After school, I’m about to head to the theater rehearsal room to work on some costume plans when I get a text from Conner.

Meet at the vending machine? Need to talk.

I get a fearful feeling. Did someone figure out it was me? Is everybody talking about the gay creep who infiltrated the guys’ locker room?

See you there, I text back.

Conner is already waiting when I arrive, dressed in his usual athletic tee and jeans. He gives a small wave when he sees me.

“You’re not in cothume,” I say.

Conner looks at my vampire-y visage with wonder.

“My old school was not like this. How can I compete with this?”

“Woulth be foolisth to try.” I reach into my mouth and finally remove the lisping fangs. “What’s going on?”

“The book. I missed the swap!” Conner says. “I was feeling so bad, had a whole apology planned, but then I checked my backpack and—gone.”

Relief washes over me. He’s not mad. Just confused. I pull the bio book out of my bag theatrically, like a rabbit from a hat.

“Voila,” I say. “My greatest trick yet.”

He gives me a golf clap. “How’d you do it?”

I pause. I’m worried what he’ll think of me if he learns how it really happened. It might not be just a funny story to him.

“I had your dad grab it for me,” I say, hoping to God Conner doesn’t bring it up.

“Smart.”

“But what was this whole apology you had planned for me?”

Conner lets out a small, nervous laugh. “I don’t know. It was going to involve a ride home and ice cream or something.”

I can feel something fluttering in my stomach. If not butterflies, at least grey moths.

“That’s nice.”

“The offer stands.”

“I appreciate it,” I say, already regretting how I’m about to miss this opportunity, “but I have to start on my costume designs for the musical.”

“Whoa,” Conner says. “The whole musical? You’re going to be, like, making all of those costumes?”

“Designing, constructing, pretty much all of it,” I say. “My mom will help.”

“So that’s what you want to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I guess I should’ve figured it out,” Conner says. “You’re always dressed in weird, cool stuff. You’re super creative. You want to design things.”

“You have a very perceptive eye sometimes,” I say, surprised that Conner has noticed these things enough to put together this idea of me.

“Stuff like that interests me, things that I don’t know a lot about,” he says. “Would it be annoying to stay and watch you work?”

Never has someone been so interested in my ideas, my process. At least not someone as attractive as Conner.

“I guess I can allow it.” Then I remember the reason for these vending machine-swaps in the first place. “Wait—I don’t know. There’s still sports practice and club things going on. What if somebody sees?”

“Oh,” Conner says. “Right.” He lets that word linger, an air of disappointment surrounding him.

“Although,” I say. “You don’t have a Halloween costume yet.”

“What are you suggesting?” Conner says, but there’s a light behind his eyes now.

“Follow at a distance,” I say.

I lead Conner to the bathroom, check the stalls to make sure they’re empty, then grab a whole roll of toilet paper from its holder.

“This is—no way,” Conner says, looking at the roll skeptically.

“Just hold still.”

I start wrapping Conner’s legs in the toilet paper, moving up his body meticulously.

“You’re gonna have to go tighter,” he says.

I get to his waist, pulling the toilet paper more taut. I move around his hip bones very carefully.

“Sorry,” I say when I accidentally brush the back of his thigh. Conner just starts laughing.

“You might need another roll for my butt,” he says.

“You think your ass is that fat? You wish,” I say, laughing too so that I can cover up the sudden, lusty feelings that are rising in me.

“C’mon, focus,” Conner says. “This is taking forever.”

I fly through the rest of the roll, get to his neck, then move to his head.

“This is what I’ve been waiting for,” I say as I wrap the toilet paper around his mouth.

He muffles out something from behind his new mummy mask—“You’re such an asshole.”

“You better be quiet,” I say. “You’ll warp the toilet paper. Here we go.”

We head out of the bathroom and through the mostly empty halls. A few people give Conner weird looks, but he’s all covered up.

“Commit a little,” I whisper to him. He immediately starts groaning and plodding as he walks. I hold back my laughter as more and more people stare.

“Better,” I say.

I lead him up the stairs to the rehearsal space. It’s dark and quiet—an almost sacred, church-like hush lingering in the air.

“Are those cobwebs Halloween decorations?” Conner asks.

“Better not to ask,” I say. “Let me get my stuff.”

I splay out my design notebook and pencils on the floor. On my phone, I click on the folder of photos I’ve compiled as aesthetic inspirations for the costumes.

“And then the cast list,” I say, looking over all the characters and extras. It’s a big musical—the biggest I’ve ever designed for.

“Are you nervous?” Conner asks. I am once again alarmed at how well he can read my thoughts even under my Nosferatu makeup.

“A little, yeah,” I say. "It’s a big challenge. But I’m excited to prove something, you know?”

“I get it,” Conner says. “That’s how I feel about my wrestling match next month. Gotta show all these people who don’t really know me what I can do.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Conner doesn’t seem as sure. He goes quiet as I start on my sketches.

“Those are cool pants,” he says. 

“Thank you.”

For the next hour or so, I mostly work in silence. Sometimes Conner will open up the toilet paper around his mouth and make a small comment about what I’m doing, remark on something about the room we’re in, but we’re mostly silent. It’s weird to feel so comfortable around him. It’s like he’s an extension of my own presence, a part of me who’s there to keep the other part calm, reminding me why I’m doing what I’m doing. 

“Sorry,” I say, breaking some stretch of quiet. Conner is looking over my shoulder at my designs. “This must be so boring.”

“Nope,” he says. “It’s not boring at all.” He trails off, like he has something more to say. For a while, it’s just the sound of my pencil scritch-scratching across the paper; then, he speaks again.

“I really do want to thank you,” he says, “for helping me through so much of this. I think I’d be a lot lonelier and a lot worse off if I didn’t have you looking out for me.”

I don’t know how to take this. It should make me feel good, and happy, but it just makes me feel empty. What do those words mean when we’re both still afraid to be seen with each other?

“Thanks,” I say, trying not to let too much of my hurt bleed into my words. “But I’d do it for anyone.”

We both go quiet again, but this time it feels different.