Unexpected Variables Arise
Tuesday promises to be another day of mathematical misery, evidenced by the fact Isaiah is once again nowhere to be seen when I arrive at Café Camelot.
Mrs. Hess is behind the counter messing with the broken register. She cranes her neck to smile at me. “I didn’t get Isaiah’s message until after my meeting,” she says in that soft voice people use for little kids and skittish pets. “But I’m so proud of you for taking care of everything.”
This is code for: Congratulations on not running and hiding somewhere nobody could find you.
Or maybe: I’m so relieved nothing burned down in my absence.
Other than my self-esteem. But that’s not important.
I respond with a silent, half-hearted shrug. “Is Isaiah late again?” I peer around the concession stand for any sign of my perpetually tardy coworker.
And it hits me:
Shit, I forgot to ask Mom about picking him up. I’m the worst.
“He’s here somewhere,” Mrs. Hess says, frowning at the register. “I need to submit an announcement that we’re looking for more volunteers.”
Mrs. Hess’s daily obligations are enough for three people; she’s never gonna have time to add this on, no matter how obvious it is we’re short staffed. So I resign myself to this being my life from now on. Or until I graduate, at least.
Kadarius is first in line as usual, accompanied this morning by a girl I recognize by sight but not name. I call her Monochrome Barbie ‘cause she’s allergic to color. She's got unnaturally white skin that makes me wonder if she uses body paint, straight black hair, and she only wears different shades of black.
She leans across the counter to peer at the burbling coffeemaker behind me. “Did I hear you need more cashiers?”
“Maybe,” I say cautiously. I’m unwilling to get my hopes up about having anyone share in my cafe crises. “What can I get you?”
“A regular coffee, please,” she says. “And, listen, where do I sign up? I work at my uncle’s restaurant over the summer. I’m pretty good with a register.”
I cast an inquiring look at Mrs. Hess, but she’s taking Kadarius’s order, so I reluctantly turn back to Miss Edgy. “Um. Lemme see if I can find the forms."
The problem is, I know they exist but I have no idea where Mrs. Hess keeps them, so I have to basically go on a makeshift scavenger hunt, pushing aside boxes of tea, stacks of washcloths, and rolls of wax paper. No sign of the forms. I’m not even sure if they’re anywhere in the concession stand, or if they’re on the rolling table Mrs. Hess uses in lieu of a permanent classroom and which stays in the teacher's lounge while she supervises the worst ever coffee shop AU.
“Devin?” Mrs. Hess asks when Kadarius has stepped to the side with his coffee. “What are you looking for?”
I gesture toward Monochrome Barbie. “We have a volunteer barista. I need the applications.”
“Give me a minute,” Mrs. Hess says. She bustles out of the cafe, leaving me alone with the line of customers I wish I could ignore.
“Siri, what the fuck?” Kadarius demands from his place against the wall. “You’re not seriously gonna apply. Who’s gonna drive you?”
“Umm. You are, sweetie,” Siri answers as she digs through her wallet for coins. “I know you come here every day to rack up those loyalty reward points. It won’t add that much time to swing by my place on your way.”
I’m pouring a coffee for the next person in line, but I still interject, “We don’t have loyalty reward points.” Unless this is some new initiative nobody’s bothered to fill me in on, in which case uh…Oops?
“Aw, no kidding? You don’t? Wow. I figured you must for Roachie to come here so religiously.” Her tone suggests strongly that I’m missing something obvious, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is.
Kadarius can, though, because he says through gritted teeth, “Siri, shut up.”
Now I really wanna know what the subtext is. Opportunities for me to razz Kadarius for a change come along basically never, after all. Too bad wanting to understand doesn't make me any better at actually understanding.
Even more unfortunately, the bickering between Kadarius and Siri has already distracted me so much that the line has quadrupled. "Uhhhh," I say to the customer behind Siri. "What do you want?" And because that sounds a little too confrontational for the whole customer service thing I'm supposed to be doing I add, "To order."
There's barely a dent in the line when Mrs. Hess returns. She's carrying a stack of papers and a little cup full of pens decorated with plastic orange leaves even though it isn’t fall yet. She hands one to Siri, along with an application, and places the others on the counter beside the creamers before the intercom comes on and calls her to the front office to field a parental phone call.
Siri places her application against the wall, which I know from personal experience makes a less than ideal writing surface. When she hands me her application, it has a familiar crumpled up quality, and it hasn’t even lived in her backpack. I feel a momentary spark of kinship; it’s nice to not be the only person who has that effect on papers.
In the name field she’s printed Alexa Sanchez.
“Time to bail out before I commit murder.” Kadarius jerks his head toward a group of kids strolling straight past the line like it doesn’t exist.
Siri follows his gaze and groans.
It’s Shuvam Adhikiri, along with the crew from the Knightly News. Including Micah who, to my horror, is holding a microphone.
Did Micah seriously drag Shuvam here to watch me flounder at the register? This is not gonna make asking him to Homecoming easier.
Siri glares at the Knightly News crew like she’s contemplating what curse to put on them. “I hope a virus eats your camera,” she says before stalking off after Kadarius, who is retreating remarkably fast for someone with a mobility disability.
“Love you, too, Alexa,” Micah yells after her.
“Are you ordering something?” I ask, eyeing his microphone warily.
He waves me off with a cheerful smile. “No, no. Don’t mind me. I’m only here to facilitate.”
Facilitate what? And why does it involve cameras? Don’t they have to ask permission to film their weird news crew shit? Of course, I don't ask any of that. Instead I stupidly attempt to reason with him, as if that's ever possible where gifted kids are involved.
“But we have customers."
"Don't worry," Micah says, not looking at all alarmed by the fact that he's getting between about a hundred sleepy teenagers and their caffeine. "This shouldn't take long."
Café Camelot is destined to always have customer-vexing problems. Or vexing customer problems.
There’s complaints from the line of customers as the camerawoman gets the cameras set up. Once she’s done, Micah sweeps one arm to take in the whole of the café without looking around and announces, “The Nesbit High Knights keep alive the knightly traditions of chivalry and romance.”
Shuvam leans against the counter. Sweat plasters my hair against my forehead and drips down my face. Why is Shuvam here and not at a safe distance where I can admire him without interaction? And why are there cameras pointed at me? This isn't practice at Jayla's.
“Can I order a cinnamon roll?” He asks. His eyes bore into me, which would be a great opportunity to learn what color they are if my brain was capable of processing anything with him this close.
My mouth is dry. Fantasizing about talking to a crush is such a different experience from actually speaking to him, and I’m not sure I like it. “Sure, how many?”
“One is all I need,” he says. “Just one, for Homecoming.”
“It’ll be stale by then. Unless," I say, realization slowly dawning through the molasses that's my brain. "You're trying to pre-order? You know we don't do that here, right? Try the Publix bakery.”
Shuvam runs a hand through his hair. “Figurative cinnamon rolls don’t get stale,” he says.
“I’m not familiar with that brand,” I say automatically, because only my stupid brain would hear someone use the word figurative and still find a way to interpret it literally.
Micah stage whispers from behind Shuvam. “He’s asking you to Homecoming.”
This isn’t real. Because if it were real, it would suggest I have the ability to manifest romantic daydreams by thinking about them. I’m no scientist, but I’m confident this isn’t possible.
I mentally run through other, more likely possibilities:
This is a sick practical joke–which I’d believe if this were anyone but Shuvam.
I’m asleep. Or—I’ve got it— Myrick or my parents really did murder me and I get a weird heaven-hell hybrid. A little coffee shop torture here, a little crush paradise there.
Or this is real and my crush is actually asking me to Homecoming. A possibility I’m not remotely prepared for.
An uncomfortable tingling sensation spreads from my brain to my cheeks all the way to my fingers and toes. “Uhhhhhhhhh.”
“Unless you don’t want to,” Shuvam says.
“No!” I say quickly, and then, “I mean yes! I mean. I do. Wanna.”
"Great," Shuvam says, smiling in a way that makes me feel even more lightheaded. "I look forward to it."
Only when the news crew leaves do I realize. Shit. They were filming that. And if they were filming that means one thing:
Unless I intervene, it’s only a matter of time before my crush-induced paralysis shows up on the morning announcement.
But there’s nothing I can do about videos at the moment. Because I go straight from coffeeshop thralldom to Algebra II, where I throw my binder onto my desk and thumb through dog-eared papers, searching for the offering I wasted all my time on yesterday.
Dread rises as it fails to materialize. Frantically pulling all the papers out of my math folder one by one only solidifies reality: It’s not there.
I shuffle through the folders for my non-Algebra subjects with increasing desperation. It wasn’t in the right folder; it’s not in the wrong folder, either.
I smooth out crumpled papers jammed haphazardly in my binder to see if one of them is the missing note. There’s a reminder about immunization requirements, two order forms–Yearbook and Letter Jackets–and a flier for Curriculum Night, which was last week. There’s no apology note.
I cast my mind to yesterday, trying to recall what I did after I finished it. Is it in my backpack–and thus in my locker? Did it even make it into my backpack in the first place? Did I leave it on my bed? I think I left it on my bed.
I’m still willing the apology note to magically transfer from my home to the classroom when Myrick calls my name.
“I believe you have something for me,” he says when I slouch over to his desk.
The only thing that keeps me from screaming is aggressively chewing on my sleeve.
Mr. Myrick folds his hands on his desk and I feel my brain being sucked out of my eyeballs and devoured by his stare. “It’s at home," I mumble through a mouthful of hoodie.
Mr. Myrick closes his eyes. “Mr. Westberry,” he says after an agonizing silence. “Are you always this irresponsible?”
I chew my sleeve harder. The correct answer is ‘yes, and it’s even worse when I’m unmedicated’, but I have a sneaking feeling that this is also the incorrect answer. It’s safer to say nothing.
Besides, if I try to speak, I’m gonna cry instead, and that would be humiliating. More than the rest of this already is. Juniors in high school aren’t supposed to cry because their teacher chewed them out over homework.
“You’re not going to pass my class with this kind of work ethic,” Myrick warns me.
I wasn’t under any misguided belief I was going to pass, but thanks for rubbing it in. Personally, I think we should skip the part where I attempt math and he can give me a failing grade for the whole year. It would save us both a lot of tears. Assuming Mr. Myrick cries while grading my work. Maybe he cackles gleefully at the chance to point out everything I fucked up.
But I don’t dare suggest this. Instead, I remove my sleeve from my mouth and glare at my shoes. One of my laces is untied. “Yes, sir,” I mumble.
Speaking of gleefully pointing out everything I fucked up, Myrick already has our quizzes graded. And there’s no mistaking the sigh he emits when he reaches my desk.
I glimpse enough red to give me an idea of what to expect, so I shove it into my binder without looking closer. There’s not much difference between one failing grade and another. They’re all not good enough.
When I get to American Lit, I make a beeline toward Micah. He's actually got his class supplies all lined up on his desk ready to work, but I've got more important things on my mind than school projects.
"Micah! Don't you need permission to film people?"
He has the audacity to look confused. "Huh?"
"This morning!" I whisper, looming over him. "You and your TV crew filmed me and you didn't even ask if I was okay with it!"
"Oh, right," Micah says, grinning up at me. "But we did have your permission. Leo always checks the records before we film someone new."
"I think I'd remember you asking if you could film me 'cause I would have definitely said no."
Infuriatingly, Micah laughs. "You signed the permission slip that says you can be photographed and filmed, didn't you?"
My outrage turns inward as I absorb this. Did I? Shit. I signed so many papers before Open House and honestly I didn't bother reading most of them 'cause it's usually stuff like I promise to not bring guns onto campus and I won't snort cocaine in the school bathrooms. You know, reasonable things.
Micah places his copy of of Mice and Men in front of him, but I refuse to be deterred. “You’re not gonna show this morning on the announcements, right?” I ask.
“At some point," he answers. "We’re filming different Promposals so we can run HoCo ads up through Spirit Week."
"It can't be a Promposal. Shuvam didn't ask me to Prom," I say.
"Homeposal doesn't have the same ring to it," Micah says.
"Okay, well, whatever you call it," I begin, but Ms. Torres approaches us at that moment, forcing me to temporarily abandon my quest.
My next opportunity to convince Micah to destroy the video comes unexpectedly during lunch when he decides to sit with me and Jayla instead of whichever table the pack of wild theater kids normally occupy. Maybe none of them have B lunch.
Jayla waves us over. “Oh my god, Micah! It's been forever!"
She leaps to her feet and hugs him while I give her my best what-the-hell look because, seriously. What. The. Hell? Where do Jayla and Micah know one another and why is this the first time I’ve heard about it?
“Kadarius didn’t tell you?” Micah asks, fiddling with his chocolate milk.
“You’re friends with Kadarius?” It’s not the question I want to ask Micah, but it slips out anyway. It’s just so difficult to imagine Kadarius befriending Micah. What do they have in common, other than being smart? And, I guess, being gay. Which I know from personal experience does not mean you get along.
“Were. Sort of,” Micah says, pushing his hair out of his face only for it to fall over his eyes again as soon as he leans forward.
“What d’you mean sort-of?” Jayla demands. “He went to every one of your shows. I know for a fact he gave you rides to auditions before you got that rusty piece of shit you call a car.”
Micah peels the top off a lunchable. “Yeah, well, things change. Trust me, it wasn’t my idea.”
“That tells me nothing,” Jayla says. “What happened?”
Micah shrugs. “He wanted to be exclusive. I told him from the start I don’t do monogamy, but he still acted like it was this big betrayal that I got together with other guys.”
Well, that’s more than I wanted to know about either one of them. It also reinforces the idea Nesbit High has a secret underground gay network nobody told me about. Look, I know I keep to myself, but did nobody think I’d be interested to know about this? It can’t be because I don’t go to GSA, because Kadarius doesn’t go, either. Maybe none of them want me to know. Am I that annoying? Am I more annoying than Micah? Because it’s shocking to realize that not only am I an outlier in not kissing, but also Micah and Kadarius were kissing each other.
And Micah has kissed multiple people. Micah. How? How has anyone wanted to kiss him, let alone multiple anyones? This is the most time I’ve ever spent with him and I’m hella done.
But I guess if you’re kissing him he can’t talk, and if he wasn’t talking he’d be more tolerable.
“He’s a good kisser,” Micah adds, as an unwelcome afterthought. “Definitely better than Danny.”
My cheeks get all prickly. Is this embarrassment or the heat of a midday August in Georgia? “Can we talk about something else?” I beg, covering my face with my hands just in case it’s embarrassment that’s making me so hot and itchy.
“Feeling left out?” Micah nudges me and I lean away.
“No,” I lie. But it won’t be a lie for long; now that Shuvam and I are going to Homecoming, kissing is just around the corner.
“Too bad,” he says. “I was gonna offer to include you.”
Everything about this conversation is mortifying. First, Micah films Shuvam asking me to Homecoming. Now he’s suggesting I kiss him and not my date? What is up with this guy? We seriously don’t live in the same universe.
Jayla sips her drink before nudging me. “So. How’d the two of you meet, anyway? I know you’re too allergic to touching people to be one of Micah’s boy toys, Dev, so spill. What’s the deal?”
My mouth is full of turkey but I still manage a more or less comprehensible “Huh?” And also, ew, Jayla.
“We’re both in Ms. Torres’ second period,” Micah explains, but he doesn’t stop there. “I forgot to fill out the form for AP Lit, so I’m stuck in the regular class this year. I’m so bored already. Remind me not to make this mistake next year.”
Its physically impossible for a gifted kid to pass up the opportunity to remind everyone else they’re gifted.
“Unfair. How come you get Ms. Torres?” Jayla asks. “I’m stuck with goofy old Mrs. Higgs."
There’s a lull in the conversation as we all drink from our respective sources of hydration. My water doesn’t wash away the disturbing images this new information has afflicted me with.
At last, I find my voice before the others, and manage to both change the subject away from Micah and Kadarius’s love lives and also bring up the one topic I need to discuss with Micah. “So...the video..." I begin.
Jayla lunges across the table at Micah with an expression that can only be described as deranged. "You have the video?"
The school rumor mill has apparently already informed her of my colossal cafe embarrassment so of course she wants to see proof for herself. Real great best friend behavior right here.
Instead of acknowledging that I asked first, Micah places his phone in her hands. I slide myself as far down the bench as I can go without entirely ending up on the ground–my legs are a hazard to everyone walking around our table now, but I don’t care.
“Kill me,” I beg as the sound of my confusion plays from Micah’s phone.
“If I kill you, how will we place at regionals?” Jayla wags her Celsius in my face. “And man up. Your crush wants to go to Homecoming with you and you’re whining about us getting video proof.”
She replays the video, resting her chin in her hand. “Can I post a copy of this on my vlog?”
If my mouth would cooperate, I’d tell her hell no, absolutely not, don’t you dare. But my mouth decides this is the perfect moment to malfunction, so my only option is to stare incredulously while I attempt to kick her under the table. She kicks me back, but doesn’t say anything.
“Sure, no prob” Micah says. “Don’t forget to add the hashtag NesbitKnightsHoco2023. Riley is running our social medias and she’ll keep an eye on the tag so she can spotlight anyone using it.”
Oh, sure, that’s what I want. Everyone at school to know my socials.
“Cool, thanks,” Jayla says, because she does, in fact, want everyone at school to know her socials. And to follow her. Like and subscribe for more great dance content!
If only she’d keep her content relegated to dance.
The bus ride doesn’t improve my mood. Jackson parks his butt next to me on the bus for the first time since elementary school. “So. Shuvam,” he says with an unflattering amount of incredulity. “He asked you? Did someone put him up to it?”
“Why would someone put him up to it?” I demand, shrinking into the side of the bus. “Is it impossible to think someone would want to go with me?”
“I dunno, Dev. It’s a little sus. That’s all.”
“Did you sit here just so you could insult me?” I ask irritably.
“I’m not insulting you. I’m insulting Shuvam,” Jackson says. “Just so you know, if he hurts you I’ll punch him.”
This from the guy who is the world’s worst boyfriend. Which I don’t say because the world’s worst boyfriend is also my little brother.
“Shuvam’s not gonna–” I begin, but my objection is interrupted by the arrival of Chloe.
“Hey, babe,” Jackson says, stepping in the aisle and wrapping an arm around her waist.
With a roll of my eyes I settle back into my seat. Jackson should worry about his own relationship; my heart isn’t the one that’s in danger of being broken.
By the time I arrive home, my emotions are a jumbled up mixture of excitement for Homecoming, frustration at Micah and Jayla for their lack of boundaries and at Jackson for his cynicism, and dread of whatever message Myrick has sent my parents.
And he’s definitely sent them something, because Dad greets me with, “You’d better be thinking about spending your free time catching up on missing assignments before you run off with Jayla today.”
“But regionals–”
“Are less important than school,” he says. You would think he’d never been a dancer himself. He should know exactly how important these are. Comps are only six months away. We need to have our routine perfect.
Jackson is already in the living room with his homework spread out in front of him. To annoy me, obviously.
I fling my backpack onto the floor with a groan. “Why are parents so mean?” I complain as I pat Purrome, who immediately gets up and moves out of reach because everyone in my life is a traitor.
“It’s less stressful to just do it,” Jackson says without looking up from his laptop. “Get it done and you won’t have it hanging over you.”
Do I look like I want life advice from my little brother? I get enough of it from everyone else.
“I know. Sheesh,” I huff as I open my laptop. The cursor hovers over ClassLink. I hesitate. Has Jayla posted that video yet? It won’t hurt if I just take a quick peek at her YouTube channel.
And yep, she’s posted it.
I send her a quick text. Take it down right now or else
Her response arrives immediately. Or else what?
IDK I won’t dance with you
LOL
Don’t LOL me I mean it
Dad clears his throat as he passes through the living room with a load of laundry. I drop my phone and look at ClassLink.
“Dinner’s ready,” he says. “Are we all done with homework?”
Jackson is, because he sucks. But I haven’t even started. It’s not my fault! My best friend betraying me is kind of more important.
But Dad doesn’t know and I’m not filling him in, so he launches into his standard lecture on time management. The lecture drones on as we make our way to the kitchen table.
I nudge my asparagus with my fork, tuning him out. He’s given this exact speech five hundred times in the past week alone, so listening is unnecessary.
My parents talk big about time management. It’s their favorite thing to criticize me on, after grades. And organization. And making friends.
Like when I need materials for a project and they get all pissy that the due date is in eight hours.
Or when they find out I wrote an essay in the hallway between classes the day it was due instead of being proud I finished it and got it turned in without marks off for lateness.
They don’t appreciate how responsible I am. What if I just didn’t do it at all?
It’s obviously important to them, this planning ahead stuff. When it’s me, I mean. If they leave things until the last minute, that’s fine. But if I don’t give advance warning of what I want then I’m in the wrong.
Too bad even I don’t always have advanced warning of what I want.
Hell, if it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have known whether I wanted to go to Homecoming for real or if I’d prefer it stay a nice, un-ruinable fantasy until the day of.
So I’m grateful Shuvam asked, even if I’m annoyed at Micah and Jayla for turning it into a huge deal. And even if Shuvam did, you know, ask in front of a film crew instead of objecting to the complete lack of privacy.
And maybe the whole thing where I said yes to Homecoming without having a ticket is one of those things my parents want advance warning about.
This thought prompts me to interrupt Dad’s lecture with, “You know Homecoming is in a month?”
“And what does that have to do with Algebra?” Mom taps her fork against the plate in a way that signals danger if my clarification fails to satisfy her.
“Soooooo can I have money for tickets?” Look at me asking in advance. This has to be a point in my favor given the fact they’ve just chewed me out for time management.
Instead of looking pleased at my forethought, Mom continues her ominous tapping. “Seriously, Devin? Why should we let you go?”
“Because it’s Homecoming,” I say, hoping they don't bring up the fact I've never in my life cared about a school event before today. "You and dad are always telling me to be more social. Plus I kind of have a date.”
“Your dad and I aren’t buying a ticket if you can’t pass math.” Mom’s tone has an edge to it. “Maybe this will be the motivation you need to start finishing your homework on time.”
My elation at Homecoming evaporates in an instant. Everyone at school is gonna see that stupid video and I’m not even gonna get the benefit of going to the damn dance. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s this: There’s no effing way I can improve my math grades before homecoming.