Drastic measures are a last ditch effort to save yourself after twenty-one heartbreaks and thirteen failed relationships, or at least this is the logic behind Wyatt Carter's decision to open his podcast: The Bottom Club.
When it goes viral, however...
RUNNING LAPS AROUND the wide stretch of grass that made up the Mayfield track field was not Wyatt’s idea of the best way to begin his Wednesday morning, but then he couldn’t so much as blame fate rather than whoever had decided that starting a school day with PE was a good idea.
He had long given up hope of ever taking up an exercise of any kind, and using up the little energy he derived from the granola bars and dried cereal, gulped down with a glass of milk or orange juice for breakfast usually meant that Wyatt slept through the rest of his classes.
To Wyatt, the best thing about this class was that all the boys got to wear gym shorts, which let his mind run free without exerting his imagination. On the other hand, the worst thing was that he wore shorts, which meant that he usually had to ward against these thoughts to prevent a hard-on, or fake a pseudo-asthma attack―something he had been doing since middle school―so Coach Briggs, their gym teacher, would let him rest in the bleachers.
Locker rooms were infinitely worst and thoughts of him in the middle of (very naked) testosterone levels like that left Wyatt feeling lightheaded.
It was true that compared to other high schools, Mayfield took its inclusivity policies very seriously when it came to minorities in the student body. On paper, different alliances took this show of tolerance a step in the right direction, but on paper, most of them remained sufficiently underfunded.
But at least nobody could accuse them of not implying the notion.
Wyatt stopped to catch his breath, bending over as he forced lungful’s of air into his already over-exerted body. It took him two laps to get to this point, and he was proud of himself. Tobi was in the lead, followed closely by Vanda Ambridge, whose great-grandparents had founded Mayfield sometime after World War II―first as a way to homeschool their four children, before having it go public.
Vanda was blonde, cold, and a three-time national debate finalist honoree. She also happened to be in―to Wyatt at least―the world’s most complicated relationship with Tobi, in which they’d started kissing at fourteen but still pretended to hate each other’s guts most of the time. Of course, there were unspoken rules e.g. they could flirt with other people to their heart's content, but anything past that was crossing a line.
It wasn’t like everybody wasn’t aware of their arrangement.
From his bent over spot Wyatt rose his eyes in time to catch Vanda pump her long legs and suddenly launch herself into the air, screaming until she landed on Tobi’s back who stumbled slightly but quickly regained his footsteps; then his hands tightened around her thighs and she squealed as he adjusted her, still running top speed so she bounced with each step he took. They didn’t notice the attention they were garnering, people dropping whatever they were doing to watch one boy and girl stop to put aside their hating game.
To him it looked like a love story waiting to be written, and not for the first time Wyatt wondered why compared to every other person in the world, his love life was at best, nonexistent, and at worst, cursed.
He straightened, feeling the fabric of his shorts catch between his butt cheeks and spread his legs, pretending to squat and stretch to ease it out. Satisfied with his handiwork he rolled his shoulder determinedly, jaws set, as he vowed to himself that he would at least run another halfway point of the overall track field before playing his asthma card. He began.
Scratch that, a quarter of the field was more than enough.
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