“You’re holding back on me, Pony,” she says, waving her spoon at me.
“I think my calculus class is going to suck?”
I’m a chickenshit.
“OK. Whatever.” She knows I’m leaving something out. “And what’s going on with project stealth?”
“Stealth mode is fully engaged. I’m flying undetected. No one knows I’m trans. No one knows I’m alive, really. I couldn’t be happier,” I say.
“Well then, I’m happy for you,” she admits reluctantly. “Live the life you want to live.” She shoves a spoonful of branches into her mouth. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
“I have a job interview after school,” I say.
“Stop!” She almost chokes on some dry twigs.
“Yeah, I had some time to kill at the Angelika before the movie started yesterday, so I checked out the community board. There was a job listing. Seemed interesting.”
“And what was so interesting about it?”
“It said, ‘Do you want to work in the movie business?’ No name, nothing. Only a phone number. So, I called.”
“Yeah, no shit you called, Pony. That’s so boneheaded. Do you know what this is?”
“An employment opportunity?” I ask.
“A scam at best. At worst, an elaborate plan to kidnap you.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“You better be careful—” Rocky’s buzzer interrupts the I-live-in-New-York-and-know-everything lecture. “Got to go, Pony.”
“Who’s coming over?”
“Like I’m telling you,” she says. “Pony, keep your head up, OK?”
“OK,” I say.
“Love you, Bro.”
Bro.
It’s the little things, like my sister calling me Bro. The guy who almost knocked me down saying “Sorry, man.” Sure, he almost ended me, but all I’m thinking about is how he said man. Another favorite: “Right this way, sir.”
Forget whiskers on kittens; correct pronouns are a few of my favorite things. It’s like hearing your name pronounced wrong all your life and then all of a sudden, people say it correctly. It’s shocking and exhilarating. It’s one small victory stacked on another.
The next two classes fly by, and after getting embarrassingly lost, I find my last class of the day a few seconds before the bell rings. I head to an empty table in the back.
Here’s an update on the cute cheerleader: she has been in every single one of my classes, but I don’t see her here. I’m a little bummed. Using my top-notch detective skills—of listening to attendance getting called in every class—I have discovered that her name is Georgia.
She’s cute, but I don’t know. A cheerleader? That’s not my type at all. I like girls who paint, girls who take photos—photos with real cameras. Girls who want to make the world better. That’s my type. I didn’t say they were into me, but that’s another story.
It’s clear that Georgia the cute cheerleader has an easy life. Has she had to deal with a big life problem? Also, I overheard her telling a story about saving a hundred babies from a fire this summer. What was that about?
I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I don’t notice she’s walked into class until she sits down beside me at the lab table. It’s a two-person lab table. Just me and her.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she says.
How do we have every single class together? This school has hundreds of students—the probability of this schedule coincidence seems so impossible. Yet here we are.
She turns to me. “So, Pony, I think you might be following me.”
“Funny, I had the same feeling about you,” I say. “I cut out at lunch and filed a restraining order against you, Georgia.”
She shoots me a look. Maybe she isn’t used to someone keeping up with her? Not that I’ve been watching or anything. And she has striking light brown eyes. Not that I care or anything.
The teacher interrupts. “Students, welcome to Chem Lab. My name is Mr. Glover, and we’re going to have a proTON of fun!” The class collectively groans. “The person at your table is your new lab partner. Take a moment and introduce yourself!”
I turn to her. “I think Mr. Glover wants us to be friends.”
“Should we be friends?” she asks.
“No way,” I say. We should be more.
“Well, regardless, I guess you’re stuck with me, Pony.”
She says my name in a way no one has ever said my name before.
“Or until the judge can keep you away,” I say.
She laughs. It’s a great laugh.
“Georgia, I think you might be trouble.”
She smiles. It’s a great smile. “You, sir, have no idea.”
Sir.
GEORGIA, 6:17 P.M.
There’s only one place to see and be seen in Addison, and that’s the Sonic drive-in on Midway Road. Sonic is the best fast-food chain, serving up burgers, fries, and tater tots covered in melted cheese. Also, crazy-good milkshakes and slushies.
At any hour, Sonic is swarming with Hillcresters. This is the spot to meet friends, to show off your date, to experience a life-changing cherry slushy with whipped cream.
It’s prime time at Sonic, so the place is extra packed. A post-practice Sonic run is pretty much mandatory. Football, dance, and cheer practices let out at the same time, and then it’s a race over here to secure a parking spot. Lucky for us, Mia snags the last one. Once this place is full, cars are banished to park across the street at the Piggly Wiggly grocery store.
Mia rolls down the window of her silver Mustang and yells our order into the crackling intercom box. “Four Diet Cherry Limeades, please.”
Lauren taps on Mia’s shoulder, all scared. “I want a chocolate shake.”
Mia scoffs. “You do not need all that dairy,” she says, then returns her attention to the intercom. Kelly, in the back seat with me, starts making fart noises, and we all laugh.
“Lauren, I’m sorry for the near collision at practice,” I say with my tail between my legs. I accidently stepped directly in the path of one of her high-speed tumbling passes. Just in time, I leaned back with my arms flailing wildly, like those floppy balloon tube men at car dealerships.
Lauren pats my leg from the passenger seat (she yelled “Shotgun!” first on the way from the locker room). “No problem, girl. You must have been thinking about someone special . . .”
“She was def thinking about Jake!” Mia says, turning down the music.
I was distracted, not by Jake but by the thought of missing that journalism meeting happening during practice. I wanted to be there. Maybe I subconsciously threw myself into Lauren’s path in hopes of a career-ending injury. I’m having trouble caring about cheerleading.
When I signed up to try out for the cheer team at the end of my sophomore year, I was kind of a nobody. But then I totally killed the tryout, made the team, and overnight, I was kind of a somebody. The invites to cool parties came in, and cuter guys started talking to me. A couple senior cheerleaders took me under their wing and picked me up on the way to school and parties. I’d show up with them, and then, I was someone.
I had leveled up, and it was exciting—so freaking exciting—but part of the deal was playing it cool.