Page 24 of Pride High 2: Orange

Mr. Finnegan was perched on the edge of his desk. “How are you progressing with the video yearbook?”

“Great!” Omar said, feeling relieved. At least their chat wouldn’t be about grades. “I’ve been filming in the halls a bunch. And in the cafeteria. I really want to capture some of the normal stuff that we see each day, you know? That way when people watch it years from now, it’ll be like traveling back in time. Hey, do you think I could film in here? While you’re teaching?”

“An excellent idea,” Mr. Finnegan said with a nod of approval. “Not for an entire period, of course, but enough to provide some of the everyday flavor you mentioned.”

“Yeah, exactly!”

Mr. Finnegan smiled. “I’d also like you to begin filming some of the more notable school events. The upcoming play, for instance.”

“Absolutely,” he said with a grin. “It sounds like the Beast is going to be on crutches, which should be hilarious.”

His teacher’s smile tightened. “We should present Pride High in the best possible light. Especially if we want Mrs. Preckwinkle to approve distribution. That still isn’t guaranteed.”

“I’ll make her proud,” Omar promised.

“Excellent. I’ve drawn up a list of upcoming events. Many of them take place after school. Is that an issue?”

“Nope. I don’t suppose this gig pays anything?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Finnegan replied. “But Icanoffer you extra credit.”

“Oh.” Omar swallowed. “Any chance that credit be transferred to a different class? I’m passing this one already, right?”

“Yes, you are indeed. Are you struggling with a certain subject?”

Most of them. Although he did all right with numbers. The only hard part about business finances was not staring at Silvia the entire time. He was getting Ds and Cs in his other classes except… “I’m failing English.”

“Really?” Mr. Finnegan sounded surprised. “Who’s your teacher?”

“Mrs. Wilson.”

Mr. Finnegan winced in sympathy. “She’s a tough one. Very old fashioned. I suppose I could have a word with her. Show her some of the articles you’ve worked on in this class.”

“Really?” Omar asked, not hiding his relief. “That would literally save my life!”

“Don’t let Mrs. Wilson hear you say that,” Mr. Finnegan said in good humor, “or you’ll figuratively be up the creek. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll let her know how much you’ve impressed me. In the meantime, here’s the list so you can begin planning.”

“Thanks!”

Omar felt better as he left. His parents were used to him getting unimpressive grades. They’d be happy as long as he passed. In fact, it was such good news that he decided to give himself a break after school. Forget the job hunt! Homework could wait! He’d go spend time with his girlfriend instead.

* *December 4th, 1992* *

Ricky braced himself for the pain that Diego had promised was coming, and heknewit would be today, because this was his third therapy session with Dr. Sharma. During the first meeting with her, Ricky had shared his origin story, as he liked to think of it, since it made him sound cool like Batman. In the broadest of strokes, he described everything that had led up to the suicide attempt. Getting dumped by Jeremiah. The move from Colorado to Kansas. The difficulty of fitting in at a new school. His mother had kept interrupting him during this to share details she felt the doctor needed to know.

Perhaps that’s why, for the second appointment, he’d been alone with Dr. Sharma. She’d had quite a few questions about his relationship with Jeremiah but never came across as judgmental. Ricky wasn’t surprised. Homophobia was exactly the sort of thing his mother would have screened for when choosing a therapist. And so far, Dr. Sharma seemed okay. She hadn’t forced him to answer anything that made him uncomfortable, or lectured him for being a bad kid. In fact, she mostly just listened. Like now.

They were sitting across from each other in plush chairs big enough to curl up in. A square coffee table separated them, walled in by the two small sofas they had used during the first session. The rest of the space felt like a living room. The curtained window overlooked a small pond. A wet bar was against one wall and bookshelves lined another. Dr. Sharma must have a desk somewhere, but it wasn’t here. Ricky felt so comfortable, in fact, that he wouldn’t have minded dozing off.

Except there waswaytoo much on the line for that. He sat up straight, so he’d be more alert, and tried to see the doctor as his enemy. Which was hard to do because she had such an unassuming demeanor. Dr. Sharma was tall and thin with dusky skin and long graying hair. Her expression was serene as she listened. And assessed, because an important decision would be made today.

Shortly after making the initial appointment, Ricky’s mother had sat him down and—in the frank tone she used when discussing serious matters—explained that he might need to be hospitalized. Not for surgery or anything like that. It was even worse, because Ricky might be sent to amentalhospital. He was already picturing straightjackets and orderlies who doped you up with tranquilizers if you gave them lip. Was that what Diego had gone through? He wouldn’t spill any of the details. Ricky kept asking him at school, but whenever he broached a subject Diego didn’t like, he’d make a grumbling noise while scowling. And he looked so damn handsome each time. Ricky loved his thick eyebrows. Was that a thing? He heard other guys joke about being a leg or breast man. Maybe he was an eyebrow man.

“Do you need to take a break?” Dr. Sharma asked. “You seemed to tense up. Then your eyes became unfocused.”

“I’m fine,” Ricky assured her. As he had across all three sessions. Partly to avoid being locked in a padded cell, but also because it was true. “I was thinking of something a friend told me.”

“Would you care to share it with me?”