Can I Measure Up?
As much as I would love for Mom to notice I'm sulking over being denied Homecoming, the truth is I never talk on the way to school so there's really nothing different about this morning. Mom cusses out other drivers and I sit in silence and ruminate about how my life is full of traitors.
When she pulls up to the curb I exit the car with far less speed and grace than I'd like. Look, backpacks are encumbersome.
“Have a good day!” Mom calls after me.
I slam the door without answering. How can she expect me to have a good day when she and Dad are being unreasonable about Homecoming and my best friend literally betrayed me yesterday?
My mood is not improved when I approach Café Camelot and discover Isaiah is once again not there. Which reminds me I once again forgot to ask Mom about picking him up. Of course, given how last night went, I can’t imagine asking would have gone well. But also: Dammit.
Given that I'm the lone barista, I’m not equipped to take large orders, which is why the Knightly News crew sends Leo to pick up an entire box of cinnamon rolls and six coffees, and Riley Aguilar shows up wanting a box of cinnamon rolls for the theater kids. What do I look like, Krispy Kreme?
Leo checks his phone, slips it into his pocket, pulls it out to look again. “C’mon, I wanna get these to the Knightly News crew before our meeting ends.”
I pluck a dime out of the register with exaggerated care. If he thinks he’s gonna rush me and get me to fuck up his change, he’s wrong. “Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two…”
He rolls his eyes. “Maybe you should hire more people,” he suggests. “Like someone who can count?”
He's not wrong but that only makes it worse. "You could always apply," I say, knowing perfectly well he has other morning obligations. Sure, I could tell him about Monochrome Barbie applying, but I don't even know when she's supposed to start. Apparently not today.
He snatches his coffees from the counter like he’s afraid lingering any longer will put him in danger of immediate work. “Yeah, no.”
Isaiah ducks through the concession stand door not a second later. “Sorry ‘bout that. My mom called to give me a whole ass lecture for leaving homework in her car.”
"Yeahhhhh," I say knowingly. "My parents are giving me shit about math and homework, too. They're holding homecoming hostage until my grades suck less."
Isaiah whistles. "That's bullshit, man. That's the kinda shit makes me wanna say fuck it and not try anymore."
“Yeah, well,” I say, ringing up the next customer in line. “I wanna go so if you see me studying that’s why.”
It’s been years since I bothered writing notes in math, but this is the era of new, responsible Devin so I’m making an attempt.
Note I said attempt. Because hearing what Myrick is saying, understanding what it means, and writing it down? That’s two too many tasks.
His words whoosh past me while I’m still jotting down information from five minutes ago. Once I’m ready to listen again, he’s moved so far past my notes that I’m Hansel-and-Gretel levels of lost.
Since I can’t rewind Myrick’s lecture, using my pencil for its intended use is now futile. Instead, I alternately chew the end and tap it against my desk to the rhythm of the song stuck in my head.
Forget asking him to repeat himself. I already know the answer: Devin, why weren’t you paying attention the first time?
Class ends with my pencil disfigured by teeth marks, my notes useless, and regrets about my decision to be responsible already festering within.
But do I make it to the door without Myrick making my day worse? Of course not. He calls me over, and resignation carries me away from escape and toward the master of my math doom.
“Do you have your note?”
My insides turn hollow. The Homecoming bullshit completely obliterated it from my mind.
My silence is answer enough. He presses his fingertips together. “Mr. Westberry. Are you trying to fail?”
“No.” I shift my weight, standing on the side of one foot and wishing he would let me escape. If I’m late to another class, I’ll be paying a visit to the school resource officer, and that’s not gonna convince my parents I’m responsible.
His sigh high key says everything. ““I’m not seeing much proof you want to pass,” he says. Guess he missed the brief bout of note taking today. “But if you schedule a meeting with me we can go over that last quiz and you can demonstrate you care.”
“Like, a video meeting?” I ask from behind the safety of my sleeves. That’s how school meetings are usually held, but sometimes you get a phone call, instead. I’m not sure which one I’d like least.
Myrick strokes his beard. “I think it’s best if we have this one in person.”
That’s the option I’d like least.
“You do know how to schedule a meeting with me, yes?” Myrick asks. When I don’t answer he presses his palm against his forehead. “You know how to get to the class’s Teams?”
I nod.
“You can find my Calendly linked there. If you need help perhaps one of your parents–”
“Okay.” I only realize I’ve cut him off after the words leave my mouth. This is another reason the chewing is a necessity. Can’t speak if my mouth is full. Because when I speak I always regret it.
Muted conversation drifts from the otherside of the room as Myrick’s second period class begins filing in.
Myrick glances behind me. “Go to your next class,” he says. "And please remember to schedule a meeting unless you'd like to fail."
ELA doesn’t go better than math. Micah and I still haven’t finished our project, but he's decided to become Jayla's social media manager except he thinks this somehow also involves me. Which means instead of talking about Lennie and loneliness, he talks about his genius ideas for how to go viral.
"I don't care what you and Jayla do," I tell him after he's gushed about the gazillionth grand idea. "As long as you leave me out of it."
"But it's your channel, too," Micah says, and he sounds so earnest I'm worried he really believes that.
"Uh. No. It's all Jayla, I promise," I assure him.
But he can’t be directed back to our project. I’m a little jealous, to be honest. Not that he’s easily distracted because I have that down, but that he’s easily distracted and still makes good grades.
Wish I had that super power.
Speaking of Jayla, when I arrive at lunch she’s already filming.
If I were a braver man, I’d flag down one of the teachers who are theoretically supposed to be watching us. Because unless you're the crew of the Knightly News filming is against the rules in a major way. As in, goodbye phone, hello week long suspension against the rules.
But I’m not brave, and I’m also unwilling to get Jayla in that much trouble. Yeah, she’s being obnoxious, but that would be the worst kind of treachery. I mean, she is my only friend, even if she did post that stupid video on her vlog.
“Hello, Jaylings!” she says, scanning our group with her phone. “I’m giving you a little glimpse of my life outside of dance. Say hi to my boys.”
“That makes it sound like you’re gonna suffocate us and pin us to a display case,” I tell her. If only I wasn’t the tallest person at this table; I’d love to use someone else as a shield right now. I do the next best thing: I pull my hoodie as tight as possible, so nobody can see my face.
Jayla lowers her phone. “Kadarius is the one with the death obsession. Don’t be weird. Anyway, if y’all were dead, you couldn’t help me with my vlog.”
I hold my water bottle in front of my face when she points her phone at me. “I’m not the one filming people eating. And I don’t post embarrassing videos of you online.”
“It was cute,” Jayla insists. “People liked it. We already have ten new followers.”
“I don't care how many subscribers my humiliation gets you. Can’t you memory hole it for me?”
Jayla gives me an exaggerated pout. “Don’t you want our vlog to be a success?”
“Your vlog about dance doesn’t need videos of my failure love life,” I tell her. “And I–”
“As my dance partner, you’re an integral part of Take a Dance on Me,” she interrupts. “And people like that kinda shit. Romance sells.”
What she doesn’t say is ‘and so do videos of people looking stupid.’ which is the real reason that video is doing numbers.
In case it wasn’t annoying enough that I have to hear about Jayla’s socmed obsession during lunch, she and Micah corners me at my locker at the end of school.
“Micah had a great idea,” she says with an enthusiasm I just know means I’m going to hate whatever comes next.
I busy myself with trying to remember my locker combination. It’s not like she needs me to answer, anyway. I know she’ll tell me whether I want to know or not.
“The three of us should get together after school. I was thinking my house so Micah and Kadarius can make up.”
“Make up?” Micah says with a laugh. “More like make out.”
That earns fake vomiting from me.
Micah laughs. “Don’t be like that. I’ll bet you’ve made out with Kadarius loads of times.”
“If by loads you mean zero,” I say as I finally get my locker open.
“Zero?” Micah doesn’t sound like he believes this at all. “No way. The two of you didn’t immediately go, hey, you’re gay, I’m gay, we should make out and see what the deal is?”
“He’s Jayla’s older brother.”
“So what?” Micah asks. “I’ll bet Jayla wouldn’t care. Would you, Jayla?”
Jayla shrugs. “If I didn’t know Devin was allergic to touching people outside of dance, I’d’ve assumed they made out at least once, too, to be honest.”
This is such a horrifying statement that I slam my locker shut instead of closing it gently. “What?”
“The two of you are always weird around each other,” she says, like that explains anything.
“Seriously, Jayla, do you think it’s a good idea to invite Micah over without warning Kadarius first?”
“Chill, Dev,” Jayla says. “Kadarius is a big boy. He can handle seeing his ex.”
If his ex is going to suggest making out I’m not so sure. But it’s hard enough arguing with Jayla under ordinary circumstances; now that she has Micah to back her up there’s no way I’m going to win.
If I’m going to avoid seeing Micah at her house, I’ll just have to be busy on the days she invites him over.
I’m so done with trying to be a good student by the time I get home that I decide I deserve a break and head to Jayla’s house. Some dance practice will give me the dopamine I need to survive.
The Deloaches live in the same neighborhood as my family, but in a different subdivision. We live near the back entrance; they live near the front. The only sidewalk is along the main street, and people returning home from work drive as if speed limits are a foreign concept, so the walk can be a little harrowing at times.
The suffocating humidity and the weight of both my dance bag and my backpack make the trip feel interminable. By the time I arrive, I’m drenched in so much sweat my t-shirt sticks to my skin.
There’s an unfamiliar car in the Deloaches driveway when I arrive, a car that definitely doesn’t belong to anyone in Branch Valley. Probably a friend of Kadarius, and I totally called it because when I step into the living room Siri is there with Kadarius. They both have their laptops out and are studiously typing away.
Peering over Kadarius’s shoulder reveals this horrifying form, the kind that suggests whoever wrote it thinks everyone likes busy work just as much as they do.
“What’re you doing?” It looks so painful I have to know.
“College applications,” he answers without looking up.
I’m aghast. “It’s August. Who can think of college this far in advance?”
“College admissions.”
“Roachie is a slacker,” Siri says. “I was sending out college applications last year.”
“Last year?” That’s even more horrifying.
“Soon as I got my SAT scores back.”
I was trying to forget those are coming up.
“Uh. Right.” I edge toward the basement door. There’s no music playing, which means Jayla must not be warming up right now. “Where’s Jayla?”
Kadarius grunts, which isn’t exactly a helpful answer.
Siri lays a hand on Kadarius’s shoulder. “Basement.”
Thank god. I bound down the stairs, excitement bubbling inside at the thought of losing myself in dance for a little while.
Turns out that’s not happening.
Because Jayla isn’t the only person inside.
She has Micah with her.
They greet me with identical wide smiles. “Dev! You made it!” Jayla says, beckoning me over.
I’m frozen in the doorway, because this isn’t how visiting Jayla is supposed to go. I visit, we stretch (with Kadarius), we practice our Duet (while Kadarius films), and we go to class. Any deviations involve minor things, like parental provided snacking for energy. Or Kadarius not filming because he has some other obligation, like college applications.
We don’t do major deviations, like unrelated people.
“What’s he doing here?” I ask.
Jayla gives me a parent-style Look. “We literally talked about this. At your locker?”
“I didn’t know you meant today,” I object, my anxiety mounting as she fails to say just kidding. “Aren’t we dancing?”
“We were actually thinking of doing some TikTok challenges,” Jayla says, which isn’t the answer I’m looking for.
Kadarius and Siri are still in the living room hunched over their laptops but Kadarius looks up as I stalk back into the living room. “Yo, Westberry. That was a short practice.”
“Did you know Micah was here?” I demand, looking between him and Siri and trying not to think about Micah asking if Kadarius and I have made out. Or Jayla implying that was a reasonable assumption.
Kadarius bares his teeth, and for someone whose eyes don’t even face the same direction it’s amazing how feral he looks.
Siri pats his arm again but she’s looking at me as she says, “What, his car being out front wasn’t enough of a giveaway?”
For some reason that annoys me. Like she purposefully came over on the same day as Micah just to confuse me.
Footsteps thunder up the basement steps behind me and Jayla bursts into the hall. Micah is right behind her, looking just as unhappy as I feel.
“Devin, wait,” Jayla pants.
“I’ve got homework,” I say, which is definitely not the reason I’m leaving, but also happens to be true. “I should’ve done it before I came over.”
My parents would agree. If they knew, that is, but they’re not going to know, thank god, because neither of them is anywhere to be seen when I get home. Mom works downtown, so I’m not surprised by her absence; she’s probably stuck on 400 again. Dad has to be home, but it isn’t until I stick my head up the stairwell that the low rumble of his voice drifts down to me; he must be in a meeting.
This is the perfect opportunity to make a snack without worrying he’ll jump on me about my quiz grade, or inform me Myrick messaged him about my irresponsibility again.
Maybe I’ll even go a little crazy and use the toaster oven, something I usually avoid. Sure, new, responsible Devin didn’t succeed in taking notes. But snacks are easier than Algebra.
And if I make enough to share, my parents will be in a more forgiving mood about the parts of responsibility I failed. With this theory in mind, I set to work on this homemade tortilla chip recipe my whole family loves, congratulating myself on this rare stroke of genius.
Just as I shut the tortillas in the toaster oven my phone buzzes.
It’s Dad.
I’m stuck in a meeting. Check mail pls.
Seriously? That’s not my job. But I’m trying to prove I’m responsible, so I take a deep breath and text back okay
As soon as I step foot outside, I realize this isn’t going to be easy. Our nosiest neighbor is walking his dogs. All four of them. And they’re heading toward our house.
Praying he won’t notice, I slink down the driveway, keeping my eyes on the fractured concrete. You’d think I’d learn by now this never works. But no, I still freeze in shock when his quavering voice greets me.
“Devin! Good evening!”
My mouth opens, but words aren’t even appearing in my brain, let alone coming out. All that’s coming through are feelings. Big, scary, overwhelming feelings. And the certain knowledge I’m fucking up this interaction in a huge way.
“Hi,” I say after what I know is an unacceptably long pause.
Mr. Neighbor throws the conversation back to me like I didn’t just take five billion years to answer a simple greeting. “How’re you doing? I haven’t seen much of you lately.”
“Fine.” This word at least comes quick enough.
“And how’re your parents?”
“Fine,” I say again, because that’s currently the only word I know. I glance toward the mailbox, but my attempts to summon it toward me with my eyes don’t work.
If I want to get the mail I’ll have to go nearer.
As I inch forward, one of the dogs begins yapping at me. Friendly greeting? Hatred? Hunger? I can’t tell.
Mr. Neighbor chuckles and tugs the leash, but the dog remains firmly planted next to the mailbox. “Mercutio loves boys.”
The dog’s teeth flash in the sunlight and I take a step back. Loves boys for what? For dinner?
Mercutio’s yapping encourages the others, and soon all four dogs are barking threateningly at me, straining at their leashes. Mr. Neighbor continues to chuckle. “Don’t worry. They don’t bite,” he says, but he pulls them away, which makes his statement suspect. The dogs continue their barking all the way down the street.
Mr. Neighbor and his dogs are silhouettes against the horizon when I finally unstick myself from my spot and grab the mail. I’m in such a hurry to get back inside that I forget about the guard spider. Sticky webs trail from my shoulders and face as I slam the door shut.
I drop the mail on the kitchen table and practically run upstairs to strip my clothes off just in case there’s a spider somewhere on me. Are zipper spiders venomous? I’m kinda afraid to look it up.
A buzz sounds from somewhere in the pile of clothes I just discarded, and I have to search until I find my pants and thus my phone.
Don’t forget to do your homework
My backpack is still downstairs. But I remind myself I’m being responsible, and trek back down for it.
I’m sitting on my bed, absorbed in ClassLink assignments, when the smoke alarm goes off. Sometimes Mom and Dad’s shower sets off the alarm, so my first thought is that for some reason Dad tried taking an early shower. It’s definitely keeping me from doing this homework, though. Even shoving in earplugs doesn’t drown out the insistent ringing.
Jackson’s bedroom door opens, and he knocks on my door. “Devin, get out. Something’s burning.”
My heart drops all the way through my body and into the basement. I fling myself off into the hall and down the stairs, desperately praying it isn’t my chips wafting smoke through the house but knowing my prayers are futile.
Sure enough, the tortilla chips are charred to inedibility. And instead of proving to my parents I’m capable of responsibility, I’ve dug myself into a worse hole. Dad turns the smoke alarm off and opens all the windows to allow the smoke to air out. And now I’m in for it: The fire alarm interrupted his meeting, so he’s mad mad.
“How can you forget you’re cooking something?” Dad paces back and forth, waving a charred tortilla in my face, like I need evidence to drive home the severity of my fuck-up. The fact I got the mail and started on my homework without complaint and exactly when he asked doesn’t matter.
Only the failures ever register.
As soon as Dad's finished lecturing me (and I've finished throwing the charred remnants of my snack away) I book it to my room. This is a closet kind of afternoon.
The closet is my favorite place to escape to when I’m overwhelmed, so coming out of the closet isn’t my favorite metaphor for letting people know about the gay thing. In a literal sense, the closet has been my safe space for years.
Mom asked once if the closet wasn’t uncomfortable, because it’s not very big. But that’s the point. If it was spacious it wouldn’t work. The world is too big, too expansive, too uncertain, too full of light and noise and disapproval. But here, my world shrinks until it’s safe and certain.
At least for a little while.
By the time dinner rolls around, I’m still in my closet, and no amount of pleading or cajoling or reminding me I’m gonna be at dance for the next four hours can lure me out to food. It’s not until five minutes before we have to leave that I creep forth.
By the time we get home, I’m starving. Which anyone could have predicted, but I still refuse to admit this to my family. I wat until my parents retreat into the living room to watch some brutally violent TV show before I dare enter the kitchen and scrounge up leftovers, which I carry up to my room in the interest of eating and homeworking at the same time. Which isn't the easiest combo in the world to master; homework would be going faster if I could use telekinesis to type. Footsteps down the hall alert me to danger with just enough time to shove my half-eaten food beneath the bed before Dad flings open my bedroom door. He eyes my laptop. “That better be homework.”
“It is,” I say, shifting so he can see the math equations on the screen.
Despite the solid proof I've just given him that I'm doing my homework, Dad doesn't leave. He stands in the doorway watching over my shoulder in a way that's not at all helpful for my focus until he sees me submit the homework. When he finally leaves I’m so exhausted it takes all my energy just putting the laptop on the nightstand. The fact I left my dinner half-eaten under my bed doesn't even occur to me.
It won’t occur to me. Not until much, much later.