And then, suddenly, whatever spell his homeroom outburst had cast wore off as he approached the students in the bleachers and someone whispered: “Dude, check Montgomery out. Looks like he slept on a grill.”
All eyes turned toward his burns. There was snickering, and a bubbling rash of Ooooooos from the junior boys who were in the process of peaking early in life. They manifested their fleeting superior status by taunting basically everything. Kane was a popular target when he couldn’t get out of their way, like right now. They were the main reason he hated gym this year, and school every year.
Tragically, they referred to themselves as The Boys.
“I heard he drove himself to school,” said one of The Boys. Zachary DuPont. “You can smell the wreck from here.”
“Brooo.”
“I heard he drives a unicorn now.”
“I heard it runs on top of a rainbow.”
“I heard the rainbow comes out of his—”
Bursting laughter cut the rest off. Kane slumped down on the far side of the bleachers. He didn’t dare take out the journal—it would attract even more attention. He wished he had The Witches, but just then Coach O’Brien showed up and took attendance. Kane began the tedious task of turning invisible again. He was so busy doing this that he almost missed O’Brien’s announcement.
“There is good and bad news. The good news is no one has to get changed for gym. The bad news is we’re square dancing this week.”
A sarcastic cheer went up from the students, who were mostly resigned to Connecticut’s strange fixation with folksiness. This happened every year, and there was even a club that sometimes went to regionals in Waterbury.
Kane went rigid with terror. He dreaded what was next: The Coupling. Boys began to pair up with girls like drops of water joining, but no one picked Kane. In seconds, only two people were left: Kane, and—of course, because this always happened to Kane—another boy. Elliot Levi. One of The Boys.
Shit.
The jeering wasn’t concealed this time. Elliot’s friends weren’t going to let him live down dancing with another guy, least of all the only openly gay guy at Amity Regional.
“Get your jazz hands ready, Elliot.”
“And your leotard.”
“Don’t let him get too close.”
“Make sure to leave room for Jesus.”
“Yeah, a threesome with Jesus and Grill-Head Montgomery.”
Coach O’Brien jumped in on that one, but the damage was done. Kane was being used to make fun of Elliot, so now Elliot would do whatever he could to punish Kane and save himself. It was the way straight boys worked.
“Those guys are idiots.”
Kane jerked up. Elliot stood over him.
“What?”
“I’m sorry about those guys. They’re idiots. Ignore them.”
Kane’s pulse twitched in his neck. “You’re actually going to dance with me?”
Elliot shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“I’m a boy.”
“Cool, me too. Come on.”
Kane began to truly panic. This, somehow, was so much worse. Elliot was willingly dancing with him? What trap was he being led into?
Elliot put out a hand. Kane spent too long considering it. Elliot was as annoying as the rest of The Boys but perhaps a bit more remarkable because he had moved to East Amity from the west coast in seventh grade, had dirty blond hair but darker eyebrows, and wore a fine gold chain around his neck. It had a glinting Star of David on it, Kane remembered. As the class stood in rows facing each other, Kane could see the ridge of the chain beneath Elliot’s thin white shirt, drawn taut against his collarbones.
Belatedly, Kane remembered an old crush he used to have on Elliot. He felt himself begin to sweat as Coach O’Brien kicked a speaker to life, shouting steps over the fiddling.
Elliot took Kane’s hands. Kane continued turning as red as possible.
“I’m not…” Elliot began.
“Don’t worry,” Kane rushed in. “I know you’re not gay. We don’t have to do this. I was going to skip anyways.”
Elliot shook his head. “I was going to say I’m not like those other guys.”
They parted, rejoined. Elliot’s hands were hot.
Kane’s jaw clenched. “They’re your friends.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’m not like them.”
“How so?”
“They’re assholes. I’m different.”
Coach O’Brien walked over, observed, huffed, and strode down the line. Elliot’s friends were in a fit about all of this, of course. They kept trying to get Elliot’s attention. Zachary DuPont kept chanting Kiss! Kiss! Kane’s cheeks flushed.
“You’re not different,” Kane said, looking down. “Whatever you’re trying to do, just get it over with.”
A long pause.
“I’m not—”
Kane pulled away, suddenly. The people next to them stopped dancing, hyperaware as Kane left Elliot in the middle of the gym and dove into the bleachers to grab his bag. The jeering came, but Kane heard none of it as he tore open his journal. He was looking for the photo of the shoes. The white shoes.
The same shoes he’d just been looking at, on Elliot’s feet.
Kane found the photo and was instantly sure he was right. The right shoe’s uppermost eyelet was missing, same with Elliot’s. Kane turned, triumph blazing on his face, ready to confront Elliot, but the gym was empty. The music stretched into an eerie keening.
“Hello?” Kane called into the emptiness. His voice was muffled, like yelling into thick wool.
“Give it to me.”
He jumped. Elliot had simply appeared next to him.
“The photo. Give it to me,” he demanded.
“Where is everyone? What happened?”
Elliot’s phone buzzed. He picked it up testily. “Yeah, I know. I’m coming. Just hold on. What? Yeah, he’s here. No, it’s all good. I’ll be down in a bit.” He snatched the photo from Kane’s hand, looked at it, and made an expression indicating it might not actually be all good. He shoved his phone in his pocket and said to Kane, “Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”
“About what?”
Then, in a whoosh of golden shimmer, Elliot vanished, and the gym snapped back to the version full of kids shuffling to a racing fiddle. Coach O’Brien was shouting, “Please stop trying to dip Erica, Mr. DuPont.”