2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
Jordie
“ O h, crap. Is it really almost one?” I scramble to shove my schedule and notebooks back into some semblance of order.
I have a class in half an hour. It’s tempting to cut, but it’s still the first day and I should probably at least grab the syllabus. I suppose. Ugh. Psych 101 is going to be full of clueless first years, second years with no idea what they want to do, and slacker seniors who put off a required gen ed. I’m so not looking forward to that. But my advisor says I need it to graduate, so here I am preparing for a lecture I don’t want to bother with.
“Yep. Unless my phone is also wrong.” Jacob holds his phone up in an obnoxious gesture; he’s such a punk sometimes.
“I gotta cut out early.” I shove back from my seat at the diner. Randy’s is my group’s favorite late night hangout, but it’s also got killer food on days when we have enough time to wander away from campus between classes.
“Aw, you gotta run?” Celeste pouts at me, stirring her coffee. I’m not sure how she manages the dainty spoon with her long lacquered nails, but they don’t seem to impede her at all. Pixel, her girlfriend, cocks her head at me.
“Jords is leaving? Boo! I was going to order dessert. Wouldn’t you rather stay here and have pie with me than sit around in a boring class?” Pixel has the poutiest begging face I’ve ever seen and I’m not sure how Celeste ever says no to her.
“Don’t make me say no to that sweet face, Pix,” I tease. “I really don’t need an excuse to skip the psych class that fulfills a general education requirement I’ve been putting off for years.”
“You’re being a bad influence already, pet?” Celeste arches a brow. Pixel squirms in her seat and tries, unsuccessfully, to look contrite.
“I’m not! I’m just saying, Jords can probably just do the readings and spare themself the need to languish with all the newbs.”
“Yeah. It’s going to be a shitshow of new students.” I pout, this is what I get for putting off the required class until my last year.
“Score, you can totally scope out the fresh meat and snag any cute baby queers for us,” Jacob teases.
“Dude, freshman are practically actual babies; no thank you. I do not need some teenager’s drama.” I gesture dramatically.
Jacob winks salaciously. “I mean, they can’t cause much drama if you hit it and quit it.” He lets the ridiculous fuckboy mask drop a fraction, though. “But it sounds gross when you put it like that. I just meant new faces on campus—of age, legal faces. There are only so many queer and curious guys to fuck on campus. Eventually, everyone either pairs off and you’re scrolling past the same sets of abs on all the apps, you know?”
“Ugh, you’re such a horndog. Why are we friends with you?” Celeste flaps her hand at him in a shooing gesture. “He’s got a point though. You could make new friends, Jords. That’s how I met Pix in our second year.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I grimace, slinging my bag over my shoulder and pulling out my wallet to settle my tab. “I’m not looking to be anyone’s fairy queer-mother, thanks. Been there, done that, outgrown the t-shirt.”
Jacob lets his obnoxiously flirty persona drop entirely for once in a rare moment of vulnerability and gives me a sympathetic smile. “They aren’t all going to be Nell. You shouldn’t let your ex screw with your head forever, Jords.”
I don’t point out that he’s being a massive hypocrite. Out of all my friends, Jacob might be the one who understands the most about what it’s like for love to turn into a betrayal. He just channels his hurt into a very active sex life and I… don’t date newly out people.
Teach them about queer topics, sure. Hand out condoms and dental dams like they’re candy, absolutely. One-off hookups, occasionally, if we’re both feeling it. I’ll hold hands for STI testing or coming out phone calls, sure. But I draw the line at dating them.
Nell was my high school girlfriend who dumped me at our graduation party with a weird little speech thanking me for easing her into gay dating. It wasn’t my first round of being an experiment, but it’s still the one that hurts the most since we dated for over a year. I thought Nell was really into me.
After Nell, I spent the next couple of years throwing myself into flings. Most of them I knew were casual from the start. Along the way, I let myself get too close to a few newly out friends. It took getting my heart bruised one too many times by thinking something more could develop from all those intense emotions around coming out before I learned my lesson and swore off dating baby gays.
Pixel and Celeste give me sympathetic smiles. “Well, nothing says you have to make new friends, but you should get to class if you’re going. Toss me a twenty and I’ll cover your tab.” Pixel holds out her hand to me.
I dig out the cash and hand it to her, then I head back to campus. Randy’s is less than a fifteen-minute walk away from my on campus apartment at my usual pace. So I have plenty of time to stroll leisurely away from the commercial area and past rows of stately brownstones. I scroll on my phone as I cross campus.
I catch up on an email from my younger brother. Liam sent it on his school account during study hall, asking for help with an essay he needs to write for his English class. He sends me screen caps of the assignment and a draft of his outline to correct, so I save a copy and promise to look it over tonight.
My baby sister Kara texted me a food SOS during her lunch hour to complain about Dad’s weird experimental recipes replacing her usual dessert options in her lunch box. Technically, he’s her dad and my step-dad, but that’s a distinction without a difference. From the start of his relationship with my mom, he’s always shown he considers Liam and I as much his kids as Kara.
Mom’s the one I call when I need someone to talk sense into me. Dad is the one I call for parental advice when something breaks. It was his idea, which Mom quickly endorsed, to move us to Boston when I was having a hard time adjusting to being out as a genderqueer in our more rural hometown.
Now he’s on a kick about creatively adapting old recipes to use more local produce. Kara begs me to smuggle her some donuts from the trendy little shop down the street from Randy’s when I come over for family dinner this weekend. Holes has the best strawberry glazed confections, so it doesn’t take much arm twisting before I agree to satisfy her sweet tooth if she can hold out until the weekend.
She peppers her messages with over dramatic GIFs to the effect that she is dying from dessert withdrawal and I’m literally saving her life. That, along with her barely decipherable tween slang, makes me shake my head at her and wonder when my twenties started making me feel so ancient.
I reach my lecture hall and send Kara a got to go. Some of us pay attention in class text punctuated with a winking kissy face emoji to rile her up about it not making sense. I don’t question why she’s messaging when she should be in class. The kid takes notes on her tablet to accommodate for her dyslexia, and she has it set up to relay texts from her phone. She’s a bit too clever for her own good and always has been.
My psych 101 lecture is in one of the fancier buildings with larger lecture halls. For a class that so many students take to meet gen ed requirements, it’s not the biggest I’ve taken, probably because there are so many sections offered each term. I walk down the sloping aisle lined with cushy seats, toward the front of the hall.
I settle into an aisle seat near the front. If I don’t see all the baby-faces surrounding me, I can pretend they aren’t there. Or that’s what I tell myself. Students noisily trickle in around me, but the seat beside mine remains empty as knots of freshmen and sophomores fill the room.
The tone that marks the beginning of class sounds out in the hallway and the lecture hall is packed with eager first years. The professor has his nose buried in his notes, waiting out the wave of noise rather than competing for our attention. I can’t fault that approach; why scream when he’s the one we’re all paying to be here to listen to?
This is why I hate giant intro classes. But I’ve been putting off this class even though I know I need it to graduate. I already have ideas for the handful of short papers I know we’ll need to write. Worst-case scenario, if I struggle to make it through the lectures, I can borrow Celeste’s old notes. She already offered.
At least the seat beside me remains empty. If I play my cards right, I can keep my interactions with my fellow students to a minimum. It’s weird how much younger the first years seem these days. I might be becoming a bit of a curmudgeon.
The chatter gradually settles, and the professor sends his TA down the central aisle, handing out a stack of syllabi to each row of the lecture hall. They’re still a little warm from the printer, the familiar scent of toner lingering on the fresh pages. I take my copy and pass the rest of the stack along. There’s a slight whump of air as the door behind me flings open. I glance over my shoulder at the disheveled person standing in the doorway, a heavy stack of textbooks clasped to their chest, shoulders heaving with every ragged breath. Some impulse compels me to turn and get a better look at the panting first-year.
Jacob might’ve put thoughts in my head, but something in their panicked gaze won’t let me turn away. Their eyes frantically scan the crowded hall for an open seat. I wave them toward the one next to me.
They slump down the aisle, gawky-looking and swimming in a Dysphoria HoodieTM that obscures their figure. A big floppy beanie covers their hair, pulled down until it almost obstructs their wary blue eyes. They remain hunched over their armload of books as they shuffle awkwardly past me to get to the empty seat on my left.
I don’t know the kid, but they look like me six years ago. My folks moved us to Boston when I was the newly-out-as-trans kid for my junior year of high school. I needed the fresh start after my old school—staff and students alike—didn’t handle my transition well. Ugh. My heart clenches with empathy for this stranger.
I’m going to say hi and make a friend. Jacob is going to crow to high heavens about me adopting a baby freshman. Regardless, I can’t ignore the lost look in their eyes as they dart from my dyed jet black curls to my single hoop earring and down to the pronoun pin on my blue velvet blazer. The kid latches on like I’m an oasis in the desert.
This kid needs something they probably can’t articulate to themself. I’m nothing if not a sucker for a baby queer making that first tentative step into self-discovery and seeking community. They lift a hand from their books to give me the tiniest hint of a wave as they reach the chair beside me. And then it’s like everything happens in slow motion as the professor clears his throat and turns on the projector to get started.
The kid seems to run out of hands trying to do too much at once. Wave, set down their school bag, pull open the seat on the theater-style chair, and place their books next to mine all while simultaneously attempting to sit. I reach to steady their shoulder as they stagger.
Their stack of books topples to one side, and they stumble right into my lap. Their books clatter to the floor at our feet as I wrap my arms around them so we don’t both go down with the books. It’s reflexive and I can’t help the zing of warmth I feel when they realize I won’t let them fall and they relax into my hold.
Jacob is going to laugh himself silly if I tell him my new baby queer tripped and literally fell onto my dick. I mean. Not exactly, but I can feel myself reacting to having them squirming in my lap as they gather their things. It’s not really the time for a boner, so I focus on the little details that make me feel more protective than turned on.
Their shampoo in my nostrils has the same citrusy tang of the one my teenage brother, Liam, uses. And they seem at pains to conceal the curves I have no business holding as I steady them so they don’t fall off my lap. So, probably not she/her pronouns if that’s what they are trying to hide, but there might be other reasons for clothing that obscures their form.
“Easy, I’ve got you.” I steady them with a hand on their upper back as they lean down to retrieve their books from the ground.
“Sorry!” they murmur. “Shit, I’m so sorry.” Their cheeks flame as they snag the book, press it to their chest, an added layer of shielding, and scrabble off of me. They had to have noticed my dick chubbing up at having them wriggling around on top of me. That doesn’t seem to be what has them upset as they mutter something under their breath. “Esti de marde. Pourrais-je être plus maladroit?”
I don’t recognize the words, but from the tone I’m guessing that’s profanity. It takes a moment for me to parse that they’re speaking French. They hurriedly slide from my lap and into the seat next to me, casting me a sidelong apologetic look.
“De rien,” I mouth at them. Not sure whether it’s the right response at all, but dredging up my best effort. I’ve only had two semesters of the language so far. I need to consider a tutor if I want to pass this semester, but I think that’s the right response? Or maybe it’s ‘you’re welcome’?
The kid snorts a laugh and shakes their head at me, whispering. “Sorry, English is fine.”
I have to bite my lip to keep myself from reacting to their adorable accent as they switch languages. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Am I interrupting?” Our professor is glaring at the two of us.
Screw that. It’s not like everyone else was paying attention, and it’s not like my baby frosh chose to fall. I’m not questioning how much they light up my protective streak before I even know their name, let alone their pronouns. They hunch in on themself, tugging their beanie down to their eyebrows. As if they want to melt into their chair and escape the coils of mortality or at least no longer be subject to other people perceiving their existence. My heart goes out to them.
“Sorry, Professor, won’t happen again.” I give a cheeky salute.
“See that it doesn’t.” The professor turns pointedly away with a displeased grunt, ignoring us in favor of reading the syllabus aloud.
The only thing making this class worthwhile today is the adoringly thankful grin that seals just how much the baby queer next to me seems to have imprinted on me already.. I realize my new friend missed the stack of syllabi, so I nudge mine in between us so they can follow along. I bite my lip to stop myself from asking their name and disrupting the class again, just tapping the page to draw their attention to it.
When they lean in closer, giving me another whiff of their clean citrusy scent, I scrawl a note in the margins.
Hi, I’m Jordie (they/them). What’s your name?
The kid’s eyes dart from the note to the pronoun pin on my lapel, to the rainbow enamel ‘they/them’ ring on my middle finger, and then back to the page. They bring their pen to the paper and gnaw their lip like their name is a calculus equation that’s worth half their grade. Yeah, definitely something going on there.
I slip a blank sheet of notebook paper over the syllabus; this is going to take more space than the margins allow. I write again.
Or just a name you want to try?
They hesitate, rocking in their seat and tapping their pencil nervously against the page. I bite my cheek to keep from smiling at their adorable fidgeting and prompt them again.
No pressure, babe, I can just call you Frenchie until you pick something you prefer. They stifle a laugh and dart those gorgeous blue mirth-filled eyes to my face. I wink at them.
This time, they bring their pencil to the page and write without an ounce of hesitation.
Ray.
Pleased to meet you, Ray. I bite my lip, considering whether to push my luck and nudge them even further out of their comfort zone. Fuck it. I don’t want to misgender them, even in my thoughts.
Pronouns?
Ray stares wide-eyed between me, the note, and then my pronouns printed at the top of our exchange. They swallow hard and then they write.
He?
Damn, Ray is going to have all my protective instincts firing if I’m not careful. The question mark fits with the naked longing when he looks at how loudly I wear my pronouns for the world to see. I wonder if that’s the first time he’s told anyone? Part of me likes the idea of being his first. The more rational part realizes what a big thing that could be. He might need to have a safe place to work through all the big feels after this lecture.
I’m totally just being a good friend when I write my next overture.
Cool, grab a coffee with me after class?
Ray gnaws his poor lip again. I’m so tempted to reach over and thumb it away from his teeth. Or maybe replace his teeth with mine. But no. I’m not thinking about kissing a freshman who doesn’t even know who he is. Ray is off limits. No matter how adorable he is. I wait, trying to play it cool and casual while he writes his answer.
Yeah. Okay.
Ray gives me a sidelong glance and a cute little smile before tucking his hands under his thighs to keep from fidgeting with his pencil.
It feels like an eternity passes as our curmudgeonly professor drones his way through the entire needlessly lengthy syllabus. But maybe that’s partly because I spend the time transfixed by a beautiful boy who can’t seem to hold still for two seconds.
First, his foot bounces, then his pencil taps, and then his fingers drum. I just want to watch the smile on his soft lips get bigger every time he glances at the name written in the margins of my syllabus. The more I observe him, the more certain I am that I’m the first person he’s trusted with this part of himself. The weight of that feels huge and solemn and wonderful.
It’s a little like the way I felt when my folks first introduced me to my baby brother and told me that I was a big sibling now. Like gazing into guileless blue eyes and realizing that this new person trusts me implicitly to protect him and be an exemplary role model.
It’s indescribably heady, but with Ray, I might need to rein in the part of me that’s already confusing that instant emotional spark of connection for something it’s not. I need to be focused on my studies and getting into law school, not falling for a first-year baby queer. Surely I’ve made that mistake enough by now to learn my lesson.