“Teapots!” yells Margot. “We were talking about teapots!”
“Margot, do NOT piss people off,” hisses a girl behind the counter.
Margot blows her a kiss, and the girl blushes but turns away. Margot turns back to me. “Teapots.”
“Seditious teapots,” I say, without thinking.
“Why seditious teapots?” asks Lane.
I frown up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. It’s like...a teapot seems so prim. Proper. Like you expect it to be one way. But then it says FUCK on it, or has Amelia Earhart on a dinosaur, and then it’s not prim and proper anymore. It’s unexpected.”
Lane smiles at me. “Yeah. That’s cool.”
“Obvious metaphor is obvious,” says Ari, grinning at me like we have a shared inside joke. And what if we do?
Then they look back at Lane, saying something that I miss. I blink, grappling for something to say so they’ll look at me again. I want them to look at me again. I want them to talk to me like that, like they know me. But they don’t. Because they all know each other and I don’t even know me.
“Jesus, Ari,” Lane mutters, but they’re smiling at something Ari’s said. Something I missed. I feel like I’ve missed so much.
“Not my guy,” Ari says cheerfully.
I close my eyes. It’s too much, all at once. All of them. Their banter. Their ease of being. That twinge beneath my ribs has teeth and it is eating me alive.
I open my eyes, and then took a deep breath. “I think I should go.”
Ari bites their lower lip, looking down into their paper cup. Margot’s face falls. And Ian’s finger stops turning the ring in his eyebrow. Lane swears under their breath. I hesitate and slide out from the bench, standing up. I wipe my hands on my jeans. “Thanks. It was nice to meet all of you. I’ll, um, see you around.”
“Rory,” says Lane.
“Lane, let them go.” Margot.
I walk toward the door, picking up the pace as I reach it. I have to get home. I have to get home. Everything’s the way it’s supposed to be at home. It hurts less at home. I pull open the door and step into the hot, humid summer air. I breathe it in, and my chest eases a bit.
“Hey.” Ari’s behind me. Not Lane. Ari. “Hey, Rory. Look, I’m sorry. We can be a lot.”
“It’s fine.”
“Rory, please, hold up. Was it me? When I mentioned the metaphor?”
I stop and they come around me so I’m staring at their shoes. They’re glittery sneakers. I kind of love them. They’re unexpected against the black jeans and black Henley shirt.
“I can’t,” I say to their sneakers.
Ari makes a frustrated noise. “You can. I promise. We won’t even talk about it.”
So they do know. They know what I can’t even say yet, not even to myself.
“We can’t not talk about it. It’s...” I press my hand against my breastbone, against my beating heart, against the muscle ache pulling my ribs farther and farther apart. “I can’t.”
“Okay,” says Ari finally. And that’s that.
I spend the weekend in bed, scrolling aimlessly through the internet, reading and seeing nothing in particular, looking for something I can’t find because the internet doesn’t give you what you need, it gives you only what you search for. You have to know what you want, what you’re looking for, what words to pin to it, and I can’t. There’s no teapot for this. No pithy saying for this ache inside my chest.
My mom checks on me, worried, but she has to go to work, and I stay home, face creased from my pillow.
I ignore the messages from Lane.
Hey. I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool. I mean, what I did. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I know they’re a lot and it would have been too in your face.
Do you want to talk?
Rory, I’m worried.
At that one, I type back. Don’t worry. Nbd.
They reply, okay. You’re good? You’re safe?
I reply, yeah.
And then I mute the conversation.
* * *
Mom comes in on Sunday night, wipes a hand over my brow. “You feel warm.”
“I’m fine.”
“Rory,” she says warningly.
“I’m fine,” I insist.
She doesn’t know what to say. “Okay. Will you come down for dinner?”
I have to. I skipped Friday night and last night. She will totally freak if I skip tonight too. I nod, and she leaves me alone for a blessed five minutes.
I stare at the teapots.
I close my eyes.
I open them. And before I can talk myself out of it, I open up the muted thread with Lane on my phone. They’ve sent me like a million messages since Saturday AM when I muted it, but I don’t read those.
I just say I’m not stupid. I’ve read all the posts, I’ve watched the vlogs. It’s that—If I reject ONE label because it doesn’t feel big enough for me, doesn’t that mean I have to pick a new label? And like, how many labels can one person have? And just because the label people assign to me when they meet me isn’t big enough doesn’t mean that it’s wrong. Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t fit into it, maybe I’m the one that’s wrong, not society, you know? Like maybe *my* perceptions of what that label means are the wrong perceptions? Maybe I’m taking up space I shouldn’t take up. What if this is all because I’m depressed and if I actually saw a shrink then it’d all be fixed? It was easier when it was just me and the teapots and the tea and my mother’s weird looks.
I close the window.
I go downstairs and I eat dinner with my mom. I feel muted though, like everything around me is in sepia, and I’m forcing cheerfulness, like I’m pretending everything is normal and in color, into every word with my mom. I cannot will the world around me into color again though, which is really annoying because I’ve gone seventeen years being able to will myself into denial and into color and now that superpower fails me? Fine. Okay. I get it.
I do.
Upstairs, I open my laptop.
Was it? Was it easier? Lane had asked. But I hadn’t replied, so just a few minutes ago, they asked, would this be easier in person?
I type back, no. I think I’d vomit if I had to talk about it in person.
Okay, says Lane. It’s not your fault that the label you were given doesn’t feel like you. Or big enough to include you. It’s not because you’re depressed—though it might be contributing to your depression—and it’s not because your own worldview is narrow. It’s not your fault that the label you think you need to replace it with—like nonbinary, or enby, or agender, or gender nonconforming, or whatever you’ve read on the internet—also doesn’t feel right. It is not your fault that language hasn’t made a word that fits you yet.
I can’t breathe.
I can only watch the three little dots on my screen run like a little wave over and over again.
And I’m sorry I pushed you into that. It was clear that you weren’t ready, and I thought I could help, and I made it worse. I’m sorry.
You didn’t make it worse, I say. I think I was heading for this breakdown all summer.
Lane sends me back an unsure slash unhappy face.
I reply, I hate that I have to pick labels. I hate that humans like labels.
Who said you had to pick labels?
I did. I mean, if I say I’m not this, but I’m not anything, it feels like...god, like I’m untethered. Like I’m not real.
The dots again. Then, You’re real. Even if you don’t pick a label. Even if you pick a label that feels close enough for now. Even if you understand yourself more next year, or ten years from now, and that label changes.
I drum my fingers on top of the keys, trying to think about how to ask my next question. It feels uncomfortable, like I’m admitting something I’m not supposed to admit. What if it’s
like...a phase?
Then it’s a phase. It’s still YOU, Rory. Whatever you experience is still you.
I hesitate and ask, Can I ask what labels you use?
Lane responds immediately. Sure. I’m agender, use they/them pronouns. I’m also pansexual.
Oh god. MORE labels. I swear it’s like my anxiety’s reaching through the screen and having a panic attack in Lane’s living room.
Lol. I know. But the beauty of the internet and language is we’re learning how old some of these things are—like really, screw anyone who tells you that they/them as a singular pronoun is weird and new and they can’t handle it. It’s been around for literally centuries—and also, like...we can find words and make words that fit us. Language is growing more inclusive. It’ll catch up to all of us, eventually.
I press my hand against my chest again. The pain is a dull throb.
You think?
Yeah. I do.
The first teapot I bought says NO STAMP ACT on it. It’s a reproduction of an Am Rev war teapot.
The same people who threw tea in the harbor made a teapot?
Probably not the same people but yes, exactly.
I get it.
I smile. It’s hard. Wanting the tea, but also not wanting the tea, but feeling like you should want the tea, but knowing you should protest the tea, so you put the protest on the teapot and throw all the tea in the harbor, and I guess the teapot...stays empty?
*extreme Ari voice* It’s a metaphor.
It’s a metaphor, I reply.
Throw out the tea, and protest all you want, you rebel.
Patriot, Lane. I’m a patriot.
Yeah you are.
Smiling, I lean back against my headboard. I don’t know how to figure it all out.
You don’t have to figure it out in one go. You play with it. Test it.
You used they/them for me in the teashop. Right away.
Yeah...you’re...androgynous/ambiguous enough that it felt safer. I didn’t mean for you to hear it though. I’m sorry about that. I should have asked. Actually, I’ve never asked, have I. What pronouns do you want me to use?
A choice. I know what they said, that I can change pronouns and labels, and what fits me now doesn’t need to fit me forever, but it still feels important. They/them doesn’t fit, but none of the options I know about fit.
Then I remember Lane telling me that it isn’t my fault language doesn’t have words for me yet.
I type slowly. That...works for now. It doesn’t feel totally right, but it’s better than the alternatives I know about right now.
Lane sends a smiley face and then after a pause adds, is there anything I can do to help slash make up for my earlier missteps?
I hesitate and then say, can I come back next Friday?
Of course.
Thank you.
The pain in my chest does not go away, but I breathe easier. I don’t notice it every breath that week. Maybe every other breath. That might be dramatic. It definitely decreases for a few days, but Thursday night I can’t breathe and Friday, I want to tear open my skin and find the source of the pain and yank it out with my bare hands. (That IS dramatic, I know.)
I stare into my closet.
I hate that I don’t know what to wear.
I hate that it feels worse this week, now that I’ve given Lane pronouns.
I wear a Loki shirt and my favorite jeans again.
When I find the group at their usual table, Ari says coyly, “Rory’s gender is Marvel.”
I grin, surprising myself and from their expressions, everyone else. “Wait, is that an option? I will absolutely take that.”
“How many of these things do you own?” asks Ian, scooting over on the bench.
“As many as you have piercings,” I say.
Lane crosses their arms over their chest, leaning back in their chair. They have a very self-satisfied smirk on their face. “Look at this confidence. Where did that come from? Oh wait, I know.”
“Lane,” warns Margot. Then, she gives me a bright smile. “Hey. Glad you’re back.”
“Thanks for not holding last week against me,” I reply with a smile.
Ari pitches forward, whispering conspiratorially. “Heard you’re trying different labels.”
Lane winces. “I was trying to say that we shouldn’t push you to ID yourself.” Lane meets my gaze. Every inch of their expression pleads, I’m sorry, don’t hold this against me. And I don’t. I get it. The group seems used to asking for pronouns, labels, like everyone sails into their orbit knowing them. And I don’t.
“I am,” I tell Ari, and the rest of them. I hesitate and add, “I did a lot of research into nonbinary and asexuality this week.”
“Oooh another enby,” says Ian.
I frown. “But not that word. That’s...that does not fit.”
“It’s a shorthand,” Ian begins.
“They said it doesn’t fit, Ian,” Ari cuts him off crisply.
“Can I tell you what I think?” Ari says, dropping their voice even lower.
Lane, Margot and Ian groan. “Ari...”
Ari ignores them. When they stare at me, it’s like it’s just the two of us at this table. I can feel their sparkly sneaker against my boot underneath the table. So maybe more on the gray-ace side of the spectrum, I think as heat rushes over my face. I need to do more research.
“Just saying that you’re not cis helps, doesn’t it,” Ari says. “Like letting a little pressure out. Turning the valve a bit. Gives you room to breathe and think.”
I blink. They’re right. “Yeah.”
They don’t lean back. Not yet. “Want to hear a not-cis secret?”
I can’t help it. I whisper back, “Yes.”
Their smile’s slow, hypnotic. “No matter what anyone tells you about what you look like, or what you wear, or how your name sounds, or what they think you are, you’ll always have that. That’s enough.”
I wait, expecting a for now but there isn’t one. That’s enough. Enough to make me feel like enough. Enough for me to settle into. Enough of a label for me to call home, without feeling boxed in.
I take a breath, and it doesn’t hurt. Ari sits back, a satisfied smile on their face. I exhale slowly, glancing around at everyone. They’re all staring at me. Lane’s worrying their lower lip. Ari looks proud. Ian and Margot look like they expect me to head for the door.
Instead I say, “Want to hear about the rest of the teapots?”
* * *
STAR-CROSSED IN DC
by
Jessica Verdi
Click-click-click-click-click.
Cameras shutter and bulbs flash, a random series of tiny explosions.
I make sure not to squint or blink too much—there’s no use doing a publicity event if the papers are only going to end up with unflattering, eyes-half-closed pictures to run alongside their articles.
“Yes, Genevieve,” I say, pointing to a reporter in the front row, all the way to my left.
Genevieve stands up on spiky heels and smooths her gray pencil skirt. “Congratulations, Squeaky. How does it feel to officially be a registered voter?”
I flinch internally at the nickname, but don’t let it show. Another skill I mastered ages ago.
I don’t think anyone’s called me Savannah in years.
“It feels fantastic,” I say truthfully, my high-pitched, “squeaky” voice reverberating back to me through the speakers. “It’s never felt quite right, spending my whole life around government and politics but not being able to cast my own vote. I’ve tried to contribute in other ways, of course, but I have to admit I’m pretty excited to go to the polls in November.”
Genevieve smiles. “I bet!”
More hands shoot up.
I call on them one by one, answering all the
questions I knew they’d ask.
Of course I’ll be voting for my father! He’s done incredible work during his first three and a half years as president of our country and I know he’ll continue to do so if granted a second term.
It doesn’t matter whether you’re a Republican, Democrat or Independent—the important thing is for all eligible citizens to get out there and do their civic duty.
My birthday yesterday was great, thanks for asking!
The press routine is necessary, but it’s exhausting. With each question and answer, I feel my smile shift from easy to the slightest bit pinched. They won’t notice.
Another reporter stands. “Hi, Squeaky. Word on the Hill today is that the House vote on the controversial First Amendment Reinforcement Act is set for tomorrow, now that the bill’s details have been released to the public. Have you read the bill? What is your opinion of it?”
Everything stops. The room is too quiet. I blink back at the reporter, trying to scramble together a response. They never ask me questions like this.
The First Amendment Reinforcement Act is a bill my dad and his Congress have been working on for a few months now. I haven’t read the specifics yet, but its purpose, from what I understand, is to even more staunchly protect the right to free speech and free thought in America.
Dad told me that if he could ink just one stamp on the country during his time as president, he’d want it to be this. That made me proud, to see him fighting so hard for all his constituents—even if they use said free speech to disagree with him and his policies.
But no one’s ever asked me my opinion on political issues before. My job as First Daughter is to represent the Chamberlain family, not the Chamberlain presidency.
For the first time in a long time, I’m not sure what to say.
I glance at Meryl, the communications director. Her nod is almost imperceptible, but I know what she’s telling me:
Go neutral. Diplomatic. Feign confidence.
“I have the utmost respect and appreciation for my father’s vision for our country and its citizens,” I say into the mics, and make a personal vow to keep more informed on what’s happening in Washington now that I’m a voter.
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