CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

S ebastian

Bryce hasn’t recognized me.

He’s still a huge jerk, and it’s strange to listen to him as an adult, to see his charm and to see how quickly others become disillusioned with him.

I hate that he’s working here. I hate that he’s still strolling around these corridors, still putting people into categories, and labeling some people’s passions and joys as contemptible, as if he alone is the arbiter of taste.

But he didn’t recognize me. He didn’t look at me and see a pimply-faced scared looking kid. And though I hate for that little kid that Bryce couldn’t imagine him one day turning into a TV host, right now I’m relieved.

I want to stay Sebastian Archer here. I don’t want to be Seth. Not anymore.

Luke and I finish our impromptu interview, and I’m pretty sure the whole crew sighs.

I don’t want to be in this no doubt mold-and-asbestos ridden building anymore. I want to be out in the brisk air. Because even though Luke thinks I’m longing for California, I do like Massachusetts. There’s a lot of good in my home state. A lot of good I wouldn’t have recognized if I hadn’t come back here.

Like Luke.

Luke is good.

I smile to myself, and suddenly the school isn’t as terrible as I remember. It’s dark and dreary, just like Bryce said. Not just the locker room. The whole place. Lockers on both sides flank the windowless hallway, and the fluorescent light that shines bluish yellow light from uncleaned fixtures does not sufficiently counteract that.

“Let’s go this way,” I say spontaneously. “It goes outside too, right?”

Luke nods. “I think so.”

Bryce rolls his eyes. “That’s just the way to the library. No one goes there.”

“A library!” Flora exclaims. “Now those are definitely adorable.”

Bryce blinks. “Adorable? They just have a bunch of books in them.”

The crew moves toward the library anyway. My best memories of high school were spent in the library. I used to go there every lunch period. Every free period too.

All the other kids ate in the cafeteria, but I guess I wasn’t the first kid to not have anyone to eat with in the cafeteria, and the librarian, Mrs. Smith, was nice.

I stroll around the high school, letting myself enjoy the good feelings. I enjoyed learning, at least some subjects. I liked Theater and English and History.

Flora exclaims over the artwork on some of the cork boards on the walls. There are no lockers by the library, and I glance at the angsty self-portraits hanging up.

I’m glad to be out of here.

The door to the library opens, and I frown.

This is Sunday. The school is closed. That’s why we’re here. We’re getting some B-roll of the ice rink Luke used to practice in, but we don’t need another scene of all the women on ice-skates. Ella decided to come here for some extra nostalgia.

But the door is opening, and someone is exiting.

Worry seizes my heart, yanking hold of all of my organs.

It’s not...

It couldn’t be...

A woman slips from the door. She’s in a floral dress and dyed red hair, 1990s-style. Her roots have grayer than I remember, and I should be turning around. I should not be here.

I close my eyes, but obviously that doesn’t work.

My fingers flutter. Would Ella and the camera crew and Clark think it’s strange if I start dashing down the hall?

Luke moves away from the women. He steps in front of me, blocking the view path between Mrs. Smith and me.

It’s going to be okay.

“Lots of people here,” Mrs. Smith says.

“I’m giving a tour for Seeking Mr. Right ,” Bryce’s voice says. “My brother is the current Mr. Right, and one of these two gorgeous women might be my future sister-in-law.”

Soprano voices giggle around me. I want to lean against Luke’s back, to feel his warm heat against my face, so our breath merges together, inhaling and exhaling at the same time, like twin babies in natal incubators.

I am Sebastian Archer, TV Host Extraordinaire. I am Sebastian Archer, TV Host Extraordinaire.

“Well, that is an unconventional way to find a spouse,” Mrs. Smith says. “Maybe we should start assigning romance novels to lesson planning.”

“But we won’t because we don’t want their brains to rot,” Bryce says in his normal unctuous voice. “It’s good I’m the assistant principal, so I can prevent these catastrophes.”

“We should get going,” Ella says, and my shoulders ease.

“I don’t remember you,” Mrs. Smith says, and I’m sure she’s speaking to Luke.

“Perhaps it’s a time to bring in a new librarian,” Bryce says.

“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” Luke says hastily. “I didn’t go to the library very often.”

I can so easily imagine them smiling at each other at Luke’s statement. The man is so kind. So considerate. The way he covered me with his body, without me having to ask. The way he is so wonderful.

My heart beats happily.

“Ah, that explains it,” Mrs. Smith says. “I do remember Seth, of course.”

I stiffen.

“Seth?” Ella asks.

That didn’t just happen. I must have misheard.

“Seth!” Bryce’s voice booms. “That’s how I remember you. Are you hiding behind my brother?”

Then Bryce starts to laugh. Some people might call it joyful. For me, it’s the sound that comes before another vicious joke, another cruel remark, as if he can already hear it in his head.

“You’re so gay, Seth,” Bryce says.

Okay. Not great humor then. We’re going for that sort of insult.

I thought that was the repertoire of out-of-touch sexagenarians, but I guess it’s the repertoire of out-of-touch small-town school administrators too.

“You went to school here?” Ella asks, and I hate the betrayal in her voice.

Because we’ve worked alongside each other for years. Now she’ll know why I didn’t want to go to Ashcove. And she’ll know it was for personal reasons. That I was thinking about myself and not Mr. Right arcs.

She’ll know I didn’t confide in her. And she’ll know how little she knows the real me. The person she considered a friend was just an artifice. As if someone could consider Spiderman a friend who didn’t know Peter Parker.

“Your real name is Seth?” Clark asks.

“I went here too,” I say, stepping from behind Luke, because there’s nothing he can do to protect me now. There’s nothing he can say. It doesn’t matter how broad his shoulders are. I decide to feign innocence and casualness. “Hi Mrs. Smith, I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s because you were hiding,” Bryce says, his voice booming. “Such a loser. I can’t believe you got a job on TV. You fooled all of them. Look at their shocked faces. They look angry too.”

His laughs grate my soul.

“You should have seen Seth. He was the biggest loser in the whole school. Always walking around in a Spiderman Shirt. Ridiculous. Bet he has a huge crush on my brother. Disgusting.”

“You went to school with Luke, Sebastian?” Clark asks.

I feel everyone’s gazes on me. The crew are still recording, and I’m not sure if what I say next will show up on a show, whether it will be cut and pasted and turned into shorts and reels. Whether my expression will turn into a meme.

Sounds buzz through my mind. All the sounds of people who hated me in the past, all the people who laughed at Bryce’s jokes, who whispered to others when they saw me. That’s that kid. The one I was telling you about. The gay one.

And it was fine. People have been through so much worse. All I had was a guy who made jokes about me. But the jokes cut pieces in my soul. All my self-assurance that now I am different, now that I’ve achieved more than I could have hoped for, is as ridiculous as I was back then.

Of course, I’m the same person.

Of course, I can’t just call myself a new name and expect things to be different.

Of course, I should have told Luke to talk to Bryce before I had my boss and colleagues meet him.

I shouldn’t have pretended nothing would happen. I can move across the country, I can go to excellent hairdressers and bleach and style my hair, I can wear slim-fit designer items instead of polyester blend monstrosities, I can have a diet of avocado and kale so my skin glows, and no pimple could think about forming...but I can’t outrun myself.

I knew better.

I failed when it was important.

I allowed myself to feel nostalgia. I was the person who suggested we take the library route.

God, I brought this on myself.

Everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to say something.

And I should have the words.

This is the twelfth reality show season I’ve hosted. Words are things that come easily to me now, honed from theater and improv and diction.

But my words belong to Sebastian Archer, TV Host Extraordinaire.

They don’t belong to Seth from Ashcove.

“Um...” I try to talk. I do. I really do.

But the words have vanished from me. There’s only a strange pounding in my head that wasn’t there before.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Smith says. “Was I not supposed to say anything? You do look nice with your blonde hair. How do you get it pointing up like that?”

I’m quiet. I think my lips move. I’m not sure.

“But you look pale,” Mrs. Smith continues. “Maybe you would like to lie down? The floor is made of carpet. Or you can put your head behind your legs. That might do the trick.”

Are they talking about me fainting? Do they think that’s a possibility?

When the cameras are here? I’m going to faint? I try to ground myself. But I can’t just begin breathing exercises and enter into power positions on TV.

“I—”

Everyone stares.

And then I turn around and run, willing myself not to fall.

When I round the corner and I’m still upright, it feels like an accomplishment, but then I realize I still have to face them.