It’s fine, I write. I needed to come out here anyway. I actually did tonight to a guy I like.
Did it go okay?
I drop my phone, cover my face, and take a few deep breaths.
I can’t freaking believe how bad that went. But I also get why he wanted me to leave. If he’d been the one to kiss me first, if I found out he had girl parts under his clothes . . . I don’t know. I might have been mad.
But maybe I wouldn’t. Because he’d still be who he is. The person who saved Chewy, who’s sacrificed sleep and free time and sanity to keep her safe. To try to solve this awful problem.
I guess love for a dog isn’t a thing that has a gender. And that’s what I like about him. His dog love is more important than what’s under his clothes. And if he says he’s a boy, even if he has girl parts, then to me he’s a boy. I don’t even know if it would matter if he had different parts than the ones I assume he has. Even though I definitely like guys and not girls.
I sigh hugely. Realizing I’d like Daniel regardless of what’s under his clothes doesn’t make me feel better. Because I hoped he’d like something in me that was separate from that too.
And I don’t know if he does. I think maybe he doesn’t.
I pick up my phone and tell Camille it didn’t go great, then say I need to do my homework. She asks if I want to hang out sometime.
I hug my knees. I don’t know how it would feel to see her. If I’d think of all the miserable stuff that happened at Bailey after Griffey left. If I’d be a total killjoy.
But . . . well, Camille is pretty all right, really. She might’ve humiliated me while trying to save me, but she meant well. And she was comfortable being herself in a way I never was. Last April in the cafeteria she asked Ellie Decker if she wanted to see the school’s spring musical together, like as a date, and Ellie said, “I’m not gay,” and Camille was the poster child for handling rejection. She shrugged and smiled and said it was fine, that she figured there was no harm in asking. And Ellie was cool about it because Camille was cool about it.
That’s what I should’ve done with Daniel. Right from the start. Then at least maybe we’d be friends now. Instead of . . . whatever we are.
Nothing, probably.
Yeah, I tell Camille. I’d like that.
After the distraction of my homework is finished, I start feeling rotten about Daniel again. I sketch Chewbarka sleeping. But it doesn’t do much to help me feel better.
I grab my laptop and work on the song I’m writing for Tyrannosaurus Rocks. I focus on feeling out where I want it to go, on what I want to say.
As I move pieces of it around, I realize the shapes of the chords and rhythms I’m putting in the bridge are more complicated than the girls can handle. I go back through and make it basic. I change the lyric focus of the section from victim rage to what it’s like to be told as a girl that you should like princesses and unicorns instead of punk.
When I’m finished, I have a decent girl-punk anthem they should be able to play with a little practice. But it feels squashed. Not as cool as it could be. It’s not my real voice.
The girls in Zoey’s band are just getting started. I’ve been doing this stuff since I was in diapers, when my grandma gave me a two-octave keyboard. I’m lucky to have eight years of piano lessons under my belt, to have a mom who’s encouraged my music even when it drives her kabonkers. Maybe after more practices with the band, the song can be what I want it to be.
I close my laptop. The sound-shape of the lid clicking shut is the exact shape of the hollow, sad satisfaction inside me.
24
We Need to Talk
Daniel
My house looks warm in the cold dusk. It’s felt so empty and sad the past two months, but standing on the sidewalk with Chewbarka in my arms, knowing if she stays outside one more night in this weather, she’ll die . . . well. It’s enough to make my house look not so bad. Or maybe I cried so much in the tent that I’m all cried out and I don’t know what to feel or think anymore. My heart and brain are fried. Frazzled. Empty.
Maybe it’ll help. Mom rolls her eyes when I get teary these days. And then tortures me with her tearjerker Disney flicks playing nonstop.
While I’m trying to figure out exactly what to say, the front door opens. Mom covers her mouth. Then she rushes out like she’s going to hug me, but stops short when she sees the dog. “Daniel, come inside. We need to talk.”
I swallow hard and follow her into the house.
“Sit.” She points at the couch.
I sit. Chewbarka seems to grasp the gravity of the situation. She’s calm and still. Or maybe she thinks she’s been told to sit.
Mom sinks into the chair across from me. “Are you okay?”
That . . . is not what I expected to come out her mouth. “Yes. I don’t know. Not really. Maybe?” Good lord.
“The vet called.”
I duck my head.
“Dad called.”
I search her face for a sign, any sign. “He did?”
“Mitchell says you’ve been acting strange. Going someplace after school.”
I press my lips together. Chewbarka licks my wrist with her dry little tongue.
“Daniel . . . just . . . what in the world?” She folds her hands and leans toward me. Her knuckles go white like each hand is gripping the other so they don’t fly apart. “You biked all the way to your dad’s pulling a trailer. Without telling anyone what you were doing. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”
“I couldn’t let her die.” I sound like a pathetic mouse. Not a guy who’s as tall as his dad.
Mom rubs her forehead. “Where have you been keeping her?”
There’s no point in lying anymore. “Our old tent. In the woods behind the gas station.”
“I know you think this dog is the most important—”
“It’s not her fault!” I burst out. “She doesn’t deserve to die!”
“That’s not the issue—”
“I couldn’t save Frankie. Or you and Dad. Or my friendship with Cole or anything. I had to save something!” My eyes water. I should enter the freaking world championships of crying. Gold medal winner right here.
Mom’s face is a battleground between anger and sympathy. “I know things have been tough lately. But this—”
“You think I’m pathetic every time I cry.” I grind my teeth. “You want me to be like Mitchell. Not like me.”
Her brows go down. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. You let your feelings get the best of you so much. I worry you’ll—”
“You make me feel guilty about feeling stuff. Well, I don’t feel bad about this. I won’t let them kill her!”
Her face hardens. “You have no idea how much trouble you’re in. What you’ve done could ruin Dr. Snyder’s reputation and have a serious impact on his business. He threatened legal retaliation.” She rubs the back of her neck like it hurts. “We’re going to the vet’s office immediately after school tomorrow. I’ll have to take the afternoon off. I told him you’ll return the dog and apologize.”
“I can’t do that—”
“You will.” Her voice has an edge. “You can sleep in the basement with her tonight. She can stay in Frankie’s crate tomorrow while you’re at school and I’m at work.” She stands up. “I’m sorry, Daniel. This is how it has to be.”
I hug Chewbarka. “You’re not sorry.”
“There’s no other choice. You cannot keep this dog.”
The last sliver of silvery hope slips out of me. It floats up, and away, and it’s gone.
I sink to the floor with Chewbarka.
Our basement has cinder-block walls and a concrete floor with a drain that smells like roadkill. I snuggle with Chewy in Dad’s old sleeping bag in the corner as far as I can get from the drain. I’m exhausted and still sore from the bike ride, but my head’s so full that sleep is impossible.
I can’t stop thinking about how much I miss Cole. When we were friends, he’d have bee
n the first person I went to for help with this. Even if he couldn’t do anything, it would have been so good to know he cared.
I feel even worse now than when everything went sour with Cole. Than when I wrecked things with Ash.
I can’t think about Ash right now. It’s too big. Too confusing. I need to focus on something else. Project managing seems to keep Mom sane. I need a mental project to manage.
I can work out how to tell Cole I’m sorry. It’s better than lying here hating myself.
I search how to apologize on my phone and find a list. Admit you were wrong, the first point says.
Well, I can do that. I made a mistake—or two, or actually three if you count waiting so long to try to make this right.
Describe what happened from the other person’s point of view. That’s encouraging at least. My bike-ride revelation about focusing on Cole and not myself when I apologize is on the right track.
Offer a plan to fix what you did wrong has me stumped. I can’t un-kiss Fiona. I can’t un-forget his birthday.
But . . . I could tell him I’ve realized I’m too self-involved, and that I’m working on paying attention to how other people feel. I want that to be true. Spending time with Ash, even though everything’s messed up now, has shown me I’m capable of it. I just need to do more of it. To practice so I get better. Not only for Cole. For Ash too. For Mom and Dad. Even Mitchell.
Maybe not Mitchell. I don’t know.
Ask for forgiveness.
That sounds easy. But it’s hard to imagine saying Please forgive me. It seems so . . . vulnerable. What if he says he can’t? Or he doesn’t want to?
Mitchell comes down and interrupts my musings. “Mom’s really ticked,” he says. “Might as well have told you to man up and stop being such a basket case.”
All traces of my improved mood evaporate. “Yeah, I got that.”
He crosses his arms. “She’s not wrong.”
Ow. “It must be nice to only ever feel one emotion. Two if you count anger and irritation.”
“That’s not true about me.”
“It’s all you ever act like you feel.” My phone buzzes with a number I don’t know. I let it go to voice mail.
Mitch squats and holds his hand out to Chewbarka. “She smells like pee.”
“You reek of chlorine and meanness.” I should stop rising to his bait. But I’m out of tolerance for his crap.
Mitch starts to scratch the top of Chewbarka’s head. She ducks away. He moves his hand under her chin.
I feel her shift her weight toward him. She leans into his palm. Just a little.
I sigh. I should take a page out of her book. Show him I understand why he acts like he does. He just makes it so freaking difficult.
“They’re really going to kill her tomorrow?” he asks.
I don’t answer. It hurts too much.
Mitch stays still with her head on his palm for a minute. Then he takes his old Spider-Man sleeping bag off the shelf, drops it over us, and heads for the stairs.
“You miss Dad too,” I say. “It sucked for you when you saw us do stuff together without including you.”
He goes still. I brace for whatever he’s about to say. But he just stands there looking at me like he’s trying to process.
“I’m sorry it made you feel bad,” I tell him. “I didn’t realize it then. But I do now. If he comes home, I hope we can all do things together. Or even if he doesn’t come home. I want stuff to not suck.”
Time stretches like a rubber band. I hope it’s not a dry-rotted one that’ll snap and sting me. Things with Mitch have definitely felt dry-rotted lately.
“Does the dog need water or anything?” he finally asks. He puts his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
I wave a hand at the water dish on the floor. “She’s good.”
He keeps standing there like he wants to say something else.
Then he turns and goes up the stairs.
Hours later. Still awake. Nose stuffed from a crying fit that cramped all my muscles and left me shaky and exhausted.
The voice mail was Tina. All she said was “Give me a call.” I couldn’t tell if she sounded mad that I got her fired, or if she was mad I took Chewbarka instead of letting someone find her and finish her off and negate this whole mess, or what. I couldn’t tell if she was mad at all. She sounded as exhausted as I feel.
I didn’t call her back. I’d just cry again and I can’t cry any more today. I can’t. My phone’s down to 5 percent battery anyway, and getting all teary would bother Chewbarka. I’d rather just be here for her, holding her, on her last night alive.
Besides, Tina’s fired. Even if she offered to take Chewbarka, Mom said Dr. Snyder threatened “legal retaliation.” He’d find some way to get Chewbarka back and kill her.
I listen to Chewy’s faint snoring and wonder how Ash would draw it.
The guilt is so fresh and real. But I’m so deep into this sleepless night that I’ve thought all the other thoughts my brain can think, and now I have to think about Ash.
I don’t know how to get my mind around today. He said he was a girl when he kissed me. And that he’s a guy now. But how can that change? I keep thinking of when Ash-the-girl borrowed my hoodie in the gas station and tied her hair back. And seemed so different, but I couldn’t put my finger on how.
The thought of a bunch of jerks pinning him down and dumping Gatorade in his face while screaming at him makes me furious. It doesn’t even matter whether Ash was a girl or a boy then. Nobody deserves that. Especially not someone like Ash, who’s only ever been good to me.
I think back over every moment we shared, trying to pick out the shift from girl to boy.
I can’t find it. It’s all just . . . Ash. The same person regardless of what gender I think he was. Is. Wants to be.
So maybe . . . I don’t know. Maybe that means it doesn’t matter. If I can’t find it.
Or maybe it means Ash was trying to hide it from me because he was scared of how I’d react, since people literally attacked him for it in the past.
Or maybe I’m so shook because I liked that kiss. Like a lot. Whether it was girl-Ash or boy-Ash I kissed. And adding Oh god, what if I’m gay or bi to everything else now is just . . .
I laugh aloud. It’s ridiculous. What does it matter? Chewbarka will be dead tomorrow. Who cares what I am? What Ash is? Who cares what other people think of us? We connected, and we worked together to help this dog. That’s what’s important. Not the specifics.
I hope I haven’t ruined everything. Even if things aren’t the same as before, I know I still want Ash in my life. However that looks.
I shift so Chewbarka is sleeping more comfortably. I can’t fix my broken brain and heart with my broken brain and heart right now. But I can make sure this dog’s last night on earth is spent warm and comfortable in the arms of someone who loves her.
25
Hump Day
Ash
Wednesday, and boy, is it a humdinger of a hump day: today’s the day I gotta get over the hump of probably being outed.
It’s a big honking hump. And I’m not at the top of my game after lying awake all night listening to the crickets and the traffic and the faraway night sirens, freaking out that being who I am means I’m never gonna succeed at a relationship with a boy. I hope my deodorant holds. Or I’m gonna have seriously spicy armpits when I see Daniel in photo class.
Sure enough, Bella’s waiting at my locker in the crowded, noisy hallway. The second she sees me, she beelines for me. “Where’s my dog? My dad knows but he won’t freaking tell me.”
“Somewhere safe.” I try to edge around her to get to my locker.
She blocks my path. “Tell me exactly where she is. Like an address. Now.”
I press my lips together and shake my head.
“Fine.” She takes out her phone. “You made your choice.”
Powerlessness invades me as she taps her screen. I might’ve shifted from
scared to angry at Tyler and Jackson and the rest of those boys, but here I am again with my private business shoved into the light against my will. It won’t be long before everyone here knows my old name and what I “really” am. Even though what I “really” am has nothing to do with my biology.
At least Daniel’s secret’s still safe. Even if he hates me now.
“Yo, Bella!” someone yells.
Bella’s head and mine swivel. Griffey’s plowing through the crowd of seventh graders like the boss eighth grader he is, Esme and Sam from Rainbow Alliance in tow. “Didn’t your mom teach you it’s wrong to spread bullying videos around?”
“What?” Bella sputters. “I’m not—”
“Deadnaming is garbage,” Esme says. “It’s a horrible thing to do.” She’s not wearing her girl clothes yet. I didn’t know she was so tall, or that her voice could go so deep, and here she is using those like a shield to keep me safe when it’s probably making her feel dysphoric.
Bella steps back from her. “I don’t even know what deadnaming is—”
“It’s cruel,” Griffey says, his voice quieter than Esme’s but still steely. “It takes a person’s identity away from them. If you share that video, that’s what you’re doing.”
Bella squares her shoulders. “I just want to find my dog—”
“So blackmail is cool?” Sam says. “Maybe you should think about that a little harder.”
Esme stands even taller. “How would you feel if someone tried to dig up dirt on you and make it public?” Behind her, Zoey is at her locker, watching us with a puzzled expression.
I’m not wild about Esme trying to guilt Bella. But Bella’s shrinking in on herself, her posture slumping. “Whatever,” she says. She turns and disappears into the crowd.
Griffey grins at me. “Told you I’d fix it.”
“Yeah, I guess you did.” So why do I feel so sick? Maybe because at least Bella posting that video would take care of the job of outing me, and now I have to find another way to do it. Or maybe there’s just no good way to feel about any of this.
Both Can Be True Page 16
