I end up beside Stef and Forrest, cutting posterboard into squares. Construction paper gets pasted onto each poster, so the white board makes a neat border behind the bright color. Each one will display a picture and biography of a famous queer person from our list. In another corner, Makayla, Anna, and Nyx are researching each person, finding the photos and writing up the bios for us to print out. Riley, Jayden, and Alexander are working on the timeline of historical events, two of them researching while the other cuts construction paper into triangles. We’ll string them all together to make a banner of historical events people can follow from the entrance to the library all the way to the start of the exhibit, marked by a display of our library’s queer books. Beyond it, we’ll mount each profile on the end of a bookcase, making a perimeter around the tables in the center of the library.
A chorus of giggles bursts the silence, and I look up to see Jayden smacking Alexander’s arm. I guess the historygroup project must be going well if they’re this comfortable around each other.
“We needmusic,” Forrest announces to the room and scrambles to his feet, almost stepping on my fingers as he dashes to a Bluetooth player on the fireplace mantel. He turns it on and stands there connecting his phone, and a moment later “Hot to Go!” by Chappell Roan blasts out at top volume. Anna shrieks and covers her ears, Riley flinches, and Forrest frantically presses the buttons on his phone until the sound is a normal level.
“Thanks, I’m awake now,” I mutter as he sits back down beside me.
“You’re welcome!” he says with a toothy smile. I roll my eyes and he smirks back. It feels like we’re friends, bantering back and forth, the bitter edge that used to color our interactions now gone.
The music is a playlist of pop hits from the last few years, and I hum along as I glue construction paper to posterboard. Stef harmonizes with me, and I smile at her.
“You have a nice voice,” I say.
“Thanks!” she says. “I’m in choir with this fool.” She jerks a thumb at Forrest, who presses a hand to his chest, feigning hurt.
“You’re in choir?” I ask him.
“Yeah, I love singing, and I thought it would help me not lose my singing voice when I started testosterone.” He presses purple construction paper to a posterboard square.
“And theater? Does that mean you get to waive gym class?” I say.
“Hell yeah I do,” he says, grinning. “I avoid sports at all costs.”
“Closest he gets is coming to my breakdancing competitions,” Alexander calls out from where he sits tapping away on his laptop.
“Always support the homies,” Forrest says, shooting finger guns back.
“How long have you been breakdancing?” I ask.
“Since I was like ...twelve?” Alexander says, running a hand over his close-cropped black hair. “I was really into hip-hop and some of my friends were taking classes, so I got my parents to let me go.”
“And now he’s winning everything,” Forrest says with a grin.
Alexander blushes. “Noteverything.” His expression turns mischievous. “Justmostthings.”
“When’s your next one?” I ask.
“November,” he says. “Y’all should come.”
“We’ll be there,” Jayden says, and I glance at him, but he’s looking at Alexander. It does sound cool; I’ve never seen breakdancing in person before, just on my feed for whatever obscure reason the algorithm has decided to show it to me. I’ve been noticing more videos popping up for me lately, but I don’t mind. It’s impressive to watch.
Something pings in my brain. Jayden said he’d gone to the breakdancing club that Monday we both missed lunch with Anna and Makayla. Is he hanging out with Alexander? I mean, he must be, if he’s gone to the club. But maybe he’sbeen seeing the same videos as me and just thought it was cool.
Or he’s ditching us. Maybe he’s not on drugs, maybe he just found people better than us. Why would he want to be friends with us, anyway? He’s probably pulling away, right now. On Monday, he’ll be gone again, having a great time with Alexander and not even thinking about us. My chest aches, the beginning of tears stinging inside my nose. The grief is strong, surging inside me, and it feels like I’m going to drown.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
Everyone else chatters around me, but they recede like shapes in a heavy fog as I repeat my mantra. A laugh cuts through my second set of three, and I look around. Everyone is smiling and talking. No one knows what I’m thinking, which is good, because if they did, they’d think I’m crazy, and then they’d pull away for sure.
By the time parents start arriving, we’ve finished everything we wanted to do. We decide to set up the exhibit at one of the lunch periods this week, and one by one, as people leave, we clean up. My thoughts have faded to whispers, but I’m still in an anxious haze, not really paying attention to the others as I gather up the materials around me.
I take an armful of paper scraps to the recycling bin in the kitchen, poking around for a minute before I find it atthe end of one of the butcher block counters, by the back door. The kitchen is nice, as big as our living room at home, with an island, a porcelain sink, and three times the counter space. Simba follows me, snuffling at the ground while I throw the paper away. I crouch to pet him, and he licks my face. It makes me smile, and when I stand up, I feel a little more present.
Back in the living room, Forrest is the only one there, dropping the last few markers into his bin of art supplies.
