body copy (a.g.)

= Chapter Nine =

= Chapter Nine =

Dallon lives in a decent house about twenty minutes from our high school in one of those neighborhoods that isn't out in the middle of nowhere but is still sort of sparsely populated. (Or at least sparsely populated by my standards. I've grown up in the city pretty much by whole life, so my sense of what's rural and what's not rural may be a little warped.)

To make a long story short and give you a little perspective, he's got plenty of space in his front yard to park cars on, and his neighbors live far enough down the street both ways to where I don't think the party will be too much of a disturbance to them. Or at least that's what I'm hoping. There's nothing shittier than having some pissed off middle-aged person come storming into a party in their pajamas threatening to call the cops unless everyone leaves immediately. (Alternately, it's even worse to have the actual cops come break up a party. I would know from experience. But that's a different Hampden adventure and a story for another time.)

When we pull up to the house, I don't even attempt to find a parking spot on the lawn. The street will do just fine for me, and I don't feel like having to fight the crowd when everyone decides to start leaving in the middle of the night. Or, you know, when everyone leaves in a panic if adults decide to come break up this little soirée. Both are very real possibilities.

As I start cruising down the street to find a place to park, Melanie starts talking to me about everything that's happening inside the house. She's been on her phone for pretty much the whole ride over here, and I wouldn't doubt that she's been getting details and information out of at least eight different people at the same time.

"That guy you're friends with from the newspaper is here," Melanie tells me just as I spy an open space a good fifty yards ahead.

"Which one?" I ask. I know a lot of "guy from the newspaper."

"The one who reviews all the plays and stuff," she explains. "The one with all of the pretty shirts and the skinny legs."

Pretty shirts? Skinny legs? Play reviews? Ryan. Definitely Ryan.

"Oh, Ryan Ross." I start backing into the space, trying as hard as I can to make this parking job decent. I hate parallel parking so much, but in a place like Baltimore, you have to get used to doing it and fast.

I don't say anything more, too focused on no rear-ending the truck parked behind me, but Melanie keeps chittering on about everything she knows.

"Tyler's here," she says. "He's hanging out with some guy, or so he says. Do you know Josh Dun?"

The name rings several bells. "Yeah, I know Josh. I interviewed him one time for a piece about the school band. He does percussion stuff."

"He's cool," Melanie affirms, just as I cut the wheel one more time and throw the car into park. "I wonder how long he and Ty have been talking or whatever."

I cut the engine and unbuckle my seatbelt, shrugging all in the same motion. "Who knows? Tyler's always private about stuff like that. I guess he's worried we'll think he's gross for talking about it, but I don't know why."

And I really don't. I mean, if there's one club at Dunbar that won't judge you for your sexuality or anything along those lines, it's the newspaper. Shit, we have Ryan (bi and proud of it), Pete (he's admitted to making out with a couple of guys in the past, although he's never officially labeled himself as bi), and Brendon (I don't know what he's up to with that Spencer kid or what this means for him, but he definitely isn't straight in some way, shape, or form)- we aren't exactly a heteros-only organization, you know what I mean?

"It's his business," Mel says with an indifferent shrug.

I'm late with my reply, my mind suddenly on other things. "Yeah, totally his business."