"So," Chiara said, the moment I took a seat at the dinner table. "I heard you've been a busy little bee with the Student Council. You were already saving them your first night here." She looked fondly at Dad. "You're taking after your father. Always busy saving the school."

I smiled while Dad grunted in response despite being complimented. He was always grumpy when hungry and honestly shouldn't be talked to until at least halfway into the meal.

Atticus was staring at the food on the table, pasta with broccoli and cheddar sauce. He was permanently grumpy. Or maybe just around me. I didn't know. I didn't get the chance to talk to him yet after school. Student Council meetings clashed with football practice on Tuesdays, meaning he and Corey couldn't be there, and by the time we both made it home, it was already close to dinnertime. We got little time alone.

"I'm sorry. I haven't started on your wild horses painting yet," I apologised to Chiara, who waved my apology away.

"No, not at all. I understand you have other things on your mind in school." She turned to Dad, who was loading up her plate with pasta. "That's enough, honey."

Dad nodded and started scooping pasta onto my plate next. After three good scoops, I raised my hand to signal it was enough. I probably had to watch my food intake and control my sweet tooth if I wanted to make it into the football team.

"I was thinkin' of tryin' out for the football team, too," I told Dad and Chiara.

Dad stopped chewing macaroni for just a millisecond. He looked mildly surprised, probably because I'd never shown any interest in the sport before. Chiara just smiled, supportive as she always was.

"That's nice, Kade," she said. "I heard being on the football team gets you all the ladies." She gently elbowed my dad, who was still in his hangry-don't-interrupt-my-eating mode, so he only grunted again. "At least, since your dad gave Pinewood's team that stellar reputation."

"Thanks, but I'm not really interested in that. I'm gay," I replied, wondering why Dad hadn't mentioned that to her. He'd told her I was a painter, and even my favourite drink (either that, or Chiara had just randomly guessed right and got me apple juice), but not that I was gay?

Across the table, Atticus nearly choked on his macaroni. Chiara immediately turned to her son and patted his back with a concerned expression.

Dad didn't respond. He'd already had his response a year ago when I came out to him and Mom. It had consisted out of a day of three of awkwardness and then a strong back pat and him gruffly telling me it was okay. It was about the best reaction I could've expected in a conservative small town like ours.

Atticus regained his composure and stopped coughing.Then Chiara broke the silence by laughing.

"Well, it attracts guys too," she said. "The only reason Atticus doesn't have a boyfriend is because he's so focused on his team."

Chiara rubbed Atticus' arm. If I'd had macaroni in my mouth, it would've been my turn to choke.

"He came out last year," Chiara went on, her hand still resting on her son's arm. "After a big tournament. There may have been two or three web articles about it even if we tried to stop it."

"I didn't see any," I said, glancing Atticus' way. An openly gay varsity jock? In a sport that involved a lot of physical contact? I had to tell Jenny and Taylor about this. They wouldn't believe that kind of stuff happened in high school and was accepted here.

Though maybe it wasn't entirely.

Atticus gripped his fork aggressively, avoiding all eye contact. His cheeks were flushed, and I wasn't sure whether that was because he nearly choked on pasta or because he was embarrassed.

"It was the same for me," I tried to divert the attention away from Atticus. "I came out last year."

But a new school meant doing that all over again. Here was to hoping people here were a little more progressive and wouldn't ask strange personal questions like whether I was 'the boy' or 'the girl' in bed, or assumed I could suddenly give them fashion advice like back home.

Atticus didn't seem reassured or less embarrassed in the slightest by me sharing I came out last year. If it were at all possible, he pretended I didn't exist even harder.

There wasn't even a polite 'thank you' when I passed him another glass of water. He was doing the weird 'gripping my cutlery too hard' thing again when Dad finally lost his hangriness and asked me what position I wanted to try out for. It reminded me I should probably research what football positions there were and then look for the one with fewest fuck-up chances.

By the time dinner ended, Atticus looked like he both desperately needed to take a dump, and already smelled it with his wrinkled nose.

Even Chiara noticed, because she told him he looked tired and grouchy and should get a good night's rest tonight.

Atticus barely nodded at his mom before leaving the table and speeding up the staircases. It sounded like he was already halfway across the second staircase before I even got up from the table. He was sure fast for someone who looked that bulky.

"Thanks for dinner, Chiara. It was great," I told Chiara. "I'll be upstairs, actually workin' on the wild horses painting tonight. I promise."

"You're welcome, and I can't wait to see it, but don't rush. Just take your time," Chiara told me with a warm smile.

I shot her one last grateful look over my shoulder and left the living room, following Atticus up the stairs at a much slower pace. I don't know how he did it. Run right after dinner. Maybe it was a football thing, and I'd learn the secrets of an iron stomach when I joined the team. I hoped so.

I could really use an iron stomach right now. Not just because of staircases, but because of the nervous twisting and turning going on in there. I pictured strands of spaghetti dancing in my stomach right now. That's what it felt like.

Atticus. I wouldn't put off confronting him. Mom always said I should face my problems head on, rather than letting them fester until they end up in raging, screaming divorce and chase your ex-husband across the country to the big city.

Not that I thought Atticus and I would ever end up marrying, let alone divorcing. Not even now I found out he's gay, just like me.

I took a deep breath and knocked on his door.

"Yes?" Atticus' voice sounded. It was amazing how he could make a 'yes' sound like a clear 'no' purely with his tone. It was a talent, really.

I opened his bedroom door. Atticus was sprawled out on his kingsize bed, surrounded by football attributes and trophies, but jumped up when he realised it wasn't his mother in the door opening. He eyed me suspiciously, and his eyes seemed darker, stormier green in the artificial light.

"What?" he asked.

"Do you have a problem with me joinin' the football team and the Student Council? Because I get the feelin' you do," I said. Head on. Just like my mom taught me.

Atticus' eyebrows unknitted for a moment in pure surprise, but then his eyes grew even darker.

It was his turn to throw me off. Both with his words, and because it was the longest sentence he'd ever spoken to me, or near me.

"Even if I did, so what?" he snapped. "I don't tell you what to do, do I?"

"Uh, no?" I replied.

"Then don't ask. Do whatever you want."

Atticus walked to the door. He towered over me and came close enough so I felt heat radiating from his skin. While I refused to let myself get intimidated and didn't move, my heart pounded in my throat.

For a split second, I thought he'd punch me. But after a brief pause in which he refused to meet my eyes while I stared up at him, he calmly closed the door in my face.