Page 61 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
“—He’s talking about running his own Facebook account and taking...adventures.”
I rolled my eyes. “Forget it—”
“No, no, no, let’s not forget it,” Danny said, observing me strangely. “I’m in full support of this, and I think you should be too, Theory.”
“I mean, of course I am.” She crossed her arms, bristling at the implication that she wasn’t supportive. “Just came out of nowhere is all. But of course I’m in full support.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We were talking about crashing the football team’s rager. Can’t get more adventurous than that, huh, Pheeny?”
What have I gotten myself into?Danny leaned against the wall adopting a look that was hard to read. He was also wearing jeans from this decade.
I went to a rager last night. My first one. It was deafeningly boisterous, overcrowded, and I ended up being the designated driver of my group of lightweights. I loved it. No, actuallyI hated it.But I loved the trying of something new. Something out of my comfort zone that I’d written off in the past, placing it under my no-way-Jose column.
And Idanced.Me, Phoenix Michaelson, lover of activities that involve the absorption of words from page—preferably while seated. I raged with the crowd under the strobing lights, took my first sip of something unknown from a red Solo cup—just asip,folks—and I hated every scary minute of it. I want more moments like it.
I posted a photo of our crew—which now included a couple new members—dressed like the mishmash we were, and ended the Facebook post with #shareyourscare.
Snow fell outside my bedroom window, the board now propped up against the ledge. No more hiding from the things I’d rather not see. This was the start of something new.
The first notification came in. The next two fought for second place. Before I knew it, I had fifty new friend requests and about half as many messages and photos, all with the hashtag #shareyourscare.
My mind froze and my body recoiled, smashing into the back of my seat when a belated “like” came through. User name: Plato the Great.
Sebastian.Had to be. I could picture him with a finger hovering over the mouse, triple-guessing himself. Wondering if he’d be doing more harm than good.
Staring out the window, I worked through what his show of support just cost me. A fire stirred in my belly, the soldiers scurried for shelter, dropping their arsenal of weapons. The warmth worked as a balm to the injuries they’d already inflicted, repairing them to some degree.
It cost me nothing, but paid me in courage.
We’d gone from a trio to a quartet when Mason joined our group, and now Juan—an exchange student and captain of the chess club, and Jules—a goth scientist that spent as much time in detention as Danny, rounded out our Six-Pack. Danny christened us with that name.
That was my scare-share last week. Opening myself up to new people and taking an interest in what appealed to them versus only being open to what interested me. I found chess to be a great stress reliever, and chromosomes weren’t as intimidating as some may think.
Most of all, I felt myself reaching.Growing.
“For the love of Molly Ringwald! Have you gone mad, man?” Danny asked with frantic eyes, his hands guarding his hair.
“It’s hair, Danny. It’ll grow back.” I combed my hand through my locks, which now hung past my shoulders in a mix of waves and curls. My father had worn his hair past his ears, and for as long as I could remember, I did the same. Any haircut I’d ever received was nothing more than a trim, and even that I hadn’t gotten in months. “I can’t remember how I look without hair.”
“So pull out the baby books, okay?”
“I’m serious, Danny. How do I know this” —I held up a chunk of the dark strands— “is me?” I needed to know. I needed to know everything.
“Well, ah, I...well,” he fumbled over his words, and I came to his rescue.
“You can sit this one out. I don’t ever want you to not be yourself in order to help me find myself.” Theory had sat out a lot of my ideas while Danny had rode shotgun the whole way. But some roads would need to be traveled alone. I was beginning to embrace the idea.
He traded places with me in the mirror, memorizing the hair-do he’d been sporting since freshman year. “Took me almost a year to grow this mullet.” He spoke as if giving a eulogy.
I came up beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “It’s okay, Danny. You don’t have to.”
“No,” he said with finality, rolling his head my way. “This hasn’t only been your journey. It may have started out with me supporting you, but I’ve had some scare-shares of my own. You got me to work out.” He ticked off his finger. “My clothes match this century now,” he said dryly. “And I swallowed my fear and asked Jules to prom.”
“And she said yes.” I shoved his shoulder with pride.
“I believe her words were, ‘hell yes.’” We shared a laugh. “Let’s do it, Pheeny.”
Facing the mirror again, we said our final goodbyes. “Danny?”
“Yeah?”
