Entering the halls of Buchanan High, there is only one thing I register: Axe body spray.

Colleen coughs and tries in vain to fan away some particles. I unwrap my lavender scarf from my neck and drape it over my nose and mouth. The freshman boys with their inept hygienic routines have already passed through here. We exchange a look, then head deeper into the war zone.

Buchanan is like any other high school in the Midwest: drab, underfunded, and filled with lockers the ugliest color of green I’ve ever seen. Whatever the opposite of je ne sais quoi is, this high school has in spades.

Colleen and I dart between freshman know-nothings trying to figure out their class schedules, the stoner-goths with their Sharpie-d nails and black pouches filled with weed, and our natural enemies as theater kids: the wrestlers. One of Buchanan’s several notable design flaws is that the wrestler’s weight room is directly below the theater rehearsal room, which is constantly causing us to clash. The wrestlers will complain about the theater kids “distracting” them with off-pitch singing, the theater kids will accuse the wrestlers of ruining an emotional death scene with their bro-y cheers. It is one of our school’s most eternal rivalries.

They’re already trying out moves against each other in the hallways, taking up twice as much space as they need to. It’s showboating, or peacocking, or something equally annoying.

“If these guys are that desperate for male contact, I could introduce them to some people,” I say as we try to squeeze past. 

“It’s not gay, Dean,” Colleen says. “They obviously wear those singlets for the fashion of it.”

One of the guys, Byron, falls into our path, knocked off-course by his teammate. He nearly topples onto us before righting himself with a big, goofy smile. I give him my most disgruntled look. Calling Byron an airhead would be disrespectful to oxygen.

“Good to see the concussions haven’t hurt your balance,” I say.

“Whatever,” Byron says. “My brain is perfect.”

“That’s so sad,” I say, turning to Colleen. “He’s more confused than ever.”

Byron flips us the bird as we walk away. We turn down a hallway with a couple of broken lightbulbs, make another left by the closet full of plaster and thrown-away art supplies, and finally emerge into friendly territory.

“Dean! Colleen!”

Bridget, her curly, poodle-y hair bouncing at her shoulders, gives us a huge, hearty wave. Felix is next to her, dressed in his normal all-black outfit. Even he cracks a small smile when he sees us.

We run up to them and start exchanging hugs. The gang, all together again.

“How was summer in North Carolina?” I ask Bridget.

“I thought I was going to get soooo tan on those beaches, but they’re all just fucking rocks! It sucked!”

“What about you, Felix?”

He gives a moody shake. “Oregon has too many trees. Always watching. But I was able to grow a beard there.”

“You were not, Felix,” Colleen says, rolling her eyes.

“It’s true,” he insists. “Something about the different climate encouraged follicle growth. But it was really the deep respect Portland has for clowning that made me grow fond of it.”

I nod and try not to smirk. In a world full of uncertainty, it’s comforting--and annoying--to see that Felix’s eerie obsession with the practice of clowning remains intact. 

We all spread out, throwing down our backpacks in the narrow hallway, and proceed to do a proper catch-up. It’s been a whirlwind: Bridget talks about sunburns and being attacked by a lobster, Felix launches into an extensive oratory about the history of clowning in the Pacific Northwest, Colleen details her exploits involving pranks and an attempted drowning at choir camp, and I tell them all about the wardrobe I’m compiling and my practice outfits for the fashion school application.

Pretty soon we’re all just laughing and joking with each other, snorting about all the ridiculous things we’ve been up to, so wrapped up in each other’s stories that we don’t even notice the massive hulking shadow standing over us.

“Excuse me! This is a walkway!”

We turn and see an older man with silver sideburns and a disconcerting lack of hair on the top of his head. A new teacher. I don’t recognize him or his ankle-high socks—mismatched, of course. He looks like the whitest, dorkiest guy in the world. Which is saying a lot when you’re from the Midwest.

“Oh,” I say, side-eyeing the rest of my friends. No one ever comes down these hallways—that’s why we hang here. “Sorry. Must be difficult to navigate this with your weak knees.”

“I’m an athlete, smartass,” the teacher says. “Move your bags.”

One of those teachers who curses. I already hate him. We all move our bags as he high-steps through, a stony look on his face. 

“And keep those voices down, please. This is a lot of noise for a Monday morning.”

“Right. We forgot to take your chronic migraines into account.”

He shoots me one last dirty look, but keeps moving on. 

When he’s gone, I immediately throw my backpack back in the middle of the floor.

“That’s Coach Brentski,” Bridget says. “He’s the new gym teacher.”

“Clearly,” Colleen says.

“Coach?” I say.

Bridget nods. “Can you guess what for?”

“Wrestling?”

“Wrestling.”

We all groan. Another injustice in our never-ending conflict with the wrestling kids. 

“Only one more year having to avoid sweaty gym-jocks like that,” I say.

“Amen,” Colleen says.

#

The rest of the day is a monotony of syllabi, welcome back speeches from teachers, and lectures about how important it is to stay focused and not slack off even if it is our senior year. Everything feels distant and swimmy, like I’m separated from this world by a whole aquarium. None of it really feels like it applies to me anymore; fashion school is about creating a jaw-dropping portfolio, not figuring out a paragraph-long physics problem. As long as I can keep my grades stable, I can let everything else pass me by. In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing.

All I can dream about is what will be the piece de resistance of my fashion school application. A whole outfit, both edgy and classic, with a tartan collar and a power clash of other materials: gingham, plaid, polka dots, patches placed all around to make an insane mish-mash that, from the distance, will re-contextualize all these colorful elements into something sophisticated. I see it being walked down runways, by androgynous models with long legs and tight necks, the audience gasping audibly as it’s walked out and the spotlight follows it, me watching backstage and quietly soaking up the magic of it.

The bell rings. I have survived day one of senior year.

Driving is still a treacherous endeavor to me—not that I’ll need to know how to drive once I get a chauffeur—so I take the bus that always smells like cigarettes and wet chalk back home. I finally get dropped off, quick-walk around my mom’s daffodils, and hurtle up the steps. My fingers are already moving at my side, imagining the feel of the fabric and the cold glint of the sewing needle.

I walk in and see my mom immediately come over to me, a sheepish look on her face.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, throwing down my backpack. “Talk later. I want to keep working—”

“Dean,” she says. I stop, waiting to hear what she has to say. I can tell something’s up.

“What?”

“I’m so sorry to spring this on you, but it was the only night he was free this week.” She calls into the kitchen, and my stomach tightens. “Ben! Come and meet Dean!”

First I hear some heavy steps, sounding weirdly familiar. Then there’s his shape in the doorway, and a peek of mismatched socks, all leading me to the awful realization.

Coach Brentski steps out, places his hand on my mom’s back, and then we both freeze.