He laughs as if my barbs don’t sting, and just like that, just like always, I forgive him. He’s been my best friend since we met in kindergarten at Bailey Elementary. We were together constantly until he moved here to Oakmont during my first trip through sixth grade. Which is part of the reason I had to do sixth grade round two, ’cause Griffey left at the same time my appendix went kablooey and I missed a month of school and my parents split. It’s hard to focus on fractions and adverbs when your whole life comes apart all at once.
Lately it feels like that’s happening again. New apartment, new school, a chance to be Ash 2.0 after Ash 1.0 crashed and burned at Bailey Middle. It’s all so intimidating, and now I have to go to this Rainbow Alliance meeting with Griff and I’m having second (and third and fourth and fifty-seventh) thoughts because I don’t want to stand out. At all. In any way.
“Ash. Breathe.” Griffey pulls me into a side hug as we walk. “If any of the big scary gays try to eat you, I’ll go mama bear on them.”
I take a deep breath and try to refocus. To be grateful for what’s good in my life, like Mom says I should do when I’m stressed. I’m lucky to have Griffey. I’m so glad we’re at the same school again, even though he’s in eighth grade and I’m in seventh since I flunked sixth. But I’m dependent on him to fill the entire friendship hole in my life. Sucking up my fears and going to Rainbow Alliance with him is the perfect chance to make more friends. Like Mom’s said eleventy billion times since Griff “casually” mentioned it in front of her, because he knew if she knew about it, I wouldn’t be able to weasel out.
It’s just that Griffey’s safe. He likes the music I write and listen to. We share a sense of humor. He gets me, no matter what gender I am on a given day. When people don’t get me . . . well, I’m gun-shy for a reason. It’s not like there’s a guarantee that just because it’s called Rainbow Alliance, they’ll be cool. One of the worst bullies at my old school was a super-girly lesbian who insisted that trans women aren’t real women and that trans guys are just girls cross-dressing to smash the patriarchy from the inside. Which, no.
Griffey makes a quick pit stop to tie his shoe. While he’s hunched over, for a flash of a second, I’m back at Bailey Middle: Jackson Burgess twisting my Avicii shirt and blocking my locker, hissing No flip-flop freaks allowed. Hallway kids laughing. Alana Meyers sneering, Look, it’s so embarrassed. It’s turning purple like its hair. Madison Blevins saying, It should be embarrassed. That haircut is trash.
Griffey grabs my hand and plows through the mass of kids like he thinks I’m gonna bolt. It feels like we’re swimming upstream. I keep my eyes on the back of his strawberry-blond head and apologize to everyone we bump. When we finally make it to the classroom, my palm is so sweaty Griff has to wipe his hand on his plaid button-down.
Someone is taping a poster to the door with their back to us. The poster has a bunch of colorful flags surrounding WELCOME/BIENVENIDO written in big rainbow letters.
“See?” Griffey points at a pink-white-purple-black-blue flag. “There’s one for you.”
I don’t even know what those colors mean. The kid taping the poster turns around.
“Hey, Sam,” Griffey says. “This is my best friend, Ash.”
“¿Cómo estás?” Sam holds the poster against the door with an elbow and reaches to shake my hand. “Thanks for coming.”
“Hola. I mean you’re welcome. I mean thanks for—um, having me.” Great, off to a graceful start. I search Sam’s smiling face for signs of makeup or a hint of facial hair, but find neither. Just friendliness and purple-framed glasses and a curious expression.
“Come on.” Griffey tugs me into the room. There are twelve or so kids clustered in groups. Griffey beelines for the back corner where a tall, skinny Black guy is talking to a short white girl with a high ponytail and a lip piercing. “Ta-da!” Griffey says. “You each owe me five bucks.” He holds his hands out like he’s presenting me.
The guy pulls me into a hug I’m unprepared for. “You exist! We were starting to wonder.” He pushes me back, holding both my shoulders, and spins me in a circle. “Griffey, you were right. I can’t tell either.”
Alarm rises in me. “Can’t tell what?” Did Griff tell them I switch genders? I’m gonna straight-up strangle him if he did—
“If ‘cute’ or ‘adorable’ is a better word for you,” he says. “Alyssa, what do you think?”
Alyssa tears the top off a box of jawbreakers and gives me a casual once-over. “Cute. Not my type, though.” She pops a jawbreaker in her mouth.
I must look crushed, because she laughs. “Don’t sweat it. I got a thing for girls built like tanks.” She shows me her phone background, a photo of her hugging a blonde girl who is, in fact, built like a tank. “Trish. She’ll be here later.”
I sit at a desk and cross my legs one way, then the other. Cute and adorable make me feel like I’m five years old. “Um, what’s your name?” I ask the guy.
“Henry. And this is Alyssa, and the Filipino chick in the pink shirt is Esme . . .” He points around the room and names everyone, but my eyes keep snapping back to Sam in the front corner, talking in a mix of Spanish and English to a curvy red-haired girl wearing purple jeans and a black blazer. More kids keep coming in. I start to think the Rainbow in Rainbow Alliance means more than just people on
