I nod. “Right behind you.”
But I don’t move. Instead, I sit with Ben in silence for a few more minutes as two women in hairnets and rubber gloves point an old boom box in our direction. Mariachis sing as they begin to wipe down tables with sponges in little buckets full of warm water and bleach. I don’t get up until Ben does.
“You okay?” I slip my hand into his as we walk back toward our lockers.
He brings my fingers to his lips, kissing them lightly, absently. His mind is in another place. “Just trying to make sense of what we saw.”
As he speaks these words, the second tone sounds. True, we’ll both get tardy slips, but this time the weird electronic beep holds another message, too. Its unsettling pitch lodges deep in my stomach, a warning I can’t quite make out. As it echoes through the hallways, Ben drops my hand and walks to his next class without looking back.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
eleven
WE ASSEMBLE IN the gymnasium..
Rachel’s face is buried in her phone. She and Christy point and gasp at their screens. A hashtag has sprung up with pictures and videos of the lunchroom arrest two hours ago: #buccsincuffs on most, the tag #r&p on some. No one can figure out what that means. I am turning my phone in my hands as we wait, but do not swipe to see. Something in me doesn’t want to know.
Lindsey joins us, sliding onto the bleacher next to me. I left enough space for two people between me and the aisle, knowing she’d join us, and hoping Ben will, too.
“Are you okay?” Lindsey’s eyes narrow. I nod and she follows my gaze to the stage where Wyatt Jennings and Shauna Waring from the drama club ready a microphone and podium. Behind them is the set for the spring musical that began taking shape last week during spring break. Rydell High is almost fully formed with flats painted to look like hot-pink versions of the lockers we have in the hallway. Grease! opens Saturday night, and runs for a week. The stage is now a school within a school, a hyper-colored backdrop for our drama in real life.
Rachel watches as Shauna uncoils a mic cable. “She’s playing Sandy.”
Christy glances up from her phone. “Wyatt’ll look great in a poodle skirt.” She snorts with laughter at her own joke as Wyatt plugs in the mic and steps to the podium. “Testing, testing, one-two-three.” He gives Principal Hargrove a thumbs-up.
There is a loud whistle—a catcall from behind us. A group of the varsity Buccaneers is filing into seats across the aisle. Reggie Grant shouts up at Wyatt to “Shake it, baby.” There are jeers and cheers, groans and shouts, taunts of “fag” and “fabulous.”
“Seriously?” Christy snickers. “We’re supposed to believe that he’s in love with Sandy? Wyatt would run off with one of the other T-Birds the first chance he got.”
“Uh-huh, ’cause John Travolta’s just as straight as they come,” says Rachel.
“What?” Christy doesn’t get it.
“Do a search on TMZ,” says Lindsey. “We’ll wait.”
“Look,” says Christy, “I’m just saying that Danny Zuko in that movie was way more butch than Wyatt will ever be.”
“Jesus, Christy,” I say, sighing. “You’re way more butch than Wyatt will ever be.” Her arm shoots across Rachel’s lap, and I narrowly avoid the punch she aims at my shoulder.
“Take that back!”
“If the shoe fits . . .” Rachel giggles.
“. . . buy it.” Lindsey finishes for her.
“This seat taken?” Ben is pointing at the space next to Lindsey.
I shake my head. “All yours.”
Lindsey stands and switches places with me. I don’t even have to ask her. This, I believe, is the true meaning of friendship. Ben puts his arm around me as he sits down and pulls us a little closer as Principal Hargrove takes the stage. Ms. Speck stands next to him.
“We wanted to let you know the facts about what happened today in the cafeteria.” Principal Hargrove is wearing a burgundy blazer made of a fabric that does not contain a single natural fiber. There is enough polyester in this jacket to make it shine beneath the stage lights. The rumor is he bought it in 1991 and has kept it in his office ever since for the sole purpose of these assemblies and impromptu parent meetings. He pauses and runs a hand across his forehead as if patting his bangs into place. He’s bald, but he didn’t used to be, I suppose.
Given enough time, everything changes.