Chapter 11
On Saturday morning, I stand in front of my closet, trying to pick out what to wear.
Mom and Shar are both at an Al-Anon meeting, which means I don’t have to do the awkward work of explaining why I want to take public transit all the way to Jayden and Makayla’s house instead of getting a ride from one of them.
Because I’m not going there. I’m going to the Queer Alliance work party at Forrest’s house.
I know I should tell them. But if I do, then Mom will ask me what my plan is for rescheduling my study session, and how I’m doing on my assignments, and if she finds out I already fell behind in English, I won’t get to go. And I need this. Queer Alliance makes me happy, and I need to feel happy.
I finally settle on a long-sleeve shirt with thin gold, orange, and pink stripes, faded flared jeans, my now-dry Billie hoodie, and my chunky sneakers.
Since coming out as nonbinary, picking my clothes has been easier in some ways and harder in others.
I used to cycle through feminine phases followed by masculine ones, never comfortable in either, like something was wrong and I didn’t know what it was.
Like I was wrong, and I didn’t know why.
I didn’t feel what other girls seemed to feel; a sense that they were what everyone perceived them to be.
But I didn’t feel like a boy either. In Queer Alliance, I got to know other nonbinary and trans people, and for the first time, I felt what cis people seemed to have: an anchor, grounding me without weighing me down.
I realized that clothes could mean whatever I wanted them to, no matter how people saw me in them, and a lot of other realizations followed: I don’t like it when shirts cling to my chest, or when my silhouette is all box and no softness.
I don’t think I want to try hormones, but I might want top surgery someday.
I don’t want to be seen as a girl, or as a boy, just as a person, and I wish society would see that too.
Right now, a lot of days are a balancing act between what I want and how other people might see me, and some days are easier than others.
Today is an easier day. I feel good about the way I look.
And I’m going to hang out with people who see me, not a gender.
Yesterday’s QA meeting was the best one yet.
I felt at home again, at ease, the way I used to feel before the presidency, and this time, Forrest was part of that feeling.
Leading the meeting with him was effortless.
I’m not even worried about seeing him today, which is nice.
The longer this peace between us goes on, the more I get used to it.
The bus ride to Forrest’s is short. I make it to the stop just in time, and we rattle up from Rainier Avenue into the Central District, where I get off across from a park and walk into the neighborhood.
The houses get a little nicer as I go east, in the direction of Lake Washington.
A few blocks in, I check my maps and take a right, then a left, and then I’m standing outside.
Forrest’s house is bigger than I imagined it, but not a mansion.
The house is painted dark green, camouflaging it behind the hedge and the garden that line the walkway to the front door.
I step onto the low, wide wooden porch and hear laughter from inside.
It sounds like people are already here, which is fine.
I kind of wanted to arrive first, but it’s OK.
I ring the doorbell and a chime sounds inside, followed by a bellowing bark. A moment later the door swings open, Forrest grinning at me as he restrains a whining, jumping golden pit bull.
“Come in, come in!” He backs away, dog in tow, and I edge inside. “I’m going to let him go, just turn around if he jumps on you and don’t give him any attention until he stops doing it!”
Before I can say anything, he releases Simba and the dog barrels toward me, whole body wiggling. I brace myself, but the jump never comes; instead, Simba knocks me back a few steps, against the wall, and buries his face in my hands as I bend to pet him.
“You are such a good boy,” I murmur, petting his short, soft fur as he settles, the wiggles subsiding, his weight leaning against my legs.
“Whoa,” Forrest says, and I look up to see him watching me thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen him calm down so fast. Did you grow up with dogs?”
“Nope,” I say. “We never had pets when I was a kid.”
“He must just like you,” he says. “You’ve got the Simba stamp of approval.”
My cheeks warm, and I smile. Forrest’s eyes glimmer, and we stand there quietly for a moment in the hallway. I don’t know why, but my chest is fluttery all of a sudden, and I’m nervous and excited at the same time.
“We’ve got snacks in the living room,” he says, taking a few steps away toward the rest of the house. I follow him, Simba trotting at my heels, my heart still racing.
The hallway opens up into a large, light-filled living room lined with soft-looking blue couches on a gray carpet.
The walls are cream, and a fireplace, its bricks painted white, faces the couches.
Riley is cross-legged on the carpet at the huge wooden coffee table, eating a cracker from the giant plate of snacks.
Stef and Alexander lounge on one couch, and Anna sits at another, Nyx perched beside her.
“Sidney!” Anna jumps up and we hug.
A knock sounds and Simba zooms off toward the door, barking his head off.
Everyone laughs as Forrest follows him, shaking his head.
From the door, we hear voices, and Jayden and Makayla walk in to a flurry of hellos.
They both spot me and Anna at the same time and beeline for our couch, Jayden settling on the floor in front of the table and Makayla sitting on Nyx’s other side.
It feels like we’re warring families, my friends and Forrest’s friends facing off across the coffee table, but no one is fighting.
Forrest smiles at me from where he’s standing behind his friends, and I smile back.
“So, what’s the vision?” Alexander says, pulling everyone’s attention.
He missed the meeting yesterday, so we fill him in on the exhibit as he nods along.
Forrest runs to a closet somewhere and comes back with a huge box of art supplies, Stef pulls some paints out of her backpack, and Jayden and Makayla dump out a bag filled with several packages of construction paper in all different colors.
We spread out across the floor, divvying up the exhibit into small groups.
I end up beside Stef and Forrest, cutting posterboard into squares.
Construction paper gets pasted onto each poster, so the white board makes a neat border behind the bright color.
Each one will display a picture and biography of a famous queer person from our list. In another corner, Makayla, Anna, and Nyx are researching each person, finding the photos and writing up the bios for us to print out.
Riley, Jayden, and Alexander are working on the timeline of historical events, two of them researching while the other cuts construction paper into triangles.
We’ll string them all together to make a banner of historical events people can follow from the entrance to the library all the way to the start of the exhibit, marked by a display of our library’s queer books.
Beyond it, we’ll mount each profile on the end of a bookcase, making a perimeter around the tables in the center of the library.
A chorus of giggles bursts the silence, and I look up to see Jayden smacking Alexander’s arm. I guess the history group project must be going well if they’re this comfortable around each other.
“We need music,” Forrest announces to the room and scrambles to his feet, almost stepping on my fingers as he dashes to a Bluetooth player on the fireplace mantel.
He turns it on and stands there connecting his phone, and a moment later “Hot to Go!” by Chappell Roan blasts out at top volume.
Anna shrieks and covers her ears, Riley flinches, and Forrest frantically presses the buttons on his phone until the sound is a normal level.
“Thanks, I’m awake now,” I mutter as he sits back down beside me.
“You’re welcome!” he says with a toothy smile. I roll my eyes and he smirks back. It feels like we’re friends, bantering back and forth, the bitter edge that used to color our interactions now gone.
The music is a playlist of pop hits from the last few years, and I hum along as I glue construction paper to posterboard. Stef harmonizes with me, and I smile at her.
“You have a nice voice,” I say.
“Thanks!” she says. “I’m in choir with this fool.” She jerks a thumb at Forrest, who presses a hand to his chest, feigning hurt.
“You’re in choir?” I ask him.
“Yeah, I love singing, and I thought it would help me not lose my singing voice when I started testosterone.” He presses purple construction paper to a posterboard square.
“And theater? Does that mean you get to waive gym class?” I say.
“Hell yeah I do,” he says, grinning. “I avoid sports at all costs.”
“Closest he gets is coming to my breakdancing competitions,” Alexander calls out from where he sits tapping away on his laptop.
“Always support the homies,” Forrest says, shooting finger guns back.
“How long have you been breakdancing?” I ask.
“Since I was like . . . twelve?” Alexander says, running a hand over his close-cropped black hair. “I was really into hip-hop and some of my friends were taking classes, so I got my parents to let me go.”
“And now he’s winning everything,” Forrest says with a grin.
Alexander blushes. “Not everything.” His expression turns mischievous. “Just most things.”
“When’s your next one?” I ask.
“November,” he says. “Y’all should come.”
“We’ll be there,” Jayden says, and I glance at him, but he’s looking at Alexander.
It does sound cool; I’ve never seen breakdancing in person before, just on my feed for whatever obscure reason the algorithm has decided to show it to me.
I’ve been noticing more videos popping up for me lately, but I don’t mind. It’s impressive to watch.
Something pings in my brain. Jayden said he’d gone to the breakdancing club that Monday we both missed lunch with Anna and Makayla. Is he hanging out with Alexander? I mean, he must be, if he’s gone to the club. But maybe he’s been seeing the same videos as me and just thought it was cool.
Or he’s ditching us. Maybe he’s not on drugs, maybe he just found people better than us.
Why would he want to be friends with us, anyway?
He’s probably pulling away, right now. On Monday, he’ll be gone again, having a great time with Alexander and not even thinking about us.
My chest aches, the beginning of tears stinging inside my nose.
The grief is strong, surging inside me, and it feels like I’m going to drown.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
Everyone else chatters around me, but they recede like shapes in a heavy fog as I repeat my mantra.
A laugh cuts through my second set of three, and I look around.
Everyone is smiling and talking. No one knows what I’m thinking, which is good, because if they did, they’d think I’m crazy, and then they’d pull away for sure.
By the time parents start arriving, we’ve finished everything we wanted to do.
We decide to set up the exhibit at one of the lunch periods this week, and one by one, as people leave, we clean up.
My thoughts have faded to whispers, but I’m still in an anxious haze, not really paying attention to the others as I gather up the materials around me.
I take an armful of paper scraps to the recycling bin in the kitchen, poking around for a minute before I find it at the end of one of the butcher block counters, by the back door.
The kitchen is nice, as big as our living room at home, with an island, a porcelain sink, and three times the counter space.
Simba follows me, snuffling at the ground while I throw the paper away.
I crouch to pet him, and he licks my face.
It makes me smile, and when I stand up, I feel a little more present.
Back in the living room, Forrest is the only one there, dropping the last few markers into his bin of art supplies.
“Did everyone leave already?” I ask.
“Jayden’s in the bathroom,” he says.
“And I’m in the hallway,” Makayla calls out, poking her head around the corner into the room. She frowns at me quizzically. “Sid, how are you getting home?”
“Uhhh . . . can I get a ride?” If Mom and Shar are already home and see me get dropped off by Jayden and Makayla, they’ll never suspect I wasn’t studying.
“Totally!” She smiles.
I follow her into the hallway and slip my shoes back on. We turn to Forrest, who waves at us awkwardly.
“See you in class,” he says, and we echo it, standing there in a moment of silence. Jayden appears, zipping up his jacket, and then we’re hustling out the door while Forrest holds Simba back. The twins’ mom is waiting for us in their sedan.
I look back before I reach the car, just in time to see the golden glow of the hallway and the side of Forrest’s face before the door shuts.
His mom never came out to say hi, and I never heard a sound from his little sister.
Where were they? Is he home alone? It must be weird, being all by yourself in a giant house.
In the back seat of the car, I pull up our text thread. I want to say something, but everything I think of sounds too earnest, so I find a funny video in my likes and send that instead.
Thanks again for hosting, I add.
A moment later, a reply pops up. No problem. Simba’s helping me clean up the food. And a photo of Simba with very guilty eyes, a slice of cheese hanging out of his mouth. I laugh.
“What’s up?” Jayden asks from the front seat as Makayla looks over beside me.
“Oh, uh, just a meme,” I say. I don’t know why, but I don’t want to tell them I’m texting Forrest. They’ll probably think it’s weird that I’m suddenly so friendly with someone I hated not that long ago. And I don’t want anything to make this weird.