11
Sasha
I feel like I need to catch my breath after the morning, so I follow Quinn’s advice to eat lunch outside. I sit alone with my back against a tree, facing away from the school. It’s the start of September, and there’s already a hint of autumn here. The school is in a neighborhood of old two-storey houses and trees that have been here even longer. Some of them have flecks of gold leaves starting to show. It’s a calming area with a lot of cats that no one seems to own but aren’t strays and occasional pride flags in windows. It moves at a slow pace. At least, that’s why I picked it.
I need to catch my breath after my entire life.
Last year, Admirer played 162 shows.
In most cities, we went straight from the jet to the hotel to the venue to the hotel to the jet. It was one of the highest-grossing tours ever. With all the travel and publicity, I wore the helmet constantly. It made being outside without it almost impossible.
I was behind the reflective visor when I tried to tell Augustus that I’m queer. We were about to go onstage.
I said when I think of myself, I think Sasha. I said I’m pretty sure I’m nonbinary.
He barely glanced at me.
“That’s trendy of you.”
I wanted to tell him that there have always been nonbinary people. New language for an ancient feeling. Then the lights went down, and it was time to sing. Time to be Augustus and Alexander Ash.
Brothers.
Princes.
Admirer.
At the end of the night, we waved goodbye to the crowd with our arms around each other’s shoulders. That was last winter.
We never talked about my queerness again. We never talked about the snowballing crisis he was creating for himself or how some nights I wanted to take the helmet off and make a break for it. We didn’t talk much at all. We haven’t for a long time.
If we did, I can’t imagine him listening to me for long enough for me to feel like I’d been heard. He’d nod along and then suddenly he’d need to go, and I’d know his mind had been elsewhere the whole time. His charisma and charm wear thin eventually.
That year on the road, I needed someone to talk to about a hundred different things. I was lonely and run-down. I could have really used an older brother. If he’d been paying any attention, he would have seen that. That’s the part that hurts.
After the encores were done and we were back at the hotel, I locked my door, took off my helmet and sat among the big plants in the corner. But when I let them brush my face, they were plastic.
Outside the school, I place my hand in the grass and lean my head against the bark of the tree. I can feel the sun on my closed eyelids, the wind on my skin. There’s nothing between me and any of it.
When I first moved into the second-floor walk-up I’m renting, I asked the owners (who are also my downstairs neighbors) where I could buy some plants. Ever since, they keep knocking on my door to offer me foliage. They’re this group of three friends in their thirties who I’m pretty sure are all together romantically. They have a six-year-old named Chrysanthemum who interacts with all of them like parents.
They’ve given me cacti, three aloe plants in various moments of their life cycles, a vine that I swear grows if I look away from it for too long, something with big leaves and a name I can’t pronounce, and a herb-filled window box (decorated by Chrysanthemum and an entire box of markers).
After I get home and once again try and fail to figure out a graceful way to carry my bike up the stairs, I decide to ask my neighbors about the music scene. As I was talking to Quinn, I realized I’ve never truly been in the audience. Occasionally in box seats, up and removed from the actual press of people and the full volume. I’ve been backstage at huge aid concerts and hung out with all the people with number-one hits. But I’ve never stood up close to the stage in the midst of it all.
I’m going to find a concert to go to this weekend. I’m going to become part of the crowd like I’ve never been before, and I’m just going to listen.