“Polytomy?” I ask weakly. Usually, this is exactly the kind of thing I’m best at. I understand plants like they’re people, each one with their individual story and personality, and because of that, my brain has grown into its own weird botanical database over the years.
Except right now, with Professor Thomas patiently staring at me, along with all the other students in my cohort, I can’t remember a damn thing.
“Those order nodes are unresolved,” Ray says from the other side of the room, his deep voice cutting through the awkward silence. When I shoot him a glance, I see the smug look on his face, and my stomach twists with the knowledge that he’s internally gloating over showing me up.
“Right,” I say reluctantly. “The polytomy.”
The lecture goes on, and I turn to my laptop, embarrassed. Ray is the only other gay person in my program, and like a fool, I had just expected that meant we’d be at least civil to each other. But no matter how many times I gave him a big smile and a wave, Ray still just ignored me.
He’s the kind of guy who calls himself “straight-acting” like it’s some kind of accomplishment and who would totally ignore me if I were to ever see him at a club or something, same as he does in class. I’m too girly, too nerdy, and with style that I personally love but that probably makes him embarrassed.
I do have two sweatshirts with outer space kitties and galaxy backgrounds, for example.
It’s largely fine, and my friends love me for who I am. It’s just an unfortunate reality that who I am is decidedly not fine when it comes to guys like Ray, who would rather not associate with geeky queers.
Guys like Ray, or Joey from the tattoo shop, probably.
When the lecture finishes, I gather up my things and hurry away. This was not my best performance, which bothers me especially because I’m trying to impress Professor Thomas. There’s a research position at the Botanical Garden that I’m dying for. It’s basically my dream job, working with regional flowers as part of an ongoing research project, and my professor will be the one to place someone from our school there.
Pushing all those worries aside, I catch the train straight home. I’m living in an old house in Chicago, not far from my school. It’s the house that my friend Ayla shares with her boyfriend Horatio, with me occupying the spare room in the basement. Sometimes, it feels a little third wheel, especially since the whole arrangement only came together after our other best friend Matty moved in with his boyfriend.
But also, it means that I have Ayla nearby all the time and that Horatio and I are getting closer, so I’m not really complaining. “Honey,” I call out for Ayla as I kick snow off my boots. “I’m home!”
“Honey,” Matty calls back, “we’re in the kitchen!”
I grin. The three of us haven’t gotten together in a couple of weeks, and I’ve been missing my best friends. When I walk into the kitchen, I explode with laughter. Matty is standing there in a sweater as pink as his bright pink hair, holding a baking tray with some tiny donuts shining on it. Beside him, Ayla fusses to tie her hair up, a wooden spoon held between her teeth and a dirty apron hanging over her flowing vintage dress. They both look frazzled, and when I notice the mess on the counters, I figure they’ve been busy for a while.
“The dahlias,” I say, pointing to the pattern on Ayla’s dress. “My favorite!”
She pulls the wooden spoon out of her mouth and smiles. “I know. You say so every time,” she laughs, and her round glasses slide down.
Matty extends the tray toward me. “Donut?”
I lean forward and pick one. They’re brown and freshly fried and glazed with sugar, and small enough to fit easily in the palm of my hand.
I look around and see some tiny cupcakes on the counter, and what look like failed miniature pies tossed in a bowl. “Should I ask?” I ask.
“It’s an experiment for Matty’s new film.”
Matty extends an arm dramatically out. “A stop motion animation about two clumsy turtles who fall in love as contestants on a reality TV baking contest.” He bows slightly. “I think it might be my masterpiece.”
“We were trying to see if we could make baked goods small enough that he could use them as props,” Ayla explains.
“The answer is yes, so now we’re just making tiny foods for fun,” Matty concludes, then drops the tray of donuts on the kitchen table.
“In that case,” I say and pluck another small donut from the pile, “I’m glad I came straight home.”
Matty takes a seat across from me, clearly exhausted by the baking marathon. “Did you make your appointment for the tattoo?” he asks immediately.
Ayla laughs. “I can’t believe you let Matty talk you into a breakup tattoo. Next thing I know, you’re going to be as inked up as he’s getting.”
Matty smiles and looks down at himself. Most of his tattoos aren’t visible with his sweater on, but I know he’s thinking of all the gorgeous work his boyfriend had done on his body.
I shoot air out of my nose. “It’s not a breakup tattoo,” I point out.
“That’s right,” Matty agrees. “Calling it a breakup tattoo makes the tattoo about the person you just broke up with. This is a fresh start tattoo.”
I shove another warm donut in my mouth and let myself be distracted by the sweetness of it. I’d had a string of bad luck with my relationships, falling over and over again for people who weren’t available for anything serious, but the breakup with Hilton had hurt especially bad. I’d introduced him to my friends and made all kinds of commitments with my heart, but less than a year after we started seeing each other, he just decided we weren’t working.
