“Do we wanna do anything else this month?” Riley asks. “It’s LGBTQ History Month, might be cool to do something on that theme.”
Thank you, Riley, for the perfect cue.
“Actually, I was thinking we could do an exhibit about that exact subject,” I say. “I know the month is half over,and it’ll take some time to put together, but we could run it through Trans Awareness Week in November.”
Everyone’s eyes are on me. I look at Forrest, who’s slouched back in his chair, arms crossed; I remember our conversation on Monday, and I’m hoping he does too.
“We could put it up somewhere in the school,” I add. “Maybe they’d let us use the display cases in the front hallway, or we could do the library again. Mx. Prager loves us.” Our librarian is nonbinary and has hosted more than their fair share of Queer Alliance events.
“Oh my gosh, yes,” Makayla says, clapping her hands.
“I just watched this movie about Stonewall,” one of the freshmen says, baby face obscured by heavy eyeliner and black lipstick. “We could do a whole section about that? It was this night where all the gay people in New York City rioted, they even threw bricks at cops—”
I open my mouth to tell them of course we’re going to talk about Stonewall, it’s only one of the most important events in queer history, but Forrest beats me to it.
“Hell yeah, we can have a Stonewall section,” he says, smiling at the freshman, and they smile back, a bright blush spreading across their face.
“Sounds like we’re all down for this?” Riley asks, looking from me to Forrest.
Across the circle, Forrest meets my gaze and nods. “I’m down.”
Something lifts off me then, like some huge bird has been perched on my back, digging its claws into my neck, whispering to me about all the ways this would go wrong,Forrest would hate the idea, everyone would agree, the club would fall apart again—but it hasn’t, and everyone thinks it’s a great idea. Or an OK one, at least. Finally, I’m getting a chance to show what I’d bring to the presidency. Every meeting so far has felt like a tug-of-war that Forrest is winning, but now I’m pulling the club back to my side. I just have to keep this up until the revote.
“Maybe we talk about this more next time?” Riley says, glancing at the clock. Lunch is almost over. Everyone agrees, and we get up to put the desks back. I know Forrest is nearby, I can hear him talking to Stef about some video game they’re playing, but I don’t look in his direction. I can’t quite believe that was so easy, but I’m not questioning it.
Dad is late to pick me up for our hike Sunday morning, because of course he is. I sit on the living room couch, checking and rechecking my phone, waiting for a text from him. Maybe he slept in, or maybe he just forgot. Maybe this was a terrible idea. Am I really prepared to spend multiple hours with him? Is it too late to back out? I pick up my phone to check our text thread again, but there’s nothing. This is it, he’s not showing up. Fear surges in my chest, hot and tingly.
My phone rings, an unknown number, and I answer it.
“Sidney? I’m calling from Swedish Hospital on First Hill,” says the voice on the other end. “Your father listed you as next of kin, and—”
STOP!I scream in my head, shaking it back and forth.Stop. Stop.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
Brekky bumps my hand and I lift it to pet him, focusing on the velvety fur behind his ears. He arches his neck, purring loudly.
“Do you have everything you need for today?” Mom asks, coming up behind the couch.
I twist to face her, patting the backpack on my lap. “It’s all in here.”
“Snacks? An extra layer? Lots of water?”
“Mom, I’ve got it.” I don’t mean to snap at her, but I can tell she’s anxious, and it’s making my own anxiety worse.
“OK, honey,” she says, raising her hands in front of her. “Just remember, you can ask to come home whenever you want.”
“I’ll be fine.”
From the door to the hallway, Shar gives me a thumbs-up and disappears again, into the room she shares with Mom. She keeps a low profile when Dad is around; the first few times they met, in moments like this, when Dad was picking me up, Dad would say things to her. Nothing homophobic, just ...unfriendly in a way I couldn’t quite pin down, something to needle her or Mom, so they’d respond, and then he’d get defensive and weird. It never ended well, so now she avoids him. I don’t blame her.
A knock sounds on the door, and I suck in a breath.
“You ready?” Mom says, crossing to it, hand on the doorknob.
