PrezMamasBoy: It took me a while to understand that, for me, attraction isn’t about what the person looks like, but about who the person is, and learning who someone is takes a long time.
PrezMamasBoy: Have you ever seen a guy you thought was attractive and developed a crush on him, but when you spent time with him and got to know him, you realized he was awful and that knowledge killed your attraction?
PrezMamasBoy: I’m going to assume the answer is yes. Well, for me, it’s basically the opposite of that.
PrezMamasBoy: I hope that makes sense. I’m still trying to understand it myself.
PrezMamasBoy: Sorry, I have to go. Talk to you later, Dre. ~Dean
I smiled, reading what he’d written at least a dozen times. I didn’t know what I wanted from Dean, and I didn’t know what he wanted from me, but it seemed the possibilities were endless and, for now, that was enough.
DreOfTheDead: it’s cool if you don’t know the answer . . . i hardly know the answer to anything . . . but i kind of think you explained it perfectly
Dean
ERIC SHU DODGED the tackle, pivoted, turned, and cranked back his arm. The bleachers shook as everyone rose to their feet. We were down by two touchdowns in the third quarter, and the Spartans had refused to give away a single yard without making our team fight for it. They’d harried Eric all night, forcing as many errors as possible. It looked like they were about to force another. Eric paused. We paused. We prayed. And then he released the ball, throwing it in a tight, high spiral that sailed sixty yards down the field right into the hands of DeMarcus Jackson as he broke away from the cornerback covering him. He put on a burst of speed and crossed into the end zone.
The crowd was so shocked that there was a full second of silence before they realized that our team had scored, and they broke out in a roar of approval. The cheer squad went wild, channeling our enthusiasm into a chant.
Let’s go, Lions, let’s go!
Let’s go, Lions, let’s go!
It was infectious, and soon I was chanting with them. Craig ran onto the field to kick the extra point. The ball sailed easily between the posts. I was surrounded by Tamal and Astrid—who kept telling everyone they were keeping things laid-back but whom I caught linking fingers together when they thought no one was paying attention—and Jessi, Fonda, and Shane. I knew them casually, but I’d made it my mission to meet every person in our class and try to know their names. Not because it was good for my image, but because people fascinated me and bewildered me and gave me hope. The more I learned about others, the more I seemed to learn about myself.
My phone vibrated, alerting me that I had three new messages on Promethean. I had to resist the urge to open my phone right then and read them, but the habits my mother had drilled into me were pretty hardwired. Be present, she’d often said. When I was with my friends, I should be with them and not be on my phone. Besides, I always had to think of my image. Of what it might look like if I were sitting with my friends staring at my phone and a photographer snapped a photo. Sure, I might look just like every other teenager at the game, but I couldn’t afford to look like everyone else. Who I appeared to be reflected on my mother. And there was always a photographer hiding in plain sight in the stands, lurking around a corner, crouching behind a hedge, just waiting for me to do something they could snap a picture of and sell to some gossip blog.
“He thinks we should scrap NASA and let private corporations run all the space missions.”
I shook myself out of my reverie, only catching the last bit of what Tamal was saying. “Who?”
“Jackson McMann.”
“Oh,” I said. “Him.” The name made me cringe. Before running for president as an independent, McMann had founded a number of startup tech companies, which he had then turned around and sold for obscene amounts of money. He was aggressive and loud. The press loved painting him as a rebellious genius, but everything I knew about him made him seem like a selfish jerk. He’d even written a memoir called Better than You that had become a bestseller.
“He’s actually pretty brilliant,” Tamal said. “He’s got a ton of patents, and—”
“That’s fine,” I said. “But how does that make him worthy of being the US president? He’s not even in the race to win. He’s just a narcissist trying to drum up attention for his next IPO so that he can get even richer. He doesn’t care about anyone or anything but money.”
“I’m going for Rosario,” Astrid said.
Tamal’s eyes opened wide. “Babe!”
Astrid shrugged unapologetically. “What? First Mexican American president and he’s for free health care? I’m in. I like your mom and all, Dean, but I’ve got a cousin who’s trans, and I can’t vote for someone who might make him less safe. And McMann’s a joke. Besides, when he was CEO of CaterAid, he wrote a tipping system for the delivery people into the app but kept ninety percent of that money for himself.”
I wasn’t surprised. McMann said and did things that would have disqualified other candidates easily. He preyed on the fears of voters by casting anyone who wasn’t like them as the enemy. It was impossible to know what he believed because it changed based on who he was addressing. He was an opportunist, but the press loved him because he was entertaining. No one wanted to listen to my mother discuss how to battle the opioid crisis when McMann was shouting about Chinese immigrants stealing American jobs and suggesting most of them were probably spies anyway.
“He also thinks we should have facial recognition cameras on every street corner and that we should be using AI to predict crime,” Astrid was saying.
“That stuff’s messed up!” Tamal said. “They use these predictive algorithms for determining if someone should be paroled, and it’s like, should computers really be deciding that stuff? They’re as racist as the people who program them.”
“See?” I said. “So it doesn’t matter how brilliant he is. The man is dangerous.”
“Dude, I never said I liked the guy. You know I support your mom. Not that it matters since I won’t even be old enough to vote.”
“I know. It’s just infuriating that he can literally suggest we not worry about solving the drug problem because those overdose deaths are a way of eliminating the weak-minded from society, and people cheer him for it.”
“People can be really ignorant,” Tamal said.
There didn’t seem to be anything left to say about it. Every time someone mentioned McMann, I had to resist the urge to bury them under the mountain of reasons why he was a horrible human being who had no business being president. Aside from being racist, misogynist, homophobic garbage, accusations that he exploited his workers had followed him from one company to the next. He seemed to view people as expendable resources that he could use and then throw away. I knew Astrid and Tamal would never vote for someone like him, but there were plenty of people who would.
“Dean?” Astrid asked, pulling me back from the pit my thoughts were trying to drag me into. “Who’re you taking to homecoming?”
“No one.”
Tamal motioned at me with his chin. “Waited too long.”
“I didn’t wait too long,” I snapped. “I’m just not going with anyone.”
“I was only joking,” Tamal said.
The crowd around us rose, roaring as something happened on the field. Instead of answering Tamal, I stood and turned my attention back to the game, where Reggie Silvers had recovered a fumble and had managed to run it almost to the end zone.
I was still annoyed when I sat back down. It wasn’t that Tamal or Astrid had done anything wrong, exactly—it was just that the default settings of the world assumed that I should want to attend homecoming with someone, probably of the opposite gender. It was difficult for people to conceive of the possibility that I was perfectly happy going by myself. It would have been easier if I could be honest with my friends, but I wasn’t ready to open that can of worms yet. Most of the time, I could handle it, but there were moments when I wanted to stand up and shout at everyone to l
eave me alone and stop making assumptions.
Tamal clapped me on the back. “Dude, you all right? You seem a little stressed.”
“I’m going to use the restroom.” Without waiting for a reply, I made my way to the end of the bleachers and down the steps, pausing every few feet to say hi to someone from the debate team or student government or baseball or church. Sometimes it was their parents who stopped me, and even though I wanted nothing more than to find a quiet spot to breathe, I took the time to shake hands and smile and be polite.
Politeness never costs a thing, my mother always said.
When I was finally able to break free of the crowd, I ducked behind the concession stand and pulled out my phone.
DreOfTheDead: can I ask a personal question?
DreOfTheDead: i’m gonna do it anyway
DreOfTheDead: so are you like into dating or sex or love or anything?
I was wondering when he was going to ask. I wasn’t embarrassed about it by any means, but he was the only person I could talk to without holding anything back. I could have told my parents, and I didn’t doubt that they would have accepted me, but many of my mom’s potential voters wouldn’t understand, and coming out publicly could jeopardize the election. I wasn’t worried about my friends rejecting me either, but I couldn’t trust them not to accidentally tell someone who might leak it to the press. Dre, however, understood the need for privacy, and the cost of it. I could talk to him about who I really was and trust him to protect my secrets.
The problem was that I didn’t know how to explain my sexuality to Dre because I didn’t fully understand it myself. I’d believed for at least a year that I fell somewhere on the ace spectrum, but the fact that there was a spectrum instead of a single concrete box I could check complicated my situation even more. I didn’t feel the need to define myself by an arbitrary word, but the word that felt like it fit best was “demi.”
I typed out and erased my responses to Dre multiple times, once giving him a clinical definition, but finally I embraced my own confusion. I wrote what I felt instead of what I knew and sent it. And then I began to panic. What if I hadn’t explained it properly? What if I’d said something offensive? What if I was wrong about Dre and he was playing me and was going to turn around and take what he’d learned to his father? Telling Dre in person had been one thing—if he’d told someone, I could have denied it—but now I’d put it in writing.
My heart was pounding, and I felt dizzy. I’d made a terrible mistake. Now, instead of being able to tell my parents on my own terms, sometime after the election, they were going to learn about it on CNN, and I was going to have to explain it while they looked at me with disappointment in their eyes. I was going to have to live with the knowledge that, if my mother lost the election, it would be because of me.
I needed to return before Tamal wondered where I’d gone. It was too late to take back what I’d written to Dre, so I was just going to have to live with the consequences if he decided to show someone. I barely noticed the people around me as I finished climbing the bleachers and sat down again.
“Feeling better?” Tamal was looking at me with real concern in his eyes.
I couldn’t lie to him. I might have been keeping some secrets, but I refused to lie. My phone vibrated, and this time I couldn’t resist pulling it out to check. I had a message from Dre.
DreOfTheDead: it’s cool if you don’t know the answer . . . i hardly know the answer to anything . . . but i kind of think you explained it perfectly
“Dean?” Tamal was still waiting for my answer.
I don’t know how Dre knew exactly what to say, but his simple reply eased my fears. I didn’t know for certain that he wasn’t going to show what I’d written to the world, but I believed he wouldn’t. I believed he would protect my secret like it was his own. I had no real basis for that belief other than faith, and it was enough. I put my phone away, smiling. “I’m good. Everything is great.”
Dre
THE INSIDE OF the convention center was stuffy and hot, and I was having trouble breathing as Mel pulled me through the press of bodies from one booth to the next, talking to comic book artists and writers, buying everything that caught her eye until she ran out of money. Thousands of people dressed like their favorite superhero or comic book villain or Star Wars character wandered and mixed with people in regular clothes. My costume—the Chairman, a villain from the Patient F comics—had been a hit so far, and I’d been stopped a dozen times by fans who wanted a picture, which I happily obliged. However, the paint made my suit heavy and every bit of visible skin was covered in gray makeup, so I was having to drink my body weight in water every hour to keep from passing out. Dean would have approved of my commitment to hydration.
Mel and I slid into the signing line for Ben Fischer, even though it snaked around the outer edge of the convention center and the line managers were clocking it at nearly two hours from our position. Mel and I were both superfans, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to show off my costume to the guy who’d created the comic that’d inspired it.
“You? Me? Dance after the cosplay contest?” Mel was looking at me expectantly, but I’d been on my phone. “Who’re you talking to?”
“My mom,” I said. “She’s trying to convince me to go to Mass with them on Sunday.”
Mel, who was dressed as Princess Bonecrusher, a character from her favorite video game, scrunched her face in confusion. “Since when?”
“You know how it is. They started going again before Dad entered the primary and they want people to see me in church like we’re one big happy religious family.”
“So you’re going to Mass now?”
I shook my head. “I told them if they want me in a church, they gotta find one that doesn’t diddle kids, hate gays, or discriminate against women. Like, do they really think I’m gonna find Jesus hanging out with a bunch of folks who keep stones in their pockets so they can be the first to throw them?”
Mel was shaking her head before I’d finished speaking. “You could go and use the opportunity to make a statement. Wear a rainbow suit or something. Hold up a protest sign throughout the service.”
“Yeah, I’m not doing that.”
“You have an opportunity to speak for people who can’t speak for themselves,” Mel said. “Don’t you think you owe it to them to do it?”
“By embarrassing my dad?” Mel tried to jump in, but I kept going. “I’m not trying to be someone I’m not, and one of the things I’m not gonna do is spend Sunday in church, not even to protest.”
“But—”
“Weren’t we talking about the dance?” I asked.
Mel was throwing all kinds of judgmental looks my way, and maybe she was right to do so. My dad had used my popularity on Dreadful Dressup to elevate himself when he’d started running. I could’ve done the same right back to him. Used his platform to call attention to shit most people didn’t talk about. But I didn’t want to call more attention to myself. I just wanted to be left alone to do my thing. Thankfully, Mel didn’t push it. This time.
“The theme is Apocalyptic Wasteland.”
“Zombies and toxic mutants?” I held up my arms. “I’m not sure I’m dressed for it.”
Mel looked down her nose at me appraisingly. “The theme is only a suggestion.” When I didn’t reply, she said, “Come on. We’re already here, and it’s a two-hour drive back home and . . .”
“And what?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Forget it.”
But it wasn’t nothing, and I could tell by the pout she was wearing. “Wait a second.” I snapped my fingers as it hit me. “What’s his name, and don’t give me none of this ‘What’s whose name?’ bullshit. You’re meeting someone here!”
Mel’s eyes bulged like a Chihuahua’s.
“It all makes sense now,” I said. “Why you were nervous-singing on the drive over and why you bailed on your demogorgan costume after spending weeks on it in favor of Princess Bonecrusher, which is
still pretty amazing but also shows off your—”
“Stop!” Mel said. “Yes! There’s a guy.” Her shoulders dipped. “Two guys. Maybe.”
I snorted and laughed without meaning to. “Two guys? Who’re you and what’ve you done with Emelda?”
Mel flinched when I called out her full name. “It’s not like I’m trying to get with both of them at the same time. They’re best friends. I met them at the Magic: The Gathering tournament last month that you were supposed to go to with me but bailed on like the punk-ass bitch you are.”
“I didn’t bail,” I said. “I was grounded.”
“Still a punk-ass bitch,” Mel said in a singsong voice.
“Stop stalling and tell me about the guys.”
Mel was looking vulnerable in a way I wasn’t used to. She was my Amazonian warrior queen. Nothing anyone did could get through the shields she kept up. But there she was looking both guilty and giggly at the same time, like one wrong word could ruin her. It was a weird thing, but I kind of got where she was coming from.
“It’s not that complicated,” she said. “I met Andy and Tade, and I really hit it off with Andy. We spent two hours talking about everything, and he had an amazing deck.”
My eyebrows raised.
“Built around necromancy,” Mel said. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“My mind lives in the gutter. You know that.”
“Anyway,” Mel said. “Tade was sweet, but he was kind of quiet, and I didn’t think much of him. Before we left, we all traded numbers. Getting more than a one-word reply from Andy was harder than completing the tubular level in Super Mario World, but Tade started blowing up my phone at all hours of the day and night, making me laugh until I cried.”
“So Andy was cool in person, but Tade was good on the phone?”
Mel nodded. “Yeah. And they’re both here, and they’ve both been hinting that they kind of like me, and I like them too, but I don’t know which one.”
“Which means you want me to go to the dance with you so I can meet them and tell you which one you should make out with.” I sighed dramatically. “I mean, I guess I can fit that in my busy schedule.”
The State of Us Page 6
