“I want to—” I start to say, just as Bec says:
“So what’s going—”
And then we both stop. Neither of us laughs.
“You first,” she says.
I shift on the uncomfortable concrete ramp. “I want to . . . tell you something.”
Bec nods as if she expects this. “Okay.”
I take a deep breath, open my mouth, shut it. Bec waits patiently. I want to continue, but it feels like all the saliva in my mouth has suddenly turned to glue, and I have to swallow before I can speak again. “I have this . . . I mean, I’ve been writing. Online. And . . .”
I stop, because Bec’s eyes have wandered over my shoulder and out of focus; she’s no longer listening. I clear my throat. “Bec, I’m trying to tell you something important.”
“I know,” she says, still looking past me and frowning slightly. “But maybe you should wait.”
Something inside me recoils, and suddenly I’m certain Bec thinks I’m about to confess my feelings for her. I’m convinced that she’s interpreted my strange behavior this week as a sign that I have a massive crush on her, and she doesn’t want to hear me say it. Even through my fog of confusion and paranoia, the rejection stings like a slap.
And then I hear movement behind me, heavy footsteps on the rough concrete, and I turn around.
Solo is tramping toward us, pizza box in hand, a determined expression on his face. He walks to the foot of the ramp and stands there looking down on us.
“Erik said I might find you here,” he says.
Bec looks up at him. “Chewie,” she says.
Solo frowns.
“What a surprise,” Bec continues. “The League of Douchebags must keep you very busy playing with balls, because I haven’t seen you around our table much for, oh, the last year and half.”
Solo glances at me, then back at Bec. “Haven’t seen you there much, either, Francesca.”
Bec stiffens. Her pale face flushes red, and the ring in her lip twitches. “Don’t call me that,” she says. It’s almost a hiss.
“Don’t call me Chewie,” Solo says, “and you’ve got yourself a deal.” They stare at each other.
Finally, Bec says, “Fine.”
Solo turns to me. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.” I scoot back to make room for him.
He sits, and the three of us form a lopsided triangle on the ramp. Solo folds his pizza into a grotesque, wedge-shaped, quadruple-decker cheese and pepperoni sandwich, then takes an enormous bite.
Bec grimaces. “Disgusting.”
“Delicious,” Solo says around his mouthful of pizza.
I take a bite of my sandwich, Bec tears off a piece of jerky, and for a minute, everything feels normal. Just three friends eating lunch on the ramp behind the auditorium. In that moment, I feel ridiculous for having thought either of them might be my anonymous hater. Solo swallows a huge bite of pizza, then fixes his eyes on me, and I feel a question coming.
“So,” he says. “You’ve been off in another galaxy this week. What’s up with you?”
I set down my sandwich and wipe my hands on a napkin, stalling for time. Next to me, Bec shifts on the ramp.
“Sorry,” I say. “There’s been a lot going on.”
“I gathered,” Solo says. “Thing is”—he gestures at Bec with his pizza sandwich, and a pepperoni slips out and drops into the box; he ignores it—“you’re supposed to talk to us. We’re your friends.”
Bec folds her arms. “Don’t lump yourself in with me. You haven’t spoken to me outside class for almost two years.”
Solo smiles, retrieves the fallen pepperoni, and stuffs it into his mouth. “I’ve actually missed arguing with you, Bec. Did you know that?”
Bec rolls her eyes. “Of course you’ve missed it. You spend your time in a locker room, slapping asses with a herd of witless sweat rags. You must be dying for intellectual stimulation.”
Solo shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You’re incredible.” He turns back to me. “Seriously. You’ve been distracted. You’re not laughing at my hilarious jokes.” He pauses as if waiting for a smile or a laugh, which I don’t give. “You’re acting strange. Even for you.”
I glance at Bec, hoping she’ll defend me, but she only shrugs and says, “He has a point.”
“So,” Solo continues, “what’s going on?”
And then both of them are staring at me, waiting for me to talk. I look down at my lap and wait for the tingling to come.
As if he senses my turmoil, Solo relents. “Hey, I didn’t mean to add pressure. Talk when you’re ready. Just know we’re here for you.”
Bec cocks her head at him like a curious predator.
Solo blinks. “Okay, I’m here for you. I can’t speak for Bec.”
Bec leans back and grips the railing casually. I brace myself for another argument.
“I’m here in ways you wouldn’t understand,” Bec says.
The ferocity in her voice sends a warm sensation through me; but now, it’s Solo’s turn to stiffen.
“Why are you so pissed off at me?” he says. “Because I decided to play football?”
“Because you abandoned your friends to join a bunch of assholes who shit on the people you used to hang out with.”
“I don’t shit on people,” Solo says, defiant.
“But you don’t defend them from your ‘friends,’ either,” Bec says, making air quotes. “Or are you telling me that you and your gang of apes are actually grooming Erik for a spot on the team?”
Solo folds his arms. “No one groomed me. If Erik wants it, he has to fight his way in just like I did.”
Bec throws up her hands. “See? This is what I’m talking about. ‘Fight his way in’? That’s not how friends treat each other. Who would want to fight their way into that?” She shakes her head. “You don’t even see it. It’s like you’re a different person.”
Solo regards her with the coldest look I’ve ever seen on him. “That’s really how it seems?”
“That’s how it is,” Bec says.
Solo looks away, nods. “Then I get why you’re pissed.” He gestures toward me, then locks eyes with Bec. “But don’t you think it’s telling that the first two people Riley meets, less than a week after coming to a new school, are you and me?”
Bec releases her grip on the railing. She glances at me, then back to Solo, then shrugs.
“I have a proposal,” Solo says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “The two of you come to my game on Saturday.”
Bec and I look at each other. I picture the two of us, climbing the bleachers side by side to shouts of “Fag!” or “Dyke!” Bec blinks, looks at Solo, and lets out a grunt of contempt.
“Hear me out,” Solo says, raising his hands defensively. “You can sit by the exit. You can leave at halftime if you want. But come to the game.” He lets his hands drop to his lap. “I know you think football is stupid. But I really love it. I don’t love all the people involved—but then, I don’t love all Star Wars fans or all Whovians, either.” Bec and I glance at each other again. Solo continues, “I think if you watch me play, maybe you’ll understand. And if you don’t think differently about me after that, you don’t have to speak to me ever again.”
“I don’t have to speak to you ever again now,” Bec says.
Solo opens his mouth, shuts it. “Fair point. So. What do you want in return?”
Bec regards Solo coldly, as though sizing him up. After a moment, she leans forward. “We’ll go to the game,” she says, “but first, you have to come to a club with us. Tomorrow night.”
My head snaps toward Bec. What is she doing? Agreeing to go to the game is bad enough, but inviting Solo to the Q? I open my eyes wide in protest, but Bec’s are locked on Solo.
He gestures at his chest. “You want to unleash all this at a club? Do you have any idea what kind of devastation that could cause?”
I consider speaking up to tell Solo it’s not that kind of club—but
Bec replies before I have the chance.
“Those are my terms,” she says.
Solo glances at me, then turns back to Bec. “Done.” He holds out one fist. It’s like the head of a plump, brown mallet. Bec stares at it for a moment, then slowly extends her own. Suddenly, their arms whir into action, fists and elbows flying in a complex and ridiculous dance. They finish by touching index fingers and uttering, in unison, “Ouch.” Solo smiles. Bec tries not to, but I see the telltale twist at the corner of her mouth.
Solo crams the remains of his lunch into his mouth, brushes off his hands, and gets to his feet.
“Tomorrow,” he says, the word almost indistinguishable around his final mouthful of pizza sandwich, and then he walks off.
CHAPTER 20
ON THE RIDE TO SCHOOL Friday, I notice that my mother is biting her cuticles again. Dad left for Washington this morning, last-minute—something about his education bill—and Mom always worries when he flies. I start to reach out, like I’m going to pull her hand away from her mouth, but I think better of it, and let my arm drop into my lap.
“When does he get back?” I say.
Mom, suddenly aware that she’s gnawing on her own flesh, puts her hand back on the steering wheel and glances over at me, embarrassed. I stare out the windshield and pretend I don’t notice.
“Monday night at the latest, depending on how his meetings go. He’s so tense about this bill.” She starts chewing her thumb again. The affect makes her look younger, somehow, an odd contrast with the worry lines forming on her forehead. I wonder if she secretly loathes this whole election business as much as I do.
There’s another fund-raiser on Tuesday, a big one, and my attendance is mandatory. Thinking about being in a huge hotel ballroom with two hundred people, smiling my campaign smile and wearing what I have to wear, is usually enough to send me into a spiral of anxiety—but right now, I’ve got other problems to distract me.
I don’t know why it bothers me so much that Bec invited Solo to the Q. He already knows I’m different, so I’m not too worried about him rejecting me. It’s just . . . I thought of the Q as our place. Bec’s and mine. And there’s also the fact that it was supposed to be our third date. At least, I thought it was.
But it’s more than that. When I’m with Solo, I tend to behave more like a guy, because I think that’s how he sees me. But around Bec, I’m inclined to be more . . . I don’t know. Feminine is the word that comes to mind, but it’s too simple a word for what I feel. There aren’t words for what I feel, because all the words were made up by people who never felt like this.
As if that dilemma weren’t enough, I’ll be in a room full of people who expect me to be open about my gender identity. Regardless of which direction my compass is pointing tonight—how am I going to satisfy all those different expectations without acting like a crazy person?
Behind all this, buzzing in the background like an unseen wasp’s nest, is the threat of my anonymous stalker. I start to turn over the possibilities for the thousandth time—but my thoughts are interrupted when Mom pulls into the circular driveway and stops at the curb.
“How about you?” she says, squinting at me. “You’re dreading the fund-raiser, aren’t you?”
I open my mouth, then close it again without saying anything. It’s not at all what I was thinking—but she’s right. I am.
“I don’t blame you,” she says. “All you can eat at those things is bread and ketchup.”
I actually laugh out loud.
“We’ll get On the Vedge before, so you’re not starving. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say. And then she reaches toward me, and I’m not sure if she intends to ruffle my hair or pat my cheek. She ends up sort of gripping my shoulder and giving me a weird concerned-mom smile.
As she pulls away, I wave good-bye, and she starts chewing on her thumb again.
I expect Mrs. Crane’s classroom to be empty, as it usually is when I get to school early—so I’m surprised when I open the door to find Sierra Wells standing at the far end, facing one of the windows. Her head is down and her phone is pressed to her ear.
“No,” she says. “Mom. Dad’s . . . Okay, I’m not saying he is. I’m just . . . you’re—okay. Fine.”
She ends the call abruptly, drops her phone on the nearest desk, and buries her face in her hands. I didn’t hear enough to understand what she was talking about, but it’s clear from the way her shoulders are shaking that she’s upset. For a moment, I consider walking right back out the door—but then Sierra turns around. Her eyes are red and puffy. When she sees me, she stiffens at once and her expression hardens into a glare. This is the second time I’ve witnessed her in an embarrassing moment—the third, if you count the time I cut her down in the cafeteria—and I regret it immediately.
“Sorry,” I say, taking a step back. She sniffs, looks away. “Are you . . . okay?” For a second, I think she might actually answer me, but then she snatches her phone, drops it into her purse, and heads for the door.
“Mind your own business,” she says. Then, under her breath, “Fucking freak.”
As she storms out, I notice she’s scratching vigorously at her wrist.
I drop into my usual seat, and not long after that, the classroom begins to fill up. Solo comes in and starts trying to tease information out of me about “the club” we’ll be hitting tonight. I deflect his questions with humor, but I’m distracted; I’m still thinking about walking in on Sierra’s phone call, and her obsessive scratching. I almost tell Solo about it—I want to—but something stops me. Maybe I’m just being polite, or maybe I’m scared of what Sierra will do if she finds out, but I think it’s something else. I think I just sort of understand what it’s like to have a fucked-up secret, and I don’t want to be the one who tells someone else’s. Not even hers.
When I get home from school, there are still a few hours left before I have to get ready for tonight, so I head straight upstairs and fire up my laptop.
I haven’t posted since I received the “c u at lunch” message; I haven’t had the courage. But over the past week, the story of what happened to Andie Gingham has become a national news item. And with all the attention driving my follower count into the stratosphere, I feel pressure to respond. To get back on Bloglr and address my part in what happened.
It’s still hard for me to believe that something I wrote created so many ripples—ripples that became waves—but whether I believe it or not, I have to deal with the consequences. At least, that’s what I think Doctor Ann would say.
My computer emits its welcoming chime, and I go to Bloglr and type in my username and password below the smiling frog logo. My finger pauses above the keyboard, and I feel my heart skip. I take one deep breath, and then hit Enter.
MESSAGES: 500
FOLLOWERS: 35,144
This time, I’m prepared for the ridiculously high numbers. I manage, as Bec would put it, to contain my overdeveloped sense of drama, so there is no gasping or jaw dropping or anything like that.
My finger moves to click on my inbox, but I stop. Whatever is inside—hate or threats or gratitude—it has no bearing on what I want to say.
I click on New Post instead.
NEW POST: COMING TO TERMS
OCTOBER 19, 4:46 PM
Hi.
First, I want you to know I haven’t opened a single message since the night I read Andie’s story in The Advocate. I haven’t even logged in until now. I apologize for my silence. I just got overwhelmed—by the massive response, sure, but also by little things in my own life.
It’s easy to sound wise on a blog, easy to engage in clever banter and dispense advice to anonymous strangers. It costs me nothing.
Andie’s stand cost her plenty. It almost cost her everything.
NOW PLAYING: “Low Point” by Trespassers William
Andie, I’m so sorry you were hurt. And I’m sorry if anything I said put you at risk. I only wanted to help. And I’m so grateful that you’re going to be ok
ay.
I don’t know how else to respond or what else to say. I’m humbled by your gratitude, but I don’t know what to do with it. I’m inspired by your bravery, but I’m not ready to match it. I feel like a coward, hiding on the internet behind a fake username. But I’m not just hiding on this blog—I’m hiding in real life, too. I don’t have the guts to come out like you did. I’m afraid.
So, right now, nobody knows who I am. Nobody but strangers.
But when my time comes, I’ll try to summon the kind of courage you showed us.
I click Post and slam the laptop shut. I think about how brave Andie was to come out to the world, and what she got as a reward for that act of courage: a nation of supporters. An extended family of people who believe in her, even admire her. I have that, too, from my blog followers—but in an artificial, anonymous way, as Alix. If I want the real thing—the support, the admiration—I’ll have to do what Andie did. And I don’t know if I can.
A cold feeling settles in the center of my chest. The only person in my life who knows who I really am is Doctor Ann, and my parents pay her to care.
For the first time, I consider the consequences of coming out. School would be unbearable, obviously. The taunting I get just for looking different is a drop in the ocean compared with the torrent of discrimination I would suffer for being openly gender fluid. Bec would stay friends with me—I’m almost sure she would. But Solo? I don’t know. He tolerates my weirdness, but if I were to come out, would he be willing to endure the harassment from his team?
My mom would accept me, I think. It might take her a while to wrap her old-fashioned mind around it, but she would come around. My father, on the other hand—what would it do to him? He’s worked so hard to carve out his spot in this ultraconservative county; a breaking story about his secretly gender fluid kid might be enough to cost him reelection.
Then I think about my stalker, and a shiver goes through me. The thought of being exposed, of being outed before I’m ready, terrifies me. It makes me want to shut down my blog and just go back to trying to blend in.
But there’s another voice in my head—maybe it’s Andie Gingham’s voice, or Doctor Ann’s. Or maybe it’s my own. The voice is telling me that all those things aren’t reasons, just excuses.