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“Fine. I’ll get a Purge mask next time.”

“There will not be a next time.”

“Sure, Dee.” Alvin’s eyes flicked to my mouth, and I tried to ignore the way my heart reacted to that tiny, disbelieving smirk. Because I didn’t believe me either.

CHAPTER 15

The first thing I noticed about my father was the cross. Nope, it wasn’t the ridiculous black SUV creeping down the gravel road towards Camp Dix like the fucking president had arrived to inspect our mosquito population. Or the two church board members in pressed khakis climbing out behind him. Or even the man carrying three cardboard boxes from the back.

It was the cross. That silver, polished piece of crap that was always hanging perfectly against the front of Pastor Xavier Carter’s pale-blue dress shirt. My father had always liked his crosses extra gaudy.

“Shit,” I huffed.

Trevor stopped wrestling with the white pom-pom that I gave him and looked over at me. “What?”

I didn’t answer. My smile had already locked itself into place. Big, bright, and one-thousand percent unbothered. I adjusted the pleated blue skirt sitting criminally high on my thighs and planted both hands on my hips.

“Okay, baby gays,” I announced to the group of teenagers gathered in the grass, “we have exactly eleven minutes before lunch, and if I don’t see enthusiasm, I’m making everybody learn the choreography again.”

“Mr. Carter,” one of the boys complained, “this is humiliating.”

“Humiliation builds character, kid.”

“You’re wearing a cheerleading uniform.”

I looked down at myself. The blue-and-white top had CAMP DIX stretched across my chest. I’d cut the sleeves off because apparently sleeves were invented by heterosexuals determined that no one with muscles would dare try them on. The skirt had belonged to somebody from approximately 1998, according to the smell of the storage closet. White tube socks. Sneakers. And, because God had abandoned this place decades ago, two enormous pom-poms.

I lifted one. “This is fashion, darling.”

“That’s for girls.”

“Excellent observational skills, Brayden. Your mother must be thrilled with the tuition money she’s spending.”

A couple kids laughed and Trevor did too. Quietly. That had been the entire fucking point of this little shindig. Well, that and to piss off my father until the veins bulged in that perfectly-coiffed head of his.

Yesterday, Trevor stood outside the activity shed staring at the old costumes like one might spontaneously bite him in the ass and he’d grow wings. He’d picked up the cheerleading skirt twice before putting it down and then going right back to snatching it up again.

Then a couple of typical heteros had walked past him snickering, and Trevor had practically thrown the damn thing across the room.

So today? I wore it. Because sometimes bravery needed company and stupidity needed an audience. And, well, duh, I looked phenomenal. Obviously.

I glanced towards Trevor again. He had the matching cheer top over his regular t-shirt. Progress. Tiny, yet terrified progress.

“Alvin?”

My spine went rigid and not because of Trevor. My father’s voice had carried across that field thousands of times before. When I was eight. Twelve. Fifteen. Always with the same dissatisfied exhaustion.

Alvin. Stand up straight.

Alvin. Lower your voice.

Alvin. Stop moving your hands.

Alvin. Boys do not behave that way.

Alvin. Why can’t you just be normal?

I turned around. Pastor Xavier Carter stood ten feet away. His expression traveled slowly from my sneakers upwards. The socks. The bare legs. The skirt. The cropped cheer shell. Thennnn my face.