“Georgia, the great storyteller, the spinner of tall tales. It’s a shame that you’re going to sit on the sidelines of life. And why? Because you’re afraid to write a story that’s true?”
“The truth is boring,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Especially if it involves Hillcrest High.”
I wave and take off down the hall. Ms. Randolph yells out one last attempt. “Just come to the meeting after school today, Georgia!”
I turn around and say, “Nice running into you! Let’s do lunch!”
Ms. R has clocked me correctly—I do want to write. After I finish reading an amazing article, I like to imagine what it would be like to research a story, interview people, and then type furiously on my computer all night—as my editor paces behind me—until, against all odds, I make the deadline. Then I win the Pulitzer, the Nobel Peace Prize, and all the other prizes, no big deal.
This obsession with journalism is my dad’s fault. My earliest memories are of him napping on the couch surrounded by newspapers. Even now, there are always rapidly growing stacks of magazines and newspapers around the house. It gives the place a real hoarder feel.
Dad didn’t push reading on me, I just picked up a newspaper one day and haven’t put them down since. There’s nothing like reading an article that broadens my horizons or whatever. So yeah, it would be cool to write something like that. Just not now.
None of my friends know about my secret dream—it’s way too nerdy.
I push open the door to Advanced Calculus and immediately spot Pony in the front row. This is our fourth class together. How is that possible? In a school this big, that kind of schedule alignment is nearly impossible. Fate much? I walk past and act like I don’t even see him.
PONY, 12:07 P.M.
Here I am, living my dream life, eating lunch in my car. I’ll make friends eventually, but I’m dining solo today. I’m fine with it. I’m listening to my favorite movie podcast. It’s the one that tells the behind-the-scenes stories of iconic movies. This episode is about one of the funniest movies ever, The Princess Bride.
I packed a sandwich stuffed with last night’s brisket covered in BBQ sauce. I’m taking my first huge bite when my phone stops the podcast and starts ringing. It’s my sister. She made me promise we would FaceTime at lunch.
Two years ago, my sister walked across the stage to collect her high school diploma and kept on walking to the parking lot, drove to the airport, and flew to New York City. My parents lost their minds, but they let her stay. I guess she was over eighteen, and they didn’t have a choice in the matter. My sister is a free spirit who reports to nobody.
“Hiiiiyeeeeeee,” she says, while moving the phone slowly toward her face, until all I can see is half an eye and a freckle.
“Hi,” I say while propping the phone on the steering wheel so I can keep devouring my sandwich. She pulls the phone away from her face, revealing her bedroom—which is also her living room and kitchen. From what she tells me, rent is impossibly expensive in New York City. My sister has a teeny-tiny loft on the Lower East Side. It’s so small, she doesn’t live in an apartment; she lives in a diorama of an apartment.
“Excuse me, is that a five o’clock shadow?”
“No,” I say, a little too defensively.
“Put the phone closer to your face and let me have a look,” she demands.
I can feel my face redden. “There’s nothing to see.”
My sister knows exactly how to embarrass me—always has and always will. I run my hand along my jawline. It’s going to be years before I have any facial hair. If I had it my way, I would have the most manly of man-beards. It would be nothing but beard as far as the eye could see. A beard that food gets caught in—not just crumbs, but full pieces of fruit and bread. The kind of beard that would leave no question in anyone’s mind that I’m a man. At this point, I’d settle for a soul patch. But it’s not up to me.
“Hey,” I say, “I was reminiscing about my first haircut. How did you talk that barber into giving me a face shave?”
She acts taken aback that I would even ask. “Pony, that’s a secret between me and Mikhail.”
“Tell me,” I demand, then take a bite of my sandwich.
“Ewwww, don’t eat that in front of me. You are aware of my stance against eating meat. Poor cow.”
A moment passes. It’s clear that she’s not going to reveal her secret. I change the subject. “So, sis, what’s new with you?”
I ask my sister the same question every time we talk because she’s always up to something interesting and weird.
“Well, Ponyboy, I’m glad you asked. There’s something I need to tell you . . . I’m a unicorn now!”
I rest my case.
“Congrats!” I say. “When will the horn grow in?”
“Ugh, come on, Pony. The amount you know about this world could fit in a Diva Cup.”
Gross.
Her voice takes an educational tone. “Unicorns are the third person in a couple’s open relationship. I’m his girlfriend . . . and I’m her girlfriend . . . I’m their girlfriend!”
“Please bring them home for Christmas,” I demand, then take the last bite of my sandwich, mostly bread crust and BBQ sauce.
“No way, Pony. The wardens would lock me in the basement and never let me out.”
She’s correct: my parents are very strict.
“Come on,” I beg. “I need the entertainment. It’s so boring without you here, Rocky.”
It took a month in New York before my sister changed her name to Rocky. To my parents’ dismay, her new name was not up for debate. I do feel bad for them sometimes—they raised daughters and now they have a transgender son named Pony and a unicorn named Rocky. They must wonder where it all went wrong.
“And, how did you meet . . . what’s their names?” I ask.
“Raul and Amethyst.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I was at the vegan café in my yoga center after an intense acro session. I was eating a quinoa and tempeh bowl—”
I interrupt. “I understood about three of the words you just said.”
“Pony, focus!” She snaps her fingers at me. “I’m sitting there when this attractive couple with the most amazing energy sits down at my table and asks if I want to join them. I thought they meant for lunch, but that’s not what they meant . . .”
“OK, no more information is needed, thank you,” I say.
“Breakfast time!” Rocky sings as she rolls out of bed. She works until late as a server at a trendy West Village restaurant, so her day starts around noon. I watch her walk the ten steps to the kitchen and pour a bowl of organic health cereal.
“How do you eat that crap?” I ask. “It should be called Twigs and Leaves.”
“You’ll understand when you’re older, Ponyboy. So, how’s your first day?”
“Well, I’m eating lunch in my car alone, so that should be a good indicator,” I say, turning up the AC—it’s extra hot out today.
“It was always like that for me at first,” Rocky admits. “Even I had a few car lunches whenever we moved.”
I consider revealing the close call in the bathroom, but I don’t want to freak her out. I start to tell her about the cheerleader but stop myself. Rocky rebelled against high school clichés, so that would freak her out more.