Chapter 7
I come into school Monday morning with a mission: Find Forrest at lunch and make him agree to do whatever I want with the club next.
First, though, I want to make him sweat a little.
However he justified it, he went behind my back, and he deserves to feel like shit for it.
So in first-period English, I ignore him completely.
I’m aware of exactly where he is at all times, of course, because my brain can’t seem to turn off its Forrest scanner, but I don’t make eye contact with him even once.
At the end of fourth period, I have all my stuff ready to go, and I book it to the junior hallway lockers so fast I almost knock a freshman down the stairs. At my locker, I grab my stuff and then dawdle, pretending to text someone while I wait for him to walk up.
When he does, Alexander’s with him, the two of them laughing about something. Alexander leans against the wall beside him while Forrest digs something out of his locker. I stuff my phone into my hoodie pocket and march up to them.
“Hi,” I say. They both turn to me, and I cross my arms. “Forrest, can I talk to you?”
“Oooop,” Alexander says, raising his perfectly manicured eyebrows. “I’ll see you there.” He points at Forrest and slides away, to wherever “there” is.
Forrest shuts his locker. “What’s up, Co-President?”
“You can just call me Sidney, you know,” I say, rolling my eyes. I wanted to play it cool, but I can’t help it; now that we’re up close and personal, I’m seething again, the memory of Friday’s meeting bubbling up unbidden.
“I like Co-President,” he says. “It fits you. Very official. Businesslike.”
I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, so I ignore it. “I thought we could talk about Queer Alliance today. Get it out of the way for the week.”
“Oh. Um. OK.” He looks around. “Do you want to go somewhere and sit down, or just talk in the hallway again?”
“Hallway is fine,” I say. “Here’s the deal: You got your party, but only because you went behind my back and won the rest of the club over, so I had no choice but to say yes.”
“I didn’t go behind your—”
“Yes, you did,” I say, voice rising.
“OK!” he says, holding up his hands. “You’re right. Technically, yes, what I did could be seen that way.” I open my mouth and he speeds through, talking louder. “But I swear I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t even think about it. I just thought it would make things easier.”
“Easier how? Easier for you?”
“Fuck,” he breathes out, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah, OK, fine. After we talked, and you were clearly not down, I thought it would help to get a read on how the rest of the club was feeling. And yeah, I hoped they’d see it my way, and they did.”
I nod slowly. So he did talk to me first, at least. Maybe it wasn’t all planned out. But still. “Well, you got what you wanted. And now, I should get something I want.”
He raises his eyebrows. “And fuck the rest of the club, I guess?”
“I—that’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“Just that . . . I don’t know, you got your party. But I have ideas too, and I want to bring one to the meeting this week,” I say. “So, when I do, don’t block it.”
He snorts. “You make it sound like we’re in Congress negotiating over a bill.”
“I’m just saying. I meant what I said in my speech. I want to get some real things done this year.”
“All right, fine, I’ll stay out of your way,” he says, holding up his hands, and then smirks. “This week.”
I stare at him silently.
“Kidding,” he says. “Oh my god, you need to get a sense of humor.”
“And you need to get a sense of reading the room,” I snap back.
“I’m going now,” he singsongs. “See you Friday.” He side-steps around me, heading down the hallway, and I stomp in the other direction. I won, but I’m so irritated I can’t even be happy about it.
A couple people are out sick on Friday, so the Queer Alliance meeting is even smaller than last week.
I push down the anxiety movies about that, trying to stay focused as we discuss the remaining pieces for the National Coming Out Day party next week.
Forrest pulls together a list of folks who are available to set up in the library that morning, and I volunteer; I’m usually at school early anyway, so why not?
And if I’m there, I can head off any potential Forrest-induced disasters.
“And there will be cupcakes,” he says, grinning. “Stef?”
She looks up from the black polish she’s been slowly chipping off her nails. “My aunt runs a bakery. She does all kinds of dietary restrictions, gluten-free, vegan, whatever we need, and she’s donating two dozen, plus a gift card we can raffle off.”
“That’s amazing,” I say.
Forrest shrugs. “Told you we could do it.”
I almost roll my eyes, but I catch myself. Instead, I do my best impression of a smile, but I don’t say anything back. We agreed to keep our issues out of Queer Alliance, not to become besties.
“Do we wanna do anything else this month?” Riley asks. “It’s LGBTQ History Month, might be cool to do something on that theme.”
Thank you, Riley, for the perfect cue.
“Actually, I was thinking we could do an exhibit about that exact subject,” I say. “I know the month is half over, and it’ll take some time to put together, but we could run it through Trans Awareness Week in November.”
Everyone’s eyes are on me. I look at Forrest, who’s slouched back in his chair, arms crossed; I remember our conversation on Monday, and I’m hoping he does too.
“We could put it up somewhere in the school,” I add. “Maybe they’d let us use the display cases in the front hallway, or we could do the library again. Mx. Prager loves us.” Our librarian is nonbinary and has hosted more than their fair share of Queer Alliance events.
“Oh my gosh, yes,” Makayla says, clapping her hands.
“I just watched this movie about Stonewall,” one of the freshmen says, baby face obscured by heavy eyeliner and black lipstick. “We could do a whole section about that? It was this night where all the gay people in New York City rioted, they even threw bricks at cops—”
I open my mouth to tell them of course we’re going to talk about Stonewall, it’s only one of the most important events in queer history, but Forrest beats me to it.
“Hell yeah, we can have a Stonewall section,” he says, smiling at the freshman, and they smile back, a bright blush spreading across their face.
“Sounds like we’re all down for this?” Riley asks, looking from me to Forrest.
Across the circle, Forrest meets my gaze and nods. “I’m down.”
Something lifts off me then, like some huge bird has been perched on my back, digging its claws into my neck, whispering to me about all the ways this would go wrong, Forrest would hate the idea, everyone would agree, the club would fall apart again—but it hasn’t, and everyone thinks it’s a great idea.
Or an OK one, at least. Finally, I’m getting a chance to show what I’d bring to the presidency.
Every meeting so far has felt like a tug-of-war that Forrest is winning, but now I’m pulling the club back to my side.
I just have to keep this up until the revote.
“Maybe we talk about this more next time?” Riley says, glancing at the clock.
Lunch is almost over. Everyone agrees, and we get up to put the desks back.
I know Forrest is nearby, I can hear him talking to Stef about some video game they’re playing, but I don’t look in his direction.
I can’t quite believe that was so easy, but I’m not questioning it.
Dad is late to pick me up for our hike Sunday morning, because of course he is.
I sit on the living room couch, checking and rechecking my phone, waiting for a text from him.
Maybe he slept in, or maybe he just forgot.
Maybe this was a terrible idea. Am I really prepared to spend multiple hours with him?
Is it too late to back out? I pick up my phone to check our text thread again, but there’s nothing.
This is it, he’s not showing up. Fear surges in my chest, hot and tingly.
My phone rings, an unknown number, and I answer it.
“Sidney? I’m calling from Swedish Hospital on First Hill,” says the voice on the other end. “Your father listed you as next of kin, and—”
STOP! I scream in my head, shaking it back and forth. Stop. Stop.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
Brekky bumps my hand and I lift it to pet him, focusing on the velvety fur behind his ears. He arches his neck, purring loudly.
“Do you have everything you need for today?” Mom asks, coming up behind the couch.
I twist to face her, patting the backpack on my lap. “It’s all in here.”
“Snacks? An extra layer? Lots of water?”
“Mom, I’ve got it.” I don’t mean to snap at her, but I can tell she’s anxious, and it’s making my own anxiety worse.
“OK, honey,” she says, raising her hands in front of her. “Just remember, you can ask to come home whenever you want.”
“I’ll be fine.”
From the door to the hallway, Shar gives me a thumbs-up and disappears again, into the room she shares with Mom.
She keeps a low profile when Dad is around; the first few times they met, in moments like this, when Dad was picking me up, Dad would say things to her.
Nothing homophobic, just . . . unfriendly in a way I couldn’t quite pin down, something to needle her or Mom, so they’d respond, and then he’d get defensive and weird.
It never ended well, so now she avoids him. I don’t blame her.
A knock sounds on the door, and I suck in a breath.
“You ready?” Mom says, crossing to it, hand on the doorknob.
I take a deep breath and blow it out. I’m not at all ready. I don’t want to do this. I’d rather rot in my bed, watching videos until my brain leaks out my ears. “Yeah.”
I get up, Brekky complaining at the loss of attention, and head to the door as Mom opens it. And there he is. My dad, standing on the walkway to our house.