“What’s it say?” I ask.
“Confidential. I think he kinda trusts me not to blab his texts, you know?”
I might point out the ridiculousness of anyone trusting Tiny not to blab anything, but I don’t. He tapes up the poster and starts walking down the hallway. I follow.
“Well, I’m glad your night was so awesome. Meanwhile I was being blindsided about Jane’s water polo-playing exboyf—”
“Well, first off,” he says, cutting me off, “what do you care? You’re not into Jane. And second off, I wouldn’t call him a boy. He is a man. He is a sculpted, immaculately conceived, rippling hunk of ex-manfriend.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m just saying—not my type, but he is truly a wonder to behold. And his eyes! Like sapphires burning into the darkened corners of your heart. But anyway, I didn’t know they ever dated. I’d never even heard of the guy. I just thought he was a hot guy hitting on her. Jane never talks to me about guys. I don’t know why; I’m totally trustworthy about that sort of thing.” There’s enough sarcasm in his voice—just enough—that I laugh. Tiny talks over the laugh. “It’s amazing what you don’t know about people, you know? Like, I was thinking about that all weekend talking to Will. He fell for Isaac, who turned out to be made up. That seems like something that only happens on the Internet, but really it happens all the time i-r-l, too.”
“Well, Isaac wasn’t made up. He was just a girl. I mean, that girl Maura is Isaac.”
“No, she’s not,” he says simply. I’m holding up the last of the posters as he tapes it to a boys’ bathroom door. It says ARE YOU FABULOUS? IF SO, SEE YOU NINTH PERIOD TODAY AT THE AUDITORIUM. He finishes it up and then we walk toward precalc, the halls beginning to fill up.
The Isaac/Maura namescrewing reminds me of something. “Tiny,” I say.
“Grayson,” he answers.
“Will you please rename that character in your play, the sidekick guy?”
“Gil Wrayson?” I nod. Tiny throws his hands up in the air and announces, “I can’t change Gil Wrayson’s name! It’s thematically vital to the whole production.”
“I’m really not in the mood for your bullshit,” I say.
“I’m not bullshitting you. His name has to be Wrayson. Say it slow. Ray-sin. Rays-in. It’s a double meaning—Gil Wrayson is undergoing a transformation. And he has to let the rays of sunlight in—those rays of sunlight coming in the form of Tiny’s songs—in order to become his true self—no longer a plum, but a sun-soaked raisin. Don’t you see?”
“Oh, come on, Tiny. If that’s true, why the hell is his name Gil?”
That stops him for a moment. “Hmm,” he says, squinting down the still-quiet hallway. “It just always sounded right to me. But I suppose I could change it. I’ll think about it, okay?”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome. Now please stop being a pu**y.”
“What?”
We get to our lockers, and even though other people can hear him, he talks as loud as ever. “Wah-wah, Jane doesn’t like me even though I don’t like her. Wah-wah, Tiny named a character after me in his play. Like, there are people in the world with real problems, you know? You gotta keep it in perspective.”
“Dude, YOU’RE telling ME to keep it in perspective? Jesus Christ, Tiny. I just wanted to know she had a boyfriend.”
Tiny closes his eyes and takes a deep breath like I’m the annoying one. “As I said, I didn’t even know he existed, okay? But then I saw him talking to her, and I could tell he was into her just from his posture. And when he left, I just had to go up and ask who he was, and she was, like, ‘My ex-boyfriend,’ and I was, like, ‘Ex?! You need to scoop that beautiful man back up immediately!’”
I’m staring into the broad side of Tiny Cooper’s face. He’s looking away from me, into his locker. He looks sort of bored, but then his eyebrows dart up, and I think for a second he realizes how pissed I am about what he just said, but then he reaches into his jeans and pulls out the phone. “You didn’t,” I say.
“Sorry, I know I shouldn’t read texts while we’re talking, but I’m a little twitterpated at the moment.”
“I’m not talking about texts, Tiny. You didn’t tell Jane to get back together with that guy.”
“Well, of course I did, Grayson,” he answers, still looking at the phone. Now he’s writing Will back while talking. “He was gorgeous, and you told me you didn’t like her. So you like her now? Typical boy—you’re interested as long as she isn’t.”
I want to slug him in the kidney, for being wrong and for being right. But it would only hurt me. I’m nothing but a bit character in the Tiny Cooper story, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it except get jerked around until high school is over and I can finally escape his orbit, can finally stop being a moon of his fat planet.
And then I realize what I can do. The weapon I have. Rule 2: Shut up. I step past him and walk toward class.
“Grayson,” he says.
I don’t answer.
I say nothing in precalculus, when he miraculously inserts himself into his desk. And then I say nothing when he tells me that right now I am not even his favorite Will Grayson. I say nothing when he tells me how he has texted the other Will Grayson forty-five times in the last twenty-four hours, and do I think that’s too much. I say nothing when he holds his phone under my nose, showing me some text from Will Grayson that I am supposed to find adorable. I say nothing when he asks me why the hell I’m not saying anything. I say nothing when he says, “Grayson, you were just getting on my nerves, and I only said all that stuff to shut you up. But I didn’t mean to shut you up this much.” I say nothing when he says, “No seriously, talk to me,” and nothing when he says under his breath but still plenty loud enough for people to hear, “Honestly, Grayson, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
And then, blessedly, class starts.
Fifty minutes later, the bell rings, and Tiny follows me out into the hallway like a swollen shadow, saying, “Seriously, come on, this is ridiculous.” It’s not even that I want to torture him anymore. I’m just reveling in the glory of not having to hear the neediness and impotence of my own voice.