“It’s late.”
Sebastian startles; his heart nearly high-fives his tonsils when he spins around. Willie is parked on his bed, staring at him through groggy eyes.
“Um.”
Willie yawns. He’s sitting with one foot under him. His pale fingers pick at invisible lint on his sweatpants. His lips are tugged into a thin line. “You missed dinner,” he says, absently combing his shaggy hair.
The gurgle from Sebastian’s stomach confirms his hunger. “Yeah.” Sebastian’s rubbing the back of his neck, unsure of what he’s supposed to say. Should he explain himself? Will it matter that he was with Emir? “I was—”
“Shah, right?” Willie’s dark eyebrows push wrinkles into his forehead.
Sebastian sags in the entryway. The storm has let up, leaving behind a cloudless black sky and a heady breeze. Everything smells like pine. Sebastian was already experiencing sensory overload from the scents of Emir’s cabin; earthy from mud, sour from sweat, honeyed from Emir’s boyish musk.
“Sorry.”
Willie slants his head.
“What? I mean,” Sebastian pauses, staring at his dirty cleats. “Should I be?”
“Are you being smart about this?”
Sebastian knows what the “this” is, but he wants Willie to say it out loud. Is Sebastian being smart about Emir? About his place on the team? About what he wants to do after high school? Maybe he can accept that he has no idea what to do with the things that are in his control. For now, he is stuck in a loop of indecision.
Part of him just wants to go back to Emir’s cabin, back to where they spoke softly about the most random things, like the anime Emir is into. “It’s cool,” Emir insisted. Sebastian, making faces at the images Emir swiped through on his phone, thought otherwise. But lying in a bed with Emir half-twisted around him made up for that.
The moon lights the sky through the window behind Willie’s shoulder. Camp is dark and lifeless. It was perfect for sneaking back here while praying none of the coaches would catch him. Being benched would’ve been totally worth it for the things he did with Emir.
Now, the sky is frightening, just like having to “’fess up” to Willie.
“Bastian?”
“I don’t know,” Sebastian says, shrugging.
Coming out to Willie was one of the easiest things he had ever done. “Hey, you know how you’re into guys and stuff? Yeah, well, me too. Dudes and girls, I guess. No, I know. I like girls and guys,” he rambled, while Willie nodded with a lazy smile. Then Willie hugged him, patted his head, and whispered, “Okay, pepperoni or veggie pizza tonight?”
Sebastian has no clue why telling Willie he’s starting to like-like—which sounds silly and juvenile in his head—Emir is such a big deal.
“So is he like…” Willie makes weird, convulsive hand gestures Sebastian can’t interpret, but he gets the gist: Is he your boyfriend?
“Nothing,” Sebastian says, hanging his head. “It’s nothing.”
He kicks the door shut, then walks to his bed. He sits gently, though his whole body is exhausted. His fingers curl over his knees. The lie stirs nausea in his stomach. He can’t talk to Mason about this, not without judgmental eye rolls and sour comebacks. And Grey well, they’ve never had the version of a heart-to-heart that includes discussing Sebastian’s romantic problems.
Willie should be his rock. He’s all about emotions and making fun of serious situations.
Sebastian is aware that he’s awful at sorting through his feelings enough to talk about them. He sits silent. Willie gives him a long, unreadable look. It makes the back of Sebastian’s neck cold.
“I like him,” Willie finally says with a yawn. He fluffs a pillow and lies back. “Emir, I mean.” He closes his eyes; slowly, his breaths even out.
Sebastian doesn’t want to care about anyone’s opinion. It’s his friendship, not theirs. But being a teenager is one good day of being a superhero, followed by a hundred days of being self-conscious about every little damn thing. It’s one big, selfish moment when you don’t give a shit about other people’s opinions, but you still want your friends to love who you are and what you do.
Sebastian falls back on his bed. The hum of cicadas and Willie’s snoring fills the cabin. His stomach turns. Why isn’t life like being ten years old again, when graduating to junior high and catching Pokémon was such a big deal?
* * *
By tradition, bonfire nights only happen a handful of times. Sebastian needs more of them. It’s a Saturday night in mid-August, and Oakville is muggy. His teammates dump piles of wood in the center of a pit Charlie and Gio dug an hour ago. Sunset-pink skies frame the trees.
Zach grins, arms stuffed with cheap beer. “Brews and tunes, dudes.”
Hunter hauls supplies from a pantry raid: graham crackers, chocolate, marshmallows, and sodas.
“Sweet,” says Mikey, grabby hands already extended.
“What, wait.” Zach sighs. “Who invited the frosh? We said no freshmen, dudes.”
The rules of bonfire night are pretty simple: drink, bond, and no freshmen. The last part is for the safety of the frosh. They’re still lightweights, and it’s difficult enough to keep the upperclassmen from streaking when they’ve got a good buzz, let alone some fourteen-year-old newbie.
Their chosen spot is where the woods nudge up against the shoreline of the lake. It’s around a point from the campground, hidden from the coaches. It’s perfect for reflection while summer dances around them on its last legs.
“I’m cool, man,” Mikey tells Zach: code for I’m not a narc. Since the scrimmage, Sebastian hasn’t minded Mikey’s attempts to fit in.
“Whatever.” Zach cracks a beer and passes it to Mikey while pretending he doesn’t exist.
Sebastian leans lazily against a red maple. The team fills out the circle around the fire. Everyone is wearing a BHS Lions sweatshirt or hoodie. Firelight edges the trees in burnt orange.
It’s been a week of constant drills and Coach shouting “I’m gonna whip you all into shape so we can crush those Spartans” any chance he got. In the dining hall, one frosh collapsed face-first into his pasta. But not one player quit.
Smith says, “You’re crap at handling wood, Keating.” He passes around burgers from the diner. His hair is a cotton candy explosion of pink, blue, and blond. It’s either awesome or an experiment from his older sister’s cosmetology class gone wrong.
“Yeah? That’s not what your mom says.”
A roar of laughter erupts. Corners of his mouth pulled up, Smith salutes Zach with his beer. It’s clear the team needed a good laugh to squeeze out all their nervous energy.
Mikey, already high off too much sugar and booze, asks, “Do you honestly think we’ll beat the Spartans this year?”
Zach, clearing his throat, narrows his eyes at Mikey. “Damn right.” He takes a gulp of beer. “Do you know why, kid?”
Mikey shakes his head, far from affronted.
Zach points at the faded mascot on Mikey’s obviously secondhand hoodie. “Because we’re a pack. We’ve got pride.”
“Pride,” chuckles Gio, jostling Willie with his elbow.
Willie rolls his eyes.
“We’re a family,” Zach says, serious as a heart attack. “You bunch of assholes are my family, so I’ll make sure we tear them apart.” He lifts his beer can. The fire spits and crackles a rhythm over the silence.
Charlie whispers, “Hell, yeah.” He clinks his can with Zach’s. That’s all the others need before they growl and chuckle, letting Zach’s moment of vulnerability pass without jeers. Some days, Zach is a better leader than Sebastian will ever be.
Zach turns his head and drags his knuckles over his eyes.
Leaders can be vulnerable, too. Sebastian isn’t alone in his uncertainty about the future. And he isn’t alone in leaning against a tree, either.
“Hey.”
The sun coasts out of view. Next to Sebastian, Mason chugs a beer. Eyebrows raised, he cocks his head.
Sebastian has no idea what to say, since this is the first real word Mason’s said to him since their blowout on the field. Cottonmouth sets in. Sebastian’s tongue is heavy behind his teeth. He wants the awkwardness to go so he can have his friend back.
Mason considers him. He says, “Okay,” as if all is forgiven.
That’s it, huh? Sebastian’s shoulder to shoulder with Mason. The air between them isn’t completely clear, but Sebastian settles for Mason’s off-center smile and the scent of smoke wafting toward them. This is their brand of normal. It’s not messy, filled with hug-it-out confessions.
“You’re being a loner.” Mason flicks his eyes toward the team.
“I’m not.”
“Totally are, bro. What’s up?”
Sebastian rubs a hand over his eyes. He wants to tell Mason about Emir, about how nice things are, or how he’s freaking out about their newly re-formed friendship and how he’s waiting for it all to fall apart.
He says, “I’m cool, dude,” because he’s not ready to go there.
Mason is. “So.” Mason lowers his beer. “Where’s Shah? You didn’t invite him?”
“He wouldn’t come.”
It’s another thing Sebastian can’t wrap his head around: how different Emir can be when it’s just the two of them. No longer rude or abrasive, he’s still painfully shy with the guys, but he can laugh in Sebastian’s ear every morning after their jog.
“He needs to be more involved with the team.”
“Why, so you can be an ass to him?”
“You’re really raw about what happened, huh?” Mason seems exasperated, but Sebastian doesn’t care.
Frustration has been building, because Willie, who’s an unbelievable mind reader about these things, gets it, but Mason just doesn’t. Today, Sebastian is a superhero. He says, “Yes, I am, Mace. Emir is a pretty awesome guy and, once upon a time, he was my friend. You’re my friend, too, but you’ve been an ass for weeks about him.” He exhales, jaw tensing. “I’m over it.”
The crinkles in Mason’s brow are his tell. He’s processing.
Sebastian beats him to a response.
“You’re amazing, man; like, I don’t know any other guy like you, on or off the field,” he says. “When I told you I was bi, I thought you’d ditch me, but you didn’t.” Now his cheeks feel flushed, but Sebastian has to get it out. “You’re so cool about everything, so I need you to lay off Emir because I like him. I want you both around, just not like this.”
“So,” Mason says, smirking, “I’m amazing?”
Of course Mason only hears that part. “Shut up,” Sebastian says, punching Mason’s arm.
“It’s hard.” Mason scuffs the toe of his shoe. “Outside of my mom and sisters, all I have is you and Will.” He presses his elbow against Sebastian’s. “I never hated Shah, but he’s so closed off that I’m suspicious he’s got evil intentions. It comes out the wrong way.”
Sebastian snorts. “Definitely.”
“Shut up, I’m trying.”
“This is you trying?”
“This is me trying.”
“I hate to break it to you, but you suck at it.”
Mason laughs. Sebastian does too. And maybe it’s not the best “I’m sorry” or “I think you’re amazing, too” Mason can offer, but either way, it’s pretty cool.
By the fire, Willie studies them. Guilt plunks into Sebastian’s stomach like a boulder. He should talk to Willie. They’re not estranged, because they stay awake for movie marathons on Willie’s laptop or to talk. What they don’t talk about is Emir, who has become this big, ugly secret wedged between them. And Sebastian’s the jerk, because Willie hasn’t ratted him out to the team. Sebastian can’t figure out how to approach Willie about whatever he is and isn’t doing with Emir.
“Poor Hunter.” Mason cracks another beer; foam bubbles off the top. He slurps it up, then says, “Dude has totally been sweet on Will’s ass for months now.”
The fire casts orange light on the side of Hunter’s face, on his white teeth and scrunched eyes. He winds an arm around Willie’s shoulders. He isn’t standoffish, but Hunter’s not affectionate with a lot of people, not like this.
Willie tunes up someone’s beat-up acoustic guitar. He launches into Radiohead’s “Creep” the way all good dudes do.
Before Sebastian can ask, Mason swigs more beer, then says, “Last weekend, after I noticed he looked ready to crack when Willie was being flirty with Kyle, he told me.”
Sebastian is pretty sure there’s nothing to worry about. Kyle’s been dating the same girl, Lisa Kowalski, since sixth grade.
“Shame he doesn’t have the balls to say anything to Will.” Mason’s mournful, as if he’s hoping for some magical, fairy-godmother, happy ending. It’d be wicked.
Sebastian hugs himself against the cool draft from the lake. The breeze carries a smoky scent, like dragons’ breath, from the bonfire. From this vantage point, Willie’s cheeks are pink. He flubs lyrics while giggling at Hunter. His body is curled over the body of the guitar. Sebastian gets a clear look at the familiar, longing gleam in Hunter’s eyes.
“Now that Will’s done crushing on you, maybe he’ll give Hunter a chance.”
Sebastian nods, then—Wait, what? His head snaps in Mason’s direction. He mouths “Oh, hell” at the same time Mason cringes, whispering “Shit.”
“What do you mean—?”
Mason cuts him off. “Nothing, dude, nothing at all. I’m wasted; like, Jesus, how many beers have I had?”
“Two.”
“Only two?”
“Yes, Mace, only two.”
“Two too many then.” Mason gives Sebastian a “You really didn’t know?” look that makes Sebastian’s stomach drop. He’s sweating, ready to hurl. No way in hell would Willie ever crush on him.
Mason’s holding up a hand, the universal sign for Calm the hell down. He sighs, as if he’s in epic trouble. “Fine,” he grumbles, jutting his chin in Willie’s vicinity. “Yeah, Willie’s been impossibly sweet on you for about a year and a half. Around the time you started dating—”
“Samantha.”
Sebastian’s head throbs. The epiphany is a cannon exploding purple confetti in his brain. It all makes sense. Willie was never comfortable with Sam. That first night, at Val’s birthday party, Willie was on edge every time Sebastian danced with Sam. Sebastian figured it was Willie doing the “good brother” bit by being overprotective. That theory has been officially flushed.
How could I not see it?
“She’s not the one,” Willie would say, over and over, after Sebastian had a fight with Sam or when she ignored his calls. But, hell, Lily said the same thing, so it wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before.
But Willie thought he was the one.
“Oh, shit,” Sebastian says, smacking a hand over his eyes.
Mason says, quickly, “Don’t make a big deal of it, okay? Seriously, don’t go Riverdale on me.”
Sebastian’s dazed. Guilt has just sucker-punched him. While Mason shrugs, slurping on beer, Sebastian slumps against the tree.
“What I can’t figure out,” Mason pauses to rub his chin, “is what made him so into you?” With his head bent uncomfortably close to Sebastian’s crotch, he says, “Are you hiding something amazing in your jockstrap, Hughes?”
Sebastian sputters and mashes Mason’s head back. Mason drunkenly stumbles. Jesus, these are his friends?
Mason says, “I’ve seen it, bro. In the shower. You’ve got Thor’s hammer down there.”
Sebastian goes sunburn-hot from his toes to his hairline. He turns away; his eyes flicker to Willie, whose head is in Hunter’s lap. Hunter’s smooths Willie’s hair back. Willie gives a go at an acoustic version of “Uma Thurman.”
“Sorry. I’ve been trying to do this whole ‘be nice’ thing, but how the hell do people do it?” Mason groans, hazy eyes glaring at the fire.
“Is Grey influencing you?”
Mason rolls his eyes. Obviously not. Mason chugs the rest of his beer. “She’s part of the team or whatever, so I can’t be mad at her. Sometimes, she says cool stuff. It’s weird.”
Sebastian’s in awe. In what reality does Mason refer to Grey Patrick as cool? Well, “kinda cool.”
All of that good karma Mason just earned flies away when someone shouts, “Who invited Coach’s daughter?” and, right on cue, Grey smiles nervously while sauntering past the guys hanging by the tree line.
“Holy mother-effin’…” Mason pushes loose locks of brown hair out of his bulging seaweed-blue eyes. Skittish as a goldfish swimming among sharks, Grey collapses next to Hunter. Mason says, “We’re officially going to hell. We’re all getting kicked off the team.”
Sebastian asks, “Do you want me to look after her?”
Mason crunches his empty can. “She’s my problem, isn’t she?”
He can deny it all he wants, but Mason has a soft spot for her. Being an ass is just his way of showing it.
Mason stomps toward the fire, shouting, “Hey, give the brat some space!” and, “Grace, get your hands off that beer!”
“Oh my god, you sound like Coach!”
Mason’s shoulders tense. “And I’ll kick your ass like him if you drink that.” When she flips him off, he gasps as though scandalized. “You’re sixteen, you little troublemaker, so come sit over here—no, not next to me!” Mason nearly shrieks.
Sebastian considers joining the mayhem. He could collapse opposite Zach and sing the team’s off-key version of “Young Volcanoes,” led by Willie’s very respectable strumming. The heat from the fire pit reaches him. Stars wink in the clear indigo sky. The sour flavor of cheap beer collects in his throat.
What kind of future captain wouldn’t want to sit shoulder to shoulder with his troops? Sebastian’s doesn’t know. Are all teens this emo and undecided?
Sebastian hangs back, letting his mind cool down before he turns and disappears into the trees.