“You’re right!” She’s pleased I figured it out without seeming to consider that it means I now know she’s poor. She pulls the sleeve of my shirt. “You go.”
I have no idea what to say for my truths or my lie. Besides, now I’m worrying about this girl I don’t know. Her family’s bankrupt? Does that mean she needs money? They could be homeless. Should I ask if she wants to stay at my house? “So do you—” But I can’t.
She laughs too loudly. “Go.”
“Sure, okay.” Two Truths and a Lie. I’ve always hated this game. All of my truths are far too personal. And all of my lies too. This isn’t a game for high school seniors. It isn’t even something we should be doing in high school. “First, this class is a joke.”
This confuses her.
“Second,” I say, “this school is a joke.” That amuses me, but I hold it in. “Third, I’m a joke.” That one hits hard, though I hadn’t banked on it affecting me. It’s her fault; it’s that sad look in her eyes.
But the sad look fades when she realizes I’m not saying anything more. She scowls. “For real? Those are your answers?”
I raise my eyebrows.
Ms. Sands yells out, “Time’s up. Switch partners. Tell the same truths, but give a new lie.”
I step by Madi to find a new partner or pretend to, but she grabs my sleeve. “Hold on. I haven’t guessed yet.”
I whisper in her ear, “I don’t know the answer.”
Once we’ve truthed and lied to nearly everyone else in the class, we finally run out of time. Not nearly too soon. I have made up all new material for the second person, and despite Ms. Sands’ directions, I use all three of the sentences with everyone every time. Each one, a lie. But it’s over and I don’t have to figure out what it means about me on any deeper level. I can just go home.
Sliding Sasha’s picture into my drawing portfolio, I shoulder my backpack and turn right into Madi. She’s packing up her stuff. Instead of apologizing—cool guys don’t apologize—I say, “See ya.”
I’m barely at the door when she catches me. “Wait up.”
Jesus. Desperate much? But I should give her a chance.
“Did you read the syllabus? No? Did you see that we need to go to three different plays this semester?”
“Shit.” I don’t go to plays. Do guys go to plays? I can’t remember listening to a conversation where guys were talking about a play they went to.
“One has to be professional, one community theater, and the other one has to be a college play.”
“What’s the point of that?”
She doesn’t hear me; she just continues on. “There’s this fantastic social justice play that just opened called Pipeline about how Black teens end up on the school-to-prison pipeline—”
“Social justice play?”
She smiles her idea away and offers an alternative. “Or … there’s a Shakespeare at Augsburg College. We could go this weekend.”
Is she asking me out?
“It’s Twelfth Night.”
I think I’ve heard of that. I’m about to say no thanks when I rationalize that it might be better to just do it since I have to do it anyway. “Yeah. All right.” I continue out the door.
