Chapter 19 #2
“Sorry!” He whisper-calls over his shoulder, and everyone laughs.
He shrugs, smiling, and scans the room until he spots me.
He looks different, and it takes me a minute to pinpoint why: He’s wearing jeans instead of sweatpants, and sneakers instead of slides.
His hood is pushed off his head for once, his curls spilling out in full view.
It’s so cute, the way he clearly tried to spruce up for this.
When his gaze falls on me, it’s like a spotlight, and I can’t help but smile. I press my lips together, feeling the ghost of our kiss. He motions for me to come to him, and with everyone watching, all I can do is stand and weave through the spaces between chairs until I reach him.
“Hey,” he says. His eyes are sparkling.
“Hi,” I say. I sound stiff, and his smile falters for a second, but he pulls his backpack around, digging out a couple sheets of paper.
“I printed out the questions for us,” he says, handing me one of the pages.
“Great,” I say.
He steps closer, and I freeze, my eyes widening. He stops, frowning, and starts to say something, but then someone comes up beside us and we both turn.
“Sidney, Forrest, I’d like to introduce you to our guest,” Mr. Harrison says. “This is Dean Foster, executive director of the Trans Youth Center here in town.” He gestures to the man standing behind him.
Dean is clean-cut and slim, a few inches shorter than Mr. Harrison, with strawberry-blond hair in a tight fade.
He’s wearing a dark green sweater and black jeans, with new-looking sneakers.
I always pictured executive directors in collared shirts and suit pants, like Mom in her blazers and slacks, but Dean looks more like a fun older cousin.
“Hi there,” Dean says, shaking each of our hands with a smile. “It’s an honor to meet you both. I’m ready whenever you are.”
“Sweet,” Forrest says. “Shall we?” He sweeps an arm toward the front, and then we’re all walking there together, taking our seats as Mr. Harrison calls the room to attention.
“Welcome, everyone,” Mr. Harrison says. “As the advisor for Queer Alliance, I’m going to take a moment to introduce our speaker, and then our co-presidents will chat with him.
There will be time for Q everyone is watching them, smiling and nodding along, including Mr. Harrison. No one is looking at me.
That wasn’t real. It was an anxiety movie.
But it felt real. My heart is still pounding, tears welling behind my eyes. I don’t deserve to be here. Forrest is ten times more prepared. I never should have been president in the first place. When it’s time for the revote, everyone will pick Forrest, and ask me to leave.
Oh my god. I’m going to cry, here in front of everyone.
I squeeze my right arm, the one between me and Forrest, and dig my nails into my skin, pinching one, two, three times.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
That’s not real. It’s not happening.
Dean and Forrest are smiling and nodding, and I nod along with them.
“So,” Forrest says, “I think we just have a few more questions and then we’ll open it up.” He looks over at me, at the paper in my hands, crumpled inward on the left side where I’m clutching it. “Sidney, you wanna ask the next one?”
“Sure!” I say, scanning the text. I have no idea where we are in our list, so I pick the second to last one, just to be safe. “Dean, what was your favorite part of going to Jefferson, and what was the most challenging?”
“What a great question,” Dean says, clapping his hands together. As he starts to talk, I take a deep breath, quietly, slowly, then exhale, and glance across the crowd to the clock above Mx. Prager’s desk.
Fifteen minutes. Then we’ll be done. I just have to hold on until then.