Chapter 14
I half think forrest will ditch me after school, but when I get to my locker, he’s there, winding one string of his hoodie tight around a finger.
“You’re losing circulation,” I point out as I open my locker.
He grins. The tip of his finger has gone bright red. “I know.”
I snort. “OK then.” I get what I need, then shut the door and turn to him. “You ready?”
“Take me to your lair,” he says.
“You are so corny,” I say, heading for the doors.
He falls into step beside me. “You like it.”
“Do I?” I raise my eyebrows at him as we step into the cold gray afternoon. It’s not raining, but it feels like it should be.
“You’re hanging out with me, aren’t you?
” he says, elbowing me. It’s light, just a little bump, but I feel it like an electric shock.
I don’t think Forrest and I have ever touched before.
I grab the straps of my backpack, holding them tight.
Don’t overthink it, Dad said. I guess I really am friends with Forrest.
As we walk to the train, he asks me if I’ve seen the newest episode of an animated show he’s into, and when I say no, he spends the next ten minutes explaining the entire backstory and the characters until he can tell me about the episode with the proper context.
“You are deeply invested in this,” I say when he’s done.
“It’s one of my hyperfixations,” he says. “Was it too much?”
“Not at all.” We scan our transit cards at the train entrance and ride the long escalator down to the platform.
It’s like descending into a bunker, all concrete and metal and fluorescent lights.
“You make it fun. I feel like I’ve seen the whole show and I didn’t even know about it until you told me.
I could hold a whole conversation with someone about it now. ”
He laughs. “Do you have anything like that? A hyperfixation-type thing?”
“I mean, I’m not neurodivergent that I know of,” I say. “So it’s not really the same, but I guess queer stuff. Queer history, and queer musicians, and Queer Alliance . . . if it’s gay, I’m into it.”
A rumble starts deep in the tunnel, signaling the train’s arrival, and a moment later it whooshes in front of us, slowing until it stops and the doors open.
We step aside to let people out first and then get on, finding an open two-seater by a window.
The seats are small, and our legs touch, my light blue denim against his black sweats, our bags perched on our laps.
“What made you get into all that?” he asks, right as I’m about to start overanalyzing whether or not I should pull my leg away. “Besides the fact that anything queer is just objectively superior.”
“Right?” I say. “We moved around a lot when I was little, my dad had a hard time keeping a job, so I always felt like anything could change at any time. But when I figured out I was queer and joined the alliance, it made me feel at home, like I was part of something solid. Like, history exists. Queer people exist. None of that can be changed, even if people try to.”
“Damn.” He nods, raising his eyebrows. “That’s deep.”
I blush, shrugging. “I don’t know.”
“No, it is. That makes a lot of things make sense.” He jiggles his leg, fingers tapping on his knee as he gazes past me, out the window, even though there’s nothing on the other side but the dark tunnel before the next station.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but when the year started, I thought you were kind of . . .”
“Uptight?” I say quietly, my heart sinking.
“No, no!” He waves his hands. “Well, you obviously wanted things your way and it was annoying, but mostly you just seemed so serious.!”
“I mean, that’s how things get done,” I say, hugging my bag tighter.
“No, I get that. And I’m not that good at getting things done, so—”
“Do you really think I think I’m better than you?” I blurt out.
“What?”
“That day . . . when I asked you to give up the presidency.”
He frowns, deep in thought for a minute, and then his eyes widen.
“I totally forgot about that. Oh my god.” He claps a hand to his face.
“No. That was just . . . I was texting with my dad right before you walked up, and he was just really pissing me off, so I was already in a bad mood. I . . .” He grimaces.
“I’m sorry. Have you been thinking about that all this time? ”
I shrug, staring out the window as we pull into one of the downtown stations. “Not really. I just remembered it now. Because of what you were saying.”
“Sidney.”
I turn my head slightly so I can look at him, just barely. His eyes are fixed on me as he pulls off his hoodie and turns his body toward me. His knee presses into my thigh.
“You are serious, but it’s not a bad thing,” he says. “You’re also super funny, and really smart, and you have really good ideas.”
“What?” I crinkle my nose.
“It’s true.” He smiles. “Look, I’d almost always rather have a party, because I think you can’t really get work done unless you have fun too.
Look at Pride parades. They started as a protest, and they were also a way for the community to get together, support each other, and celebrate who we are.
Now they’re giant parties, and yeah, the capitalism of it all is irritating, but they’re also fun, and beautiful, and we need that.
We need that to keep going.” He pauses. “Sorry. I’ll get off my soapbox, but the point is, we need fun because it keeps us going through the serious shit.
The work. Changing things, and raising awareness, and building power.
Like your exhibit idea. Yeah, some of our newbies at QA came because of the party, but half the new people who were there came because of the exhibit.
Because it taught them something new, or made them curious, or whatever.
” He clasps his hands. “It all works together.”
“That is deep,” I say.
He blushes, something I’ve never seen before; his cheeks and forehead redden, even the bridge of his nose under his freckles. “Thanks.”
“I had no idea you were into social justice like that,” I say.
He tilts his head. “You thought I was just an annoying class clown?”
“No, no—” I protest, even though that’s exactly what I think. Or used to think. The longer we’re co-presidents, the less I remember exactly why I found him so annoying before.
He laughs. “I’m just teasing you. But yeah, that’s one of my other things. My hyperfixations, or whatever you wanna call it.”
“That’s cool.”
He shrugs, smiling. It’s hard to believe the revote is happening in two weeks.
I haven’t been thinking about it as much lately, and the idea of not sharing the presidency with Forrest anymore feels a little odd, almost wrong somehow.
Add that to the list of feelings I never thought I’d have.
It seems like there’s more and more of those lately.
I look out the window as we pull into another station, and—
“This is us!” I jump out of my seat, and he follows me off the train with a crowd of commuters headed home.
We’re both quiet on the elevator ride up to street level, checking our phones, and I text Mom and Shar to let them know I have a friend coming over. It doesn’t even feel weird to call Forrest a friend.
Should it feel weird that it doesn’t feel weird?
When we get to my front walk, the nerves kick in. Did I leave anything embarrassing lying out in my bedroom? Maybe my journal is open on my bed, or there’s a box of tampons on the bathroom counter, or—but this is Forrest. He’s trans. He knows what a tampon is. Don’t overthink it.
Inside, the house is quiet, except for Brekky’s demanding meows as he trots toward us, tail high. He goes straight for Forrest, bypassing my outstretched hand altogether.
“Betrayal!” I gasp, and Forrest chuckles, kneeling to scratch Brekky behind the ears. The cat arches his neck and purrs, leaning his head into Forrest’s hand.
“Guess I’m not the only animal whisperer,” I say. “Earl Grey will be the real test, though.”
As if on cue, a tiny mew comes from the direction of the kitchen. Earl Grey peeks around the corner and, as I watch, slinks along the wall until she stops a few feet away from Forrest. She sits upright, gazing at him with her round green eyes.
“Wow,” I say, and she flinches, dashing behind the armchair. We both laugh.
Forrest sets his stuff down and follows me to the kitchen, boosting himself up to sit on the counter while I scoop the cats’ food into their bowls. Once they’re eating, I rejoin him.
“Do you want anything?” I ask, opening the fridge. “We have some soda, and sparkling water, and juice . . .”
“What kind of soda?”
“Ginger ale.”
“I’ll have that.”
I hand him the bottle, open one for myself, and we each take a sip. Now that we’re here, in my house, I realize that I did not think this through when I blurted out my invite. What are we supposed to do now? I could show him my room, but the thought sends a ripple through my stomach.
“Can I have a tour?” he asks, as if he knows my thoughts.
“Sure!” I say, a little too enthusiastically. Probably. I don’t know. I’m second-guessing everything. I take a deep breath and turn with my arms out. “So this is our kitchen.”
“Oh, I was wondering what this room was called,” he says, smirking.
I roll my eyes. “And of course, our living room and dining area.” I gesture toward the front room, and take a few steps out of the kitchen. He jumps off the counter and follows me into the hallway, where I show him the bathroom with its yellow walls and sunflower-pattern shower curtain.
“It’s nice on rainy days,” I say. “It makes me feel more awake and less depressed.”
He snorts. “I feel you.”
“The door at that end is my mom and her partner’s room.” I point, then turn. My room is a few steps in the other direction. “And this is me.”
I push open the door, quickly scanning inside, but there’s nothing to see. All my laundry is put away and I even remembered to make my bed this morning. Good job, past Sidney.
Forrest follows me in. I watch him look around, taking in my posters, the rug by the bed, the bookcase. Crossing to the windowsill, he bends down to look at my cactus lineup. He puts out a finger, as if to slide it between the spines of one, and—
“Ow!” He pulls his hand back.
“You OK?” I ask.
“So that’s why you don’t touch cactuses,” he says, examining his pointer finger.
“Cacti,” I say. “And also, obviously you don’t touch them!”
“I just wanted to see if I could do it without getting stabbed,” he says, grinning at me.
I shake my head, laughing. “Come on, we have tweezers in the bathroom.”
He follows me out, and a moment later we’re both squeezed into the bathroom as I rummage around the cabinet. “Sit on the toilet,” I say, and he does. I find the tweezers in our medicine box and perch on the edge of the bathtub, grabbing his hand and pulling it toward me.
We’re touching again.
His skin is soft. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that Forrest Hirschler is well-moisturized.
Remnants of chipped black nail polish adorn his fingernails, and I turn his palm up, tilting it until the light catches a tiny cactus needle embedded in his fingertip.
The tweezers close on it, I pull ever so slightly, and—
“There you go,” I say, looking up.
He’s inches away from me, leaned forward so his elbows rest on his knees, his hand still in mine. This close, I can see the green and brown swirling together in his eyes, and the freckles scattered across his nose. He blinks once. His eyelashes are long, and dark brown, like his hair.
“You smell like a Christmas tree,” I say.
“It’s my lotion,” he says. So he really is well-moisturized.
“It’s nice.” I’m still holding his hand. He hasn’t moved it.
“Thank you,” he says. His eyes look soft, and he holds my gaze. A movement draws my eyes down to his mouth. He’s biting his lower lip.
“So, yeah!” I say, releasing his hand, and he straightens, and I slide away down the edge of the tub until I can stand without knocking into his knees. “You should be good now, I got the needle.”
“Thanks,” he says as I put the tweezers back. My heart is pounding. Am I sweating? Oh my god. I don’t know what just happened, but I feel weird. Shaky, like I’m vibrating inside, the warmth of his hand still imprinted on my palm.
“Do you want to study? We can sit in the dining room. And we have snacks. I can get us some snacks.” I’m at the doorway now, smiling brightly to cover up how unbalanced I feel.
“Hell yeah.” He gets to his feet, grinning at me. His eyes look normal now, the gentleness gone, replaced by his usual prankster gleam.
“Great! Cool. Sweet.” I lead the way and grab chips, crackers, and dried fruit out of the cupboard while he gets comfortable at the table, pulling his homework out of his backpack.
I take my time arranging the snacks onto a plate, willing my body to calm down. The last time I felt this way, it was freshman year, when I had a crush on—
I freeze, hands full of dried mangos. That’s what this is, this static electricity circling just under my skin, the lurching in my stomach, the sudden awareness of exactly where Forrest is and what he’s doing.
The way I can hear every little sound as he shifts in his chair and rifles through his notes.
I have a crush on Forrest.
How the fuck did this happen?!