Webster walks into class with Immy’s carrier in the crook of his elbow just before the bell rings. He sets her down on the counter and barely glances at me before flipping through his notebook. I get a flash of him yesterday, hiding his smile behind his fist, and flush with a fresh wave of embarrassment.
Class starts and Webster brings Immy up to Miss Holloway’s desk to get the data uploaded. When he gets back he sets her down between us and scratches under the collar of his T-shirt—a plain black tee that has what appears to be a grass stain on the shoulder. Not his best look.
He pulls a pen out of the spiral of the notebook and taps the clicky-end against the desk, then tucks the pen behind his ear. He’s fidgety, eyeing everyone who walks past our desk like he’s expecting them to stop and chat him up. Like he’s just that irresistible. I roll my eyes and start reading ahead for fourth period English while I wait for Miss Holloway to finish the uploads.
It isn’t until the end of class, when everyone is packing up their stuff and restlessly staring at the clock like horses at a starting gate that he finally speaks to me.
“You’ve got Mr. MacDougal for history, right?”
“Yeah,” I say absently as I zip my bag up. “Why?”
“You ready for his test Friday?”
“Not yet. My Anatomy teacher is letting me make up the exam I missed, so I’ve been focused on that. You?”
“Yeah, not really. Actually...I was wondering if your offer to study together still stands?”
“Oh.” I pull my backpack onto my lap, hug it to my stomach. “Sure.”
“Cool. After school?”
“Okay.” I’m not sure what to make of this squirmy-snaky feeling that winds through my gut at the thought of him being in my house. “You want to come over around three thirty?”
The bell rings, and he gets up from his seat and nods. “It’s a date.”
I head to lunch in a haze, Webster’s last words rattling around in my head like loose change. My first instinct is to tell Reese about this—maybe she can talk some sense into me, keep me from obsessing over phrasing that’s obviously meaningless—but when I get to our table, she’s standing beside it.
“So, I was wondering if it’d be okay if I ate with Kevin today?”
“Oh.” My thumbnail flicks against the edge of my tray. My gaze slides to the back of the cafeteria, to the table where Kevin and Mike Chen and the rest of the jock guys who have lunch this period sit. Where she presumably sat yesterday. And that’s the thing—we have so much to talk about. I hate not knowing where we stand, but it’s like she doesn’t care if we’re on the outs. She hasn’t even asked why I wasn’t here yesterday—which must mean she’s already heard. Which almost makes it worse, because it was the shirt she bought me, and she doesn’t have a thing to say about me getting sent home for wearing it? “Yeah, that’s cool.”
“You can come. If you want.”
A lukewarm invitation if I’ve ever heard one. It’s pretty clear at this point that she’s choosing to put more space between us. “No, that’s okay. I have this Anatomy test to study for, anyway.”
“Okay.” Reese smiles weakly. “Well...see you later, then.”
“Yeah. Enjoy your lunch.”
I sit down, hard. Stare at my tray as she walks away. I pull my backpack up onto the seat next to me and root around for my Anatomy notebook, but the buzz of all the conversations going on around me seems so much louder than usual. I scan the caf and spot Veronica at one of the longer tables a few rows down. She’s sitting at the end of a group of basketball girls but doesn’t seem to be interacting with them much. It makes me wonder if she’s been sitting with the girls from her team by default, if she’s had any truly close friends in the years since her falling-out with Sam.
She’s got her head down, like she’s reading. And there’s an empty seat across from her.
I turn back to my empty table. I don’t have to stay here. It’s not like Reese is my only friend—she’s not the only one who can find other places to sit. Before I can think about it too much, I gather my stuff and walk over to Veronica, stopping across the table from her. “Hey.”
“What’s up?”
“Could I...?” I point down at the empty seat.
She nods and pulls her lunch bag closer to make room. “Go for it.”
“Thanks.” I lower my tray and bag before squeezing into the seat. I glance at the girls next to us—most of whom I’ve never said two words to. One smiles at me, but otherwise my presence pretty much goes unnoticed. I’m about to ask Veronica how the Anatomy exam went when Webster’s name floats up from the conversation her teammates are having. I listen harder as I pull my notebook out of my bag.
“So is he, like, a cross-dresser, too, now?” one of them asks.
An exceptionally tall girl everyone calls Wheels says, “He told Mike it was to prove a point. About how the school dress code is sexist.”
“Wait, what happened?” I glance between Veronica and the rest of the group.
“Apparently Webster Casey is quite a feminist,” a girl named Serena answers.
Veronica steps up to explain. “He came to school wearing a women’s blouse. They yanked him out of first period and made him change under the pretense that the shirt violated the dress code. Though...I feel like it’s more likely the teacher just didn’t want to deal with an uproar in class. Anyway. Even though we know why he wore it, some people—” her gaze cuts to that first girl who spoke “—are spreading rumors that it’s because Webster’s...”
“Because he’s...what?” I ask.
Veronica raises an eyebrow at the first girl, prompting her to finish the sentence. Under our scrutiny, the girl shifts uncomfortably. “You know...bi.”
“What does that have to do with it?” I ask, an edge in my voice now.
The rest of the table falls quiet. I get a sudden rush of sympathy for Webster—and something close to protectiveness. As far as I know, no one at school has been overtly shitty to him about his sexuality since he came out. But moments like this make it easy to understand why he waited to tell people, why he still doesn’t speak openly about it very often.
Veronica turns back to her lunch. “Exactly.”
The group goes back to talking amongst themselves, though the conversation immediately veers into unrelated territory. But I’m still fixated on the idea that Webster wore a girl’s shirt to school...and said nothing about it to me.
“So what happened to you yesterday?” Veronica asks before taking a bite of her sandwich.
“Um...” I send a sidelong glance at the rest of the girls. I don’t really want to draw their attention to something I’m probably reading way too much into anyway. Fortunately they seem pretty absorbed in their own conversation. “Yeah, so...I got sent home.” I lower my voice. “For violating the dress code. And...Webster may have witnessed it go down...”
Veronica cocks an eyebrow and stops chewing for a moment. She appears to be fighting off a smile.
I rush to set the story straight. “No, but—I don’t think this is about me. Like, I think he was just making a general protest. He probably would have done it no matter who got sent home.”
She stares at me for a beat, then swallows and picks off a piece of crust. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.”
“You think?”
She snorts. “No.”
It’s just a figure of speech.
That’s what I tell myself the rest of the day. Webster didn’t mean it’s a date-date. It’s just a thing that you say when you make plans with someone. Means nothing.
And yet, after school I take the time to change my clothes and clean my room, even though I have no intention of letting Webster see it. I tidy the living room and then brush my teeth, and then I get some toothpaste on my shirt, so I have to change again.
It might seem like I’m nervous, but that’s only because things have been going so well with Holland. And if they keep going well, I’ll be spending more and more time with Webster and his family. So it’s kind of important that he likes me. That things stay friendly between us, I mean.
I’m pouring a bag of microwave popcorn into a bowl when the doorbell rings. I take a deep breath and tell myself to CHILL THE FUCK OUT and then answer the door. And die a little bit inside. Because he’s wearing the New Year’s Eve shirt. Holland’s shirt that’s really Webster’s. The Janelle Monáe shirt. For some reason it bothers me, seeing him in the shirt Holland was wearing when we met. I can’t tell if he’s trolling me right now. But as soon as I think that, I feel ridiculous because it’s his shirt and he probably doesn’t even remember loaning it to Holland that night.
I swallow hard and open the door wider. “Is that all you brought?”
He looks down. He has a notebook in one hand and Immy’s carrier in the other. “Was I supposed to bring something else?”
“A textbook might have proved useful.”
He grins and hands me Immy before he steps past me. “I might have misplaced that. Figured you had yours.”
“I’m starting to understand why you need help prepping for the test.” I shut the door and deposit Immy in the living room before leading him into the kitchen. He plops down at one end of the table and I head for the fridge.
“You want anything to drink?”
“Water, please.”
I pour us each a glass and slide into the seat around the corner from his. He’s flipping through my flash cards.
“Yeah, so, I thought we could start with the flash cards, to figure out what areas we need to spend more time on?”
“Sounds good.”
He leans back in his chair, one hand still tapping his pencil against the table.
“Okay...” I pick up the first flash card. “Give me the main strategies of the New Deal.”
Webster offers up the right answer but becomes distracted after a few more questions. He tap tap taps the eraser against the table, starts using it like a mini hockey stick, flicking a kernel of popcorn back and forth across the place mat. I take his pencil away.
He slouches low in his chair. “Can we take a break?”
“You literally just got here.”
He grabs a handful of popcorn. “Here, open your mouth.”
...“No. Also, maybe don’t ever say that to me again.”
He grins and tosses a kernel in the air. He ducks to the side to try to catch it and misses.
“Oh my god, okay, can you focus for like fifteen more minutes? Then we can take a break.”
Webster (reluctantly) agrees and we get through a few more questions. He actually seems to be paying attention now, because he asks to clarify one of the bullet points I have written on my card.
I lean forward to scan the textbook between us. I flip back a few pages to the passage I’m thinking about. My finger traces the lines as I read them. “Okay, so this is the quote I pulled, so I think if you read this paragraph...”
I don’t realize how close we’re huddled together until I glance at Webster to make sure he’s paying attention and find he’s already looking at me. He blinks rapidly, like he’s coming out of a daze. Then pulls forward in his chair, eyes fixed on the open page.
“Okay, got it.” He turns to his notebook and jots down the information. The tops of his ears have turned bright pink. He resumes tapping his pencil eraser. “Hey, um... Did you tell Holland I was coming over here?”
I straighten my flash cards. “No, I haven’t talked to him yet today.”
Webster nods. “Just curious.”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad, though. That we’re friends now.”
Webster piles popcorn onto his napkin with an expression of distaste, like he just found a hair on one.
Don’t look so happy about it, Webster.
This is really bugging me, a sting inside my veins, and I hate myself for craving this validation, but...yeah. I’m gonna need him to back me up on this.
I fiddle with my pen, pushing the cap on and off with my thumb. “I mean. We are friends, right?”
“As long as your parents keep writing those checks.”
Right. Because of course Webster would only be seen with me if someone paid him. Of course.
“So funny,” I say in the driest voice possible. “Maybe I should let you study on your own from now on.”
He glances back up at me and his face relaxes, eases back into a smile. “Kidding. It’s just kind of sad you had to ask.”
At first it seems like there’s more he wants to say, but then he just tosses a kernel of popcorn in his mouth and gestures toward the flash cards. I ask the next question. The answer he gives doesn’t match what I have written down, so I read it out loud to him.
“No, that’s wrong. That happened in 1942. It was a completely different thing.”
...“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t,” I say.
“How much you wanna bet?”
“I’m not going to bet anything—”
“Because you know you’re wrong?”
“Oh my god. Fine. If I’m right, you have to write the final report on Immy.”
“And if I’m right, you have to take her the rest of the week.”
There’s a loaded pause, then we both reach for the textbook at the same time. Webster manages to wrestle it from my hands, spinning in his chair with the book in his lap so that it’s out of reach.
“Hey!”
He flips to the index and then fans through the pages. I tug on his shoulder. “Yes!”
I launch forward, practically climbing on top of the table to get a glimpse. “What? No. You’re such a cheater!”
“Unless you’re accusing the good people at—” he flips the book around so he can see the spine “—Heathrow Publishing House of lying, then you’ve got some babysitting to do.”
I finally manage to yank the book out of his grip and scan the answer. I smack the book down on the table. “I can’t believe you were right.” Or that I wrote down the wrong information on my flash card. What if more of them are wrong? I start flipping through the cards we haven’t covered yet.
“It does happen occasionally.” He seems so pleased—and I get the feeling it has more to do with him showing me he knew the right answer than the fact he won the bet.
I shove his shoulder, and he rests his elbows on the table, looking down at the textbook with pride.
“I feel like you’ve been hustling me,” I say.
He cocks an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty serious accusation.”
“Yeah, well, you like to keep people on their toes, don’t you? Hence your stunt at school this morning.”
He turns his head sharply. “You heard about that?”
“I think pretty much everyone heard about it,” I say. “And look, I know you didn’t do it for me, but...I still appreciate it. So thank you.”
“Sure.” A long moment passes before he adds, “For the record, it might have been a little bit for you.”
His voice is soft, the way he used to speak to me that first summer. I can’t help comparing his response to Holland’s, the way he laughed it off. This is the reaction I expected from someone who’s supposed to care about me.
Not that Webster cares about me. But still. I’m stupidly pleased by it—emphasis on the stupid, because I should know by now that Webster is quick to revoke his seal of approval.
I send him a small smile and say, “It meant a lot. Especially considering not many people seemed to get it. Even Reese.”
He frowns. “You two fighting or something?”
“Sort of. Yeah.”
“Sorry to hear that. I know how important she is to you.”
“Thanks.” I stifle another pang of missing Reese by focusing on my notes. But the harder I try not to think about our fight, the more I end up dissecting every second of it, until I feel sick to my stomach.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Webster asks after a moment.
“It’s a long story...” I shrug and meet his gaze, expecting him to move on. But instead he leans back in his chair, eyebrows raised like he’s ready to listen. “Okay, you swear you won’t give me a hard time about being a nerd?”
Webster considers this for a moment. Then, with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he shakes his head. “No, I can’t make that promise.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Well, have you ever heard of Bayes’ rule?”
He tells me he hasn’t, so I break down the theorem for him, giving him the gambling example to help paint a picture. And then I tell him how I’ve tried to apply it to my own life, how it allowed me to take my emotions out of decisions.
When I’m done, Webster shoots me a skeptical look. “And how’s that working out for you?”
“I’d say the results have been mixed.” I wrinkle my nose. “I know it probably doesn’t make a lot of sense, but...it has helped a little.” I hesitate before continuing. “After everything that went down between us last year, plus everything leading up to my parents separating, I was kind of...closed off. Thinking about new experiences in the context of Bayes’ rule made me more open to trying things. It didn’t matter how things turned out anymore, because the point was just to find out.”
Webster nods slowly. “That does make sense, actually.”
I fiddle with a popcorn kernel. “I guess I kind of started using it as a crutch, though. I kept this list. Of like...evidence, I guess you could call it. Fights my mom and dad had, that kind of thing. And even though it totally went against Bayesian thinking, I’d use these examples to avoid doing the real work. To just...reinforce the beliefs I had about relationships instead of actually acknowledging my own feelings.”
Webster is quiet for a long moment, and I become very aware of how much emotional baggage I just dumped on him. Just as I start to worry I’ve rendered him speechless, he leans forward and braces his forearms against the table. “I did something sort of similar back in middle school, when I first started to realize I was bi. Like...any time I was attracted to a guy or masc nonbinary person, I started wondering if maybe I was kidding myself. Maybe I’m just gay. But then if I was into some girl, I’d think, maybe this is who I really am. Maybe I was just confused before, and I’m actually straight.” His teeth catch on his bottom lip and he looks up at me. “I went back and forth a bunch of times before finally accepting the fact that you can’t help who you fall for.”
His voice has gone sort of soft, and it makes something in my chest squeeze tighter. It’s been so long since we talked like this—totally openly, like we could trust each other. And god, I missed it.
“But yeah, combine that with my parents splitting up, and I definitely get why you’d try to find answers in a textbook.” He shoots me a quick, crooked smile. “So—coming full circle, what does this have to do with your fight with Reese?”
“Oh.” I clear my throat and wrinkle my nose. “So, the other night I was just kind of worked up about—” your cousin “—something. And I added the names of all of Reese’s ex-boyfriends to that list, to try to...I don’t even know what. Anyway, she saw it, along with some stuff I’d written about her and Kevin...” I glance up at Webster again, who makes a yikes face. “Yeah. So. Can’t really blame her for being mad at me.”
“Well...everyone makes mistakes.” Webster’s elbows slide across the table, closer to me. “Even healthy relationships take work, right?”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
Here’s a thing I try really hard to ignore but never can: Webster smells sofuckinggood. Citrusy and fresh. I want to go get my pillow and rub it all over him so I can breathe it in as I fall asleep tonight.
My eyes flicker down to his throat. He swallows.
If he reaches for the flash cards again, this is all in your head.
I thought I knew how Webster saw me. I thought I was still just...his neighbor, his cousin’s girlfriend, someone he used to be friends with and might be friends with again someday. But my level of confidence is shifting wildly because...I don’t know how to explain the way he’s looking at me. Why his gaze is now set on my mouth. And I’m grasping for some other theory, anything besides the most obvious one, because Webster can’t have feelings for me.
I’m not thinking straight. I’m just... My heart is pounding, and it’s creating these little flutters, this energy that shoots straight down to my fingers. Makes them itch. Makes them do things they’re not supposed to. Things like picking at the corner of Web’s notebook. And then he’s tracing the veins on my wrist, and it’s happening so fast, his eyes flickering to meet mine, head tilting like a question—
A not-quite-human wail sounds from the living room. Both of us jump, Webster pushing all the way to his feet. The skin on my wrist tingles. I flex my fingers.
“That’s Immy,” he says. “I should... I’m going to deal with that. Her.”
“Right, yeah. Good.” I straighten the index cards, pencil poised above my notebook even though the words are all scrambled together right now.
I can hear Webster in the living room, rifling through Immy’s carrier. Apparently he’s forgotten all about his bet, how I’m supposed to take care of her now. The screaming stops. I glance over my shoulder to find Webster holding her bottle to her mouth.
He meets my gaze and then glances back down at Immy, his brows pinched together. “I should probably head home. In case she starts crying again.”
“Oh.” Relief crashes through me, but it’s tinged with something bitter. Disappointment. I focus on Immy, the way Webster’s bouncing her like he has too much adrenaline to stand still. “Okay...”
“Thanks for the help.”
“Totally. No problem.”
He grabs his notebook and backs up toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”
Once the door shuts behind him, I close my eyes and let out a long breath. The silence he’s left behind throbs in my ears. I don’t know what happened—or almost happened—between Webster and me. But I’m left with the heaviness of guilt, and a feeling like I owe that creepy little doll for interrupting when she did.