Chapter 20
Where the Water Widens
The rec center wasn’t much to look at from the outside.
Cinder block. Faded blue trim. A bulletin board near the entrance was layered with curling flyers for crab festivals, church suppers, and a yoga class that might or might not still exist.
But inside, someone had tried.
A rainbow flag hung carefully along the back wall—not huge, not performative. Just present. Folding chairs were arranged in a loose circle. A card table in the corner held store-brand cookies, a bowl of clementines, and a coffee urn that looked older than Colin.
“Cozy,” Colin murmured under his breath.
Joshua nudged him lightly. “Behave.”
“I am behaving.”
Marilyn Foster hurried toward them, her smile bright and relieved. “You made it! I was watching the clock like we were expecting royalty.”
Colin tipped an imaginary hat. “We left the carriage outside.”
Joshua shook her hand warmly. “Thank you for having us.” Then he reached into the canvas satchel slung over his shoulder and carefully pulled out the thick, professionally bound binder.
“This is for you,” he said, offering it to her.
Marilyn took it, glancing down at the cover: The Outreach Playbook
Her eyebrows lifted slightly as she flipped the front cover open, scanning the first page.
“Joshua… this is a lot.”
“Not all of it at once,” he said gently.
“Think of it more like a reference guide. Group agreements, workshop ideas, crisis protocols, parent communication, writing prompts, follow-up plans. The things that help a group last longer than a few meetings. Lots of ‘fill in your town’s information’ pages so you can personalize it for Onancock. ”
She turned a couple more pages, clearly impressed.
“Wow,” she breathed out, after a moment, closing the binder carefully, “I guess I’ve got some homework.”
Joshua gave her a small smile. “We’re here to help with that part too.”
As they spoke, the teens began to trickle in.
Not all at once. One by one.
Joshua quickly introduced Marilyn to Alex, Colin, Trent, David, and Nate, then turned to greet the workshop participants.
A tall black girl with braids and sharp, assessing eyes—she introduced herself as Kendra and immediately claimed a chair near the snack table.
A skinny white boy in a football hoodie who pretended not to look at anyone directly: Evan.
A soft-spoken kid with round glasses and chipped black nail polish who mumbled, “Riley,” and took a seat beside Kendra without asking.
A familiar figure slipped in just behind Nate—dark hoodie, notebook already in hand.
“Marilyn, this is Alex Mayfield,” Joshua said, resting a light hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He’s been part of Camp Pride since last year. He wanted to come along for this stop.”
Alex lifted a hand in a half-wave. “Hi.”
Kendra’s eyes flicked toward him. “So, you’re, like… a plant?”
Alex blinked. “Oh, no. Not me!” He hesitated, then shrugged. “I’m just another gay kid.” He tilted his head toward Colin. “Him and me—we play catch sometimes.”
A faint twitch touched Evan’s mouth.
Joshua stepped in gently. “He’s here because he’s been where you are. He’s one of you.”
Alex nodded once, almost grateful for the assist, and fell into a chair next to Riley.
Randy arrived last. Mid-height. Slim. Oversized green sweatshirt despite the mild weather, the sleeves pulled low over his hands, hiding them. His hair was shaved close on one side and longer on the other, brushed forward in an unfinished, uncertain style.
Marilyn’s face softened when she saw him. “Hey, Randy.”
He gave a quick nod. “Hey.”
Joshua noticed two things immediately.
One: Randy scanned the room before choosing a seat.
Two: He positioned himself near the exit. Close enough to leave without drawing attention.
Not dramatic. Not fearful. Just… strategic.
Colin noticed as well, but he didn’t comment.
As the others settled, Marilyn stepped closer to Joshua under the pretense of straightening the snack table. Her voice stayed low.
“Randy Kruger. Transferred here last year,” she murmured. “First openly trans kid in the district. “It hasn’t exactly been seamless. School’s one thing. And home’s been… even harder.”
Joshua nodded once, absorbing her words. He glanced toward Randy again, recalibrating.
“He’s tougher than he looks,” Marilyn added softly. “But it’s been… a road.”
Across the room, Randy laughed at something Kendra said, the sound quick and bright—and gone too fast, as if it cost him something to let it out at all.
When everyone had finally settled, Marilyn cleared her throat. “OK. So. This is the famous Outreach Tour. And this is Joshua, Colin, Nate, David, Alex, and Trent.”
“Infamous more than famous,” Colin corrected mildly.
A few of the kids smiled.
Joshua kept it simple. “We’re not here to lecture. We’re here to listen first. So, the first task is yours. Tell us what you need from this group.”
That shifted the air.
Kendra spoke first. “We need adults who don’t freak out.”
“Reasonable request,” Colin said.
Evan snorted quietly.
Riley added, “And maybe more stuff to do? Like… I don’t know. Workshops. Something creative.”
Colin shot a glance in Nate’s direction. This session was intentionally low-key. Listening first. But Nate’s presence would be felt here.
Joshua nodded. “I think we have some ideas in that regard. But first, tell me, what’s already working?”
Marilyn gestured toward Randy. “He’s been helping with peer check-ins.”
Randy stiffened slightly at the attention.
Noticing, Colin leaned back in his chair. “That a volunteer position, or were you drafted?”
Randy’s mouth twitched. “Drafted.”
“Ah,” Colin said solemnly. “The worst kind of promotion. Do you, at least, get extra credit?”
That earned a small laugh.
Randy relaxed half an inch, then shrugged. “Where I live, things like that don’t count.”
Joshua’s gaze lifted.
As the conversation unfolded, it became clear the group was established but tired. They met twice a month. They watched movies sometimes. They talked. They survived.
But there was a flatness to it.
When Joshua gently asked, “What’s the hardest part of being here? Or if it works better, what’s the best part of being here?” There was a pause.
Randy answered.
“Feeling like this is the only place you get to exist.” He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “And even here… you don’t want to mess it up.”
It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t look up when he said it.
Just matter-of-fact.
Kendra nodded immediately.
Evan stared at the floor.
Alex glanced at Joshua as if asking permission.
“Go ahead, Alex. You’re part of this group.”
“For me, the best part was having a place where I could be myself, and not be scared.”
Riley nodded and gave him a fist bump. “Right on, bro.”
Joshua didn’t rush to respond. “That’s heavy,” he said quietly.
Randy shrugged. “It’s just… outside of this room, you’re careful. All the time.”
Colin studied him then, the line landing harder than Randy intended.
There was no volatility in Randy. No visible fracture. Just fatigue.
Nate, who had been leaning against the far wall listening more than speaking, straightened slightly. “Can I try something?” he asked.
A few wary glances moved his way.
“It’s not homework,” he added quickly. “No grades. No sharing unless you want to.”
Kendra eyed him. “That’s what they all say.”
“Fair,” Nate said, smiling. “But this one’s short.”
He stepped into the circle, then reached into his canvas tote and pulled out a stack of slim notebooks. “Before anyone panics—these are not graded,” he said, passing them around. “They’re yours. You can write in them. Draw in them. Rip pages out if you hate what you wrote. I don’t care.”
Riley dug a pen out of a hoodie pocket.
“Write one sentence,” Nate said. “Just one. Finish this line: Five years from now, I hope I’m not still.... And if that one doesn’t suit,” he held a stack of papers, “here’s a page full of meaningful writing prompts that’ll get your journal off to a roaring start.”
The room went quiet.
Not tense. Thinking. Then three of the teens held out their hands for the writing prompts and began to eagerly read.
Joshua nudged Nate’s shoulder. “Are those from…”
“Your playbook? Of course! They’re brilliant, and I’m embarrassed that I didn’t think of it. I had a dozen or so copies printed out while we were in Emporia.” He leaned against Joshua’s arm. “From now on, they’re standard equipment.”
Joshua flushed, his gaze moving to the teens, now all bending over their journals, some with Nate’s sheet at hand.
Evan stared at his journal for a long time before writing, then he frowned and glanced up at Nate. “Nate? Can I have one of those sheets?”
“Absolutely!” Nate said, rushing to his side. “Here you go.”
Alex shifted in his seat beside Riley, flipping open his own notebook without ceremony. He didn’t look at Nate for direction—but he did glance at the page for a second longer than he meant to before writing.
He scribbled something quickly.
“Don’t think about it,” he murmured to Riley. “Just write the first thing that hits.”
Riley glanced at him. “You cheating?”
Alex gave a small shrug. “Nah… just done it before.”
Riley huffed and went back to writing.
Across the circle, Randy’s eyes flicked up—just briefly—registering that someone else in the room wasn’t frozen.
Kendra’s pen moved immediately.
Alex’s slowed.
He tapped the end of his pen against the margin once. Twice. Then bent his head and added another sentence—this one shorter.
Randy didn’t write at first. He stared at the page, then at the rainbow flag. Then he finally pulled his sleeve back, wrote something quickly—the kind of answer you give to questions you don’t want to ponder, then quickly closed the notebook.
Joshua watched Randy carefully, noting how fast he moved past the exercise.
Nate didn’t move around. He stood quietly… letting the teens set their own pace.
He also saw Alex close his notebook halfway—not hiding it exactly, but protecting it.
“Anybody want to share?” Nate asked.
Silence.
Then Kendra shrugged. “I wrote: Five years from now, I hope I’m not still apologizing for existing.”
Murmurs of agreement.
Evan swallowed. “I wrote: I hope I’m not still pretending.”
Riley murmured, “Same.”
Alex’s fingers tightened slightly on the edge of his page. He didn’t look up.
Randy didn’t speak.
Nate nodded slowly. “OK,” he said. “Want to try one more?”
A few groans, softer now.
“This one’s different.” He shifted his weight. “Write a sentence you wish someone had said to you at age fourteen.”
Riley blinked. “Fourteen was, like, last year.”
“Then go back to twelve,” Nate said lightly. “Or ten. Pick the age when things first got complicated.”
That quieted them.
Alex went very still. Even Evan looked up.
“You don’t have to share,” Nate added. “But write it like you’re saying it directly to that version of yourself.”
Pens moved more slowly this time.
Kendra leaned forward.
Riley chewed on his pen before writing.
Evan stared at the blank page, then wrote something quickly and covered it with his palm.
Randy didn’t move. His jaw tightened once. He stared at the page, the pen unmoving in his hand.
Joshua’s attention sharpened. This wasn’t defiance. Or resistance. This was something else.
Alex stared at his page longer than before.
His jaw worked once. Then he bent his head and wrote.
Carefully.
Across the circle, Joshua noted the way Alex’s handwriting, usually loose and angled, tightened into smaller print.
Nate leaned back against the wall and gave them space.
When the room settled again, he asked quietly, “Anybody?”
Riley cleared his throat. “I wrote: You’re not making it up.”
Kendra nodded. “I wrote: You don’t have to shrink.’”
Evan swallowed. “I wrote: It’s not your fault.”
That one hung in the air while several of the teens nodded.
For a moment, Alex didn’t speak, then his hand slowly rose. When he spoke, his voice was low and trembling. “It wasn’t your fault that he didn’t like you,” he read. “You weren’t too much. It was his problem.”
Alex closed his journal.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Joshua nodded slowly. “That’s a tremendously important sentence.”
Randy closed his notebook and his eyes fixed on Alex, not in surprise, but recognition. Then he nodded.
Alex did the same.
Nate let the silence breathe for a moment longer.
“Those are excellent,” he said quietly. “Not polished. Not perfect. But that’s not what we want. They’re honest. And that is what’s important.”
“Keep them,” he added. “They’re not assignments. They’re anchors. On days when everything feels loud, what’s written in that journal is yours. Nobody else gets to argue with it.”
The room shifted—not dramatically, but there was a slight easing.
Joshua stepped forward. “Before we break,” he said, “I want to ask one practical thing. If this group could feel different six months from now—not perfect, just better, just different—what would that look like?”
Kendra leaned back in her chair. “More people.”
“Less hiding,” Evan muttered.
Riley shrugged. “Maybe… stuff we build together. Not just talking.”
Randy hesitated, then said, “A day when this doesn’t feel like the only safe place.”
No one disagreed.
Joshua nodded once. “OK,” he said. “That’s real. We can work with that.”
Marilyn was already scribbling notes.
Chairs scraped lightly against the floor as the circle dissolved. The coffee urn hissed its last breath.
There was no applause.
No speeches.
Just quieter voices than when they’d arrived, and more conversation.
Alex stood near the snack table, notebook tucked under his arm, eyes fixed on Colin.
Outside, the light over the creek had shifted toward evening—softer now, less sharp.
Inside, the rainbow flag didn’t feel decorative.
It felt earned.
Randy lingered by the exit again—but this time he wasn’t angled toward escape. He was listening while Kendra argued with Riley about whether “not shrinking” qualified as a superpower. But he didn’t join in, eyeing them with a look of guarded longing.
Joshua caught Colin’s eye across the room.
Colin didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes told Joshua he’d seen it too.
Suddenly, day one wasn’t about fixing anything. It was about finding a way in.