by Jeff Garvin
I smile at him. I almost say, “That’s sweet,” but it feels too girly. So instead, I just say, “Right on,” in a terrible Matthew McConaughey voice. Solo gives me an odd look, like I’ve just said something in Klingon; apparently I overshot “not girly” and landed in “awkward.” I guess some things don’t change. I make a mental note to blog about it.
“So, I got a text this morning,” Solo says. “Apparently the police showed up at Sierra Wells’s house last night.”
I whirl to face him. “Why? To question her about Vickers?”
“That was my first guess, too—but word has it she’s the one who trashed your locker.”
I gape at him. “What?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Some freshmen said they saw her trying to jimmy the lock while everyone else was in class.”
I stare blankly out the windshield, stunned. I picture the letters pasted in my locker.
POOR LITTLE RILEY
I put a hand to my mouth. “Oh God.”
Solo turns to look at me. “What?”
“Sierra.”
“What about her?”
I don’t reply; it takes me a moment to process it all.
When Vickers found about my blog, of course he would have showed it to his girlfriend. I recall that first anonymous hate message—not “your a fag”; that didn’t have the same threatening undertone as the others. No, the first one that hit me hard was: go back to where u came from dyke r school doesn’t need another faggot.
I try to remember when I received it—only a day, or maybe two days after I embarrassed Sierra in front of her friends with my “you’re really not my type” comment. Did she send that first message as payback?
Then the Andie Gingham story broke, and I got c u at lunch. fuckin tranny. That must have been her, too. And, after I emasculated her boyfriend by breaking his arm at the football game, she wrote: poor. little. RILEY. The same message the vandal had pasted inside my locker. If Sierra did the locker, then she sent the messages, too.
“Riley,” Solo says, snapping me out of my trance. “What’s going on?”
“Someone was stalking me on my blog,” I say, only half aware of the words coming out of my mouth.
“What?” Solo says.
And then, as quickly as I can, I fill him in on the whole story, from the first anonymous hate mail to the final message pasted in my locker.
When I’m finished, I sink back into the seat, stunned, and more than a little scared.
“Oh shit,” I say.
“I don’t get it. Aren’t you happy she’s at least being questioned?”
“I am, but . . . if what she did to my locker was payback for humiliating her boyfriend, what will she do when she finds out I got him arrested?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Solo says. His voice is low, almost a growl.
“What does that mean?”
“It means me and the rest of the guys on the team have your back. Anybody tries to fuck with you, they’ll wish they were safe in prison.”
I gape at Solo, at the sudden ferocity in his eyes.
He glances over at me. “What?”
“I’ve just never seen you go all papa bear like that. It’s kind of hot.”
Solo’s cheeks redden, and he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. He signals for a turn, and the hatchback shudders as he shifts into a low gear to climb the hill toward school.
“So, what are people saying?”
“Oh, there’s the usual vomit of prejudiced nonsense,” he says, recovering. “Most people are just confused or ignorant. Or both. Some of the results are funny, actually.”
“Funny?”
“For example. The Fellowship of Christian Athletes got together and made temporary tattoos of that verse from Leviticus. You know, ‘Man shall not lay within four cubits of another penis, lest he be smitten,’ or whatever. They handed them out at lunch like black armbands. And then, in response, the theater gang made these stickers that said, ‘Leviticus 19:28,’ and plastered them all over the school.
“What’s Leviticus 19:28?”
“It’s the verse that forbids tattoos.”
I laugh.
Solo continues. “So the bad news is, most people are grossly misinterpreting what’s going on. But the good news is that there’s open conversation about it.”
We pull into a parking space at the far end of the lot, and Solo shuts off the car.
“So,” he says, drumming his fingers idly on the steering wheel. “Bec’s meeting us before?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure you want to do this?”
I glance up at the concrete walls of Park Hills High School and let out a long breath. “I’m sure.”
Everyone looks up from their desks as Solo and I walk into AP English five minutes late. I stop, frozen in the moment as the door hisses shut behind me on its pneumatic hinge.
I’ve been absent from school for over a week, and during that time, my story has dominated the news; of course they’re looking. My heart gives one frantic thump in my throat, and then settles into an elevated but steady rhythm as I move toward my desk. I glance at Sierra’s usual desk—it’s empty—and breathe a sigh of relief before moving down the aisle toward my own. When I’ve taken my seat, I look over at Solo for moral support. He obliges by rolling his eyes into the back of his head and giving me the finger. I grin in spite of myself.
Miss Crane continues her lesson, taking our entrance in stride; but when I sit down, I catch her looking at me. She smiles, but it’s a sad smile, and I’m surprised to see not pity, but genuine understanding in her eyes. I wonder what she’s been through.
She then proceeds to set the world record for Dropping Most Harry Potter References in a Fifty-Minute Period.
As I’m reaching for the door of Mr. Hibbard’s room, a voice from behind stops me.
“Riley, wait up.”
I turn around, and my jaw drops. It’s Casey Reese—but it’s not the pretty, long-haired girl I know from French. This Casey Reese has short, dyed-brown hair parted neatly on the side. She—he, I think—is wearing a bow tie, and looks like something out of a Banana Republic ad. But the eyes and the voice are unmistakably Casey’s.
“Holy—” I say, clapping my hand to my mouth.
Casey’s face splits in a wide, bright grin. “Surprised?”
“I’m sorry, that was so rude. I just—it took me a minute to—you look fantastic.”
“Thanks.” Casey’s smile dissolves into a more serious expression. “I heard what happened. I mean, everybody heard, but . . .” He shakes his head. “Sorry. This isn’t going well, let’s start over.” He puts out his hand. “Hi, I’m Casey.”
I smile and shake it. “Riley.”
“Well, Riley,” Casey says, “I’m a boy. And you gave me the courage to say that out loud.”
I blink. My mouth has gone dry.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Casey says. “I just wanted you to know that . . . I wouldn’t have come out if it weren’t for you. So, thank you.”
I glance around the hall. Two girls stare at us as they walk by. I don’t even react. I look back at Casey.
“Are they giving you hell?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not so much. I mean, yeah. But . . . so what? I am who I am, you know? And it feels good not to hide it anymore.”
I nod. “I guess I haven’t really gotten to that part yet.”
Just then, the bell rings. Casey opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, something important, but instead, he just smiles.
“See you in French?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I say. And then I watch as Casey turns and walks off to class. Struts, really. His confidence is magnetic. I feel a swell of pride—and envy.
When then bell rings, I turn away from Mr. Hibbard’s room. I find a secluded spot in the back stairwell, pull out my phone, and place a call.
“Hi, Mike/Michelle? It’s Riley.”
After F
rench, Solo “picks me up” outside Madame Bordelon’s room. He’s insisted on being my bodyguard as we cross the campus to meet Bec. I’m grateful, because the anxious buzzing in my head has been getting progressively worse all morning, and having him around helps. As we’re passing the lockers, we turn the corner and I spot a short brunette girl walking toward us. She looks up, and I recognize her at once—it’s Sierra Wells.
I stop, and she does, too. We stand there for a long moment, staring dumbly at each other. The buzzing in my head gets louder. My chest goes tight. Solo puts a protective hand on my shoulder.
Sierra looks from me to Solo and then back again, like she’s sizing us up for a fight—and I’m caught completely by surprise when she actually speaks.
“I didn’t have anything to do with what Jimmy did,” she says, her tone daring me to argue. At first, I’m too stunned to respond—and then Solo takes a step forward.
“You did plenty,” he says. “You should be in jail.”
I surprise myself by reaching out to touch his arm with my tingling fingertips. “It’s okay, Solo,” I say. He looks at me, concerned, and I give him a reassuring nod. He takes a step back, and I turn to face Sierra.
Her expression is hard—not angry, but closed off. Withdrawn. Whatever vulnerability still exists in her, I got my last look at it that day in Miss Crane’s classroom when I walked in on her crying. Now, her shield is up, and I doubt if any of my words will get through. But what I have to say isn’t for her, anyway. It’s for me.
I swallow, and fight to keep my voice even. “I’m not going to stop being who I am just because you don’t like it.” Sierra glances around uncomfortably, as if she doesn’t want to be seen having a conversation with me. I clear my throat—Congressman Cavanaugh style—and she turns her attention to me again. “And I’m not going to stop talking about it just because you don’t understand it.” Knees shaking, I take a small step toward her. “I’m only going to talk louder.”
I raise my voice on this last word, and Sierra glares at me. Just when I think she’s about to retort, her bottom lip quivers, and her face softens. She looks down at her feet and whispers something—it could be “I’m sorry,” but her voice is too quiet to be sure—and then she hitches her bag up on her shoulder and walks away.
As soon as she turns the corner, I have to steady myself by grabbing Solo’s massive arm.
“You okay?” he says.
“I will be,” I reply.
Bec is waiting for us behind the language arts wing, and when I see her, I throw my arms around her and bury my face in her neck. The collar of her denim jacket is rough and real against my cheek.
“What happened?” she asks. Bec holds my hand while Solo fills her in on the encounter with Sierra.
“You know,” Bec says, shaking her head, “all this time, I thought it was me. But it turns out you’re the one. You’re the one who has it.”
I frown. “Has what?”
“The overdeveloped sense of drama.”
I smile.
“Put your glasses back on, Bono,” Bec says. “We have an entrance to make.”
My heart rate seems to accelerate with every step we take toward the cafeteria, and by the time we’re standing at the top of the stairs, the blood is pounding in my ears and my vision has gone full-tunnel.
“Are you all right?” Bec asks.
“No,” I say, breathing in shallow gasps. “I’m having a—full-on—panic attack.”
“Should we go back?”
I shake my head. “No. We walk—all the way through. No matter—what.”
Bec looks at Solo, then back at me. “Okay,” she says.
And something seems to snap inside me, like a spell breaking. Like that feeling when your ears pop as the plane is landing—and suddenly you can hear again.
I blink. The tunnel vision is gone. My heart is beating a thousand times a second, my breath still coming in shallow gulps, but I don’t care. I take one step, then another. Then another.
And then we’re in the Gauntlet, all three of us, walking right down the center of the aisle. I glance over at a table full of kids eating while they study, and make eye contact with a tall, skinny guy in a red T-shirt. He smiles and nods, but there’s no special recognition in it; he’s just being polite. We pass the band kids, but no one looks up. As we approach the football table, someone calls out to Solo. He waves in response. Vickers isn’t here—he’s still in custody—and there’s no sign of Sierra, either. Or Cole, or any of that crew.
I stop in the dead center of the cafeteria and look around. Some heads turn in my direction, and maybe half a dozen people lean over and whisper to their friends. One guy looks at me and shakes his head in disgust, then goes back to eating. A group of cheerleaders breaks out in a chorus of giggles that I’m pretty sure is because of me. But for the most part, nothing happens.
A hush does not fall over the crowd.
No one yells “faggot,” or “dyke,” or throws food.
On the other hand, no one shouts my name in triumph, either. There is no slow golf clap building up to a standing ovation.
It’s just a bunch of people eating lunch.
I laugh out loud, and Bec turns to look at me, her face drawn with concern.
“You all right?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I was just thinking—if I have to eat one more dry-ass cafeteria burrito, I might have a complete nervous breakdown.”
Bec nods. “So, On the Vedge?”
“Definitely.”
And before I know it, we’re out of the cafeteria and scrambling down the slope to the parking lot.
“I need meat,” Solo says. “Let’s go to the Reagan Years.”
“You want me to fall into a dairy-induced coma?” I reply.
“You like their fries.”
“A teen of indeterminate gender cannot live by fries alone.”
“Wait,” Solo says. “So we can joke about this now?”
I shake my head. “I can joke about this. You must remain neutral and respectful at all times.”
Bec snorts.
“That’s totally unfair,” Solo says. “You’re a rich white kid, why can’t I make fun of you?”
“I don’t make the rules, Solo. I just represent.” I pound my chest with a fist.
Solo laughs. “So be it.”
CHAPTER 35
DAD COMES HOME EARLY, citing a long day of campaigning ahead of him tomorrow—he looks absolutely beat. My mom, who took the day off to go event-hopping with him, looks pretty wiped out herself. I know she’s tired when she announces that Shelly will be dropping off Thai food at six.
Dinner conversation is light, and I only pick at my vegetable pad see ew; I’m too amped up to eat. Finally, I push the Styrofoam container away.
“Mom, Dad?” They look up at me. I take a deep breath. “There’s something I want to do. But, it’s kind of big, and I don’t want to do it unless you’re okay with it.”
They exchange interested looks.
“All right,” Dad says. “Tell us.”
So I do. I tell them about Mike/Michelle’s invitation to speak on the panel at Trans Health Con tomorrow, and how Casey’s coming out today inspired me to do more than just blog about what I’ve been through.
When I’m done, Dad loosens his tie and clears his throat.
“Riley,” he says, “I don’t know about this. You’d be obliterating your privacy.”
I meet his eye. “Dad, I’ve spent the last week holed up in my room, avoiding the TV, hardly even going on the internet. We’ve disconnected our home phone. Reporters stake out the house. You have to sneak out through the side yard and get picked up in a rental car. Our ‘privacy’ is sort of over.” He exchanges a dark look with my mom. I continue before they can interrupt. “You always say the best leaders figure out how to turn a bad situation to their advantage. When life gives you gators, you make Gatorade. Remember?”
I watch his face for some sign—and after a moment, I
’d swear he’s trying to suppress a smile. I think I may have won him over. My mom’s face, on the other hand, is tight with concern, so I turn my attention to her. “I feel like if I can talk about it—about coming out, and my situation . . . maybe it will help me process all of this. And give it a positive meaning, instead of just being a sad story about something that happened to me.”
Mom lets out a long sigh, reaches up like she’s going to chew her cuticle, then folds her hands.
I go on. “I think about what Bec will say if I just hide from all this. And my friends at the Q. Andie Gingham. Casey Reese. The fifty thousand people who follow my blog.”
Dad says, “I know you feel accountable to your community. And that’s admirable. But you don’t owe it to them. You don’t owe it to anyone.”
I look up at him. “I owe it to me.”
Finally, Mom speaks, her voice heavy with worry. “It’s just so soon.”
I shake my head. “The timing is right. The election, the assault, it’s all still in the news. I have this little window of time when I can talk into a big microphone. This is my chance to speak up for other people like me.”
Mom looks at me. Her eyes are getting moist. Dad puts his hand on hers and says, “Sharon? What do you think?”
She shakes her head. “You are your father’s child, Riley.”
On Saturday morning—the day of the conference—I stand in front of my closet, staring at the palette of faded black and blue clothes hanging inside. The only brightly colored thing in here is a yellow T-shirt I’ve never worn, crammed way in the back. For the first time, I understand what my mother has been complaining about since I was a kid: my wardrobe has all the color of a week-old bruise.
Mom is sitting on the couch in the living room reading one of her guilty pleasures, a bodice-ripper romance novel. When I enter the room, she looks up from her book, embarrassed like a kid caught watching an R-rated movie.
“You startled me,” she says, closing her book. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Everything’s good. I was just wondering . . . I was wondering if you’d take me shopping?”
I’ve never seen my mother get into a car so quickly in my life.
When we walk out of Nordstrom two hours later, both of us are smiling like we’ve won the lottery. The outfit I end up with is, as my mother put it, very me: a simple white dress shirt with a blue tie—darker than my dad’s cornflower blue, but not by much. Below that, I chose a dark green tartan fabric with thin blue lines running through the plaid. It hangs just above the knee and lands somewhere in the middle of the skirt/kilt continuum. On my feet: a brand-new pair of blue sixteen-hole Doc Martens. The outfit is part punk rock, part Catholic schoolgirl, part prep-school lacrosse guy.
