Page 12 of Theoretically Straight

“More or less,” she replies thoughtfully, her attention turned back to the side work again. “You’ll understand once you start going to college, I think. As long as you don’t go to a Christian college or anything.” She twists her face in disgust as she says the words “Christian college,” and I’m honestly a little surprised. I knew she had grown to dislike church, but I didn’t realize it had escalated again.

I give her a nervous smile. “Nah, Christian college is way too expensive. Plus, I’m not Christian-y enough for all of that. Just ask Sienna.”

I don’t mean for that last bit to slip out, but it does anyway. Shit.

Crap. Sorry, God.

Grace’s eyes are on me again, but they’ve softened. “Good. Also, for the record, I never cared for Sienna, let alone her shitty opinions of your religiosity, so she can kindly fuck right off.”

I can’t stop the nervous, explosive laugh that bursts out of me. I immediately cover my mouth as customers and other staff members alike turn their heads toward me, which causes my face to burn and Grace to start giggling uncontrollably. From around the corner, one of the shift managers gives us a stern glare, and I silently mouth “sorry” and shuffle away to the kitchen to hide and regain my composure.

Saturday, September 9

“Maybe this pizza will fill the void in my soul.”

Freddy holds up his slice of pepperoni, watching the grease drip from the end before shoving it in his mouth. Pizza Palooza is packed, as it always is on the weekend. We’ve managed to cram ourselves into a booth meant for two, but that means there’s been a lot of elbows in uncomfortable places. Freddy has been pouting since he climbed into the back of Wren’s Honda after the game. Apparently, it didn’t go well. I guess I should have been able to tell that from the scoreboard, but honestly, who can read those things?

“It wasn’t that bad of a loss,” Wren says, picking a stray olive off of their slice. “It was close for the first two quarters.”

“I cheered like you were winning the whole time,” I add, knocking my shoulder into his.

Freddy snorts a laugh as he chews, swallowing before he says, “Yeah, I was wondering who kept screaming when the other team scored.”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, they really need to label those goals. How am I supposed to keep up with who’s on what side?”

“You could just remember the color of the team’s jerseys. The goalkeeper stands in the goal box the whole game–”

Wren leans forward, their hand outstretched to cut Freddy off. “Remember, you’re speaking to sports-challenged plebs here. We know as much about soccer as you know about Stephen King.”

Freddy furrows his brow. “I’m not dumb. I know he made that old movie with the wrinkly alien.”

“That’s Steven Speilberg,” I correct him. “Think scary.”

“Oh, right. I meant the guy that wrote the musical about people getting made into pies.”

Wren lets out a sigh. “Stephen Sondheim. You’re getting even colder.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I don’t know the difference between Stephens. In my defense, soccer isn’t that complicated.” Freddy folds his pizza in half, shoving the rest of the slice into his mouth.

“Sure,” I concede, shrugging. “And we shouldn’t tease you so soon after the smackdown you guys suffered. So, let me change the subject. Y’all were one hundred percent right about Logan. I spotted him down by–what did you call it? The hole box?”

“So close,” Freddy says with a sigh. “Goal. G-O-A-L.”

“Right, the goal hole,” I say, giving him a playful wink just to let him know I’m in on the joke. Wren coughs into their soda, pinching their nose to keep it from spewing out. “Anyway, after the game, while you were changing, I saw him and Sarah tasting tonsils, so I guess that solves the mystery of ‘does that cute boy like me?’ Much like the last dozen times, the answer is a big fat ‘no.’”

Wren wipes their nose with a napkin. “That sucks, dude.”

Even Freddy gives me a pitying frown, for once not taking a weird delight in my melancholy. That sounds bad–I don’t mean he’s sadistic or anything. We just find the misery of others to be funny sometimes. Don’t all sixteen-year-olds?

He reaches over to wrap his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his side. “I’m sorry, Caleb. Are you okay?”

I stare at him, more than a little thrown off by the sudden tenderness. This is not normal Freddy behavior. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine. It’s not like I was in love with him or anything. I’ll just add him to my list of boys I thought were into me.”

He nods, patting my shoulder. “I know it still stings, though. Hey, we’d totally understand if you wanted to spend tonight recovering emotionally. Maybe we could just go hang at Wren’s and watch a movie or something?”

There it is. I knew something was up.

“Nice try,” I say, giving him another gentle shove. “You’re not getting out of the ghost tour that easy.”

---