“Why didn’t you call me last night?” Camila asks. A few adorable freckles spread around the cutest dimples. Her dark hair frames her face, and her light brown skin glows. Her eyes sparkle, and her smile is the perfect one I’d like to have.

We’ve been dating since the homecoming dance last month. And, by dating, I mean I see her at the Friday night football games where we sometimes hold hands. During the week, we text funny GIFS and tag each other on hilarious memes. 

“Practice kicked my butt,” I say. I look over at my English teacher, who has returned to his desk to grade papers.

“I tried calling you.” She pouts at me, and I have to force back a smile. When she pouts, her dimples look even cuter.

“I’m sorry,” I say. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past month, it’s that you just need to say you’re sorry a lot, even if you don’t understand why.

“That’s okay.” Relief washes over her. “So, how was your first day wrestling? I can’t wait to come cheer for you in a match!”

I grunt. “Bring a body bag.”

“Huh?” Her dark eyebrows narrow.

“I’m not very good.” 

Camila crosses her legs. Although the weather is cool, she wears shorts, which creep up, revealing more of her thigh. Something catches my eye. Trust me—it’s not anything dirty. There’s a bruise, and it looks fresh. Camila tugs at her shorts, covering it up.

“You’ll get better. It was only your first day,” she says. “Why do you wanna wrestle? You never struck me as a wrestler, especially because the boys have to wear that weird thing. What’s it called?”

“A singlet.”

“Whatever. Isn’t it all a little . . . no, never mind,” she says, her lips tightening and forming a straight line. 

“What?” I ask. I can’t help but smile a bit, even if what I think she is going to ask may be somewhat accusatory.

She whispers, “Isn’t it all a little gay? Boys grabbing boys?”

I laugh, but I choose not to answer. Especially because right as Camila asks me the question, Mateo walks into our first-period English class.

Unlike me, he looks refreshed. There’s not a bruise on his body, not even a little one like Camila has on her thigh. Why is she bruised? My mind wanders, watching Mateo stroll into our classroom. He wears a Washington Hornets Wrestling T-shirt, and his shoulders nearly burst out of it. His thick hair is parted in the middle and styled so that it barely moves. He nods at me, a tough-guy bro-nod.

Camila catches my eye, and I blush. The last thing I need is for her to see me staring at Mateo. At least with a girlfriend, I stand a chance at redeeming myself with the team and guarding my true self.

I reach for her hand and make sure Mateo sees it. “Hey,” I say, trying to think of something else to talk about. “How’s, um, how’s Tisha?”

Camila shakes her head enthusiastically, and I know I picked the right subject. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about last night! She’s dating some scum bag.” 

“Oh?” I ask, my eyes wandering back toward Mat. He wears shorts, and he sits a couple of desks away from me. My gaze moves down to his legs, which are thick and hairy like a man’s. I look at mine, and they look like a little girl’s legs. Smooth and skinny. I hate them. 

“Did you hear what I said?” Camila asks.

“Huh?” I clear my throat.

“Where is your head?” She sighs. “My best friend is dating some loser, who happens to be on the wrestling team with you, by the way. And you don’t even listen!”

“I’m sorry.” I need to pay attention. Tisha hangs out with us at the football games, and if she’s dating someone on the team, that could be good for me. Someone else to see that I have a girlfriend. “Who is she seeing?”

“That creep, Logan. He’s so vulgar,” Camila tells me. 

My stomach drops, and the bell rings. 

“Good morning, class,” Mr. Samuels says. I stare at our teacher, but I’m not listening. 

I picture how a Friday night double date will work if the other guy in our foursome is calling me a fag and throwing spit wads at me on the bus.

Can this week get any worse? 

*****

At lunch, I sit with Camila and Tisha, and I literally hold my breath whenever Tisha looks up. 

Please God, don’t let Logan sit with us. 

No one answers my prayer because a minute later, the little asshole sits next to Tisha.

“Hey, guys,” Tisha says. She plays with her braided hair and smiles all flirtatiously when Logan arrives.

I try not to puke.

“I want you to meet my boyfriend!” she squeals. I put my arm around Camila. I adjust my hand, and then she leans in closer to me. I can’t see her shoulder—she wears a long-sleeve shirt, even with shorts. Is her shoulder bruised, too, or something? “This is Logan,” Tisha speaks. My skin crawls, as I turn my attention over to him.

He looks me right in the eye with an incredibly cocky expression. “We’ve met,” he says to me. He grins, and it’s a cheesy know-it-all-look. “Is that your . . . girl?” he asks.

“I’m Camila,” she says and moves even closer to me. Thank God. I need to keep her close.

I ignore him. Tisha’s a nice girl. Innocent, sweet. She wears a smile that fills me with jealousy. I’d love to feel that way about someone else. She looks so happy, too. Suddenly, I feel protective. I’ve never had a sibling but seeing Tisha’s happiness fills me with what I can only describe as a brotherly kind of concern. I don’t want to see her hurt. I don’t think she’s even had her first kiss.

Of course, neither have I. Not really. Camila and I have pecked on the lips, but we’ve never made out, never kissed passionately. Plus, there’s this whole other side of me that kind of gets in the way to kissing her for real. It doesn’t stop me from snuggling close right now, though.

We’ve all got secrets, I guess. But if Logan tries to hurt Tisha—

What will you do? 

My own voice mocks me. I can get my ass kicked, I suppose. That’s about the only thing I’m good at.

Logan’s eyes narrow and he flashes a sinister smile as if he’s reading my mind. Then he whispers something into Tisha’s ear that makes her giggle.

When the bell rings, Logan takes Tisha’s tray, acting all nice. I know it’s pretend. No one who does shit like he did earlier is a good guy. We stand, and he bumps into me ever so slightly.

“See you at practice, homo,” he whispers.