But then I pause. I go back to Facebook and look at the parents’ comments.
So many are supportive. Angry on my behalf, on Mom’s behalf. Blasting the principal and superintendent, saying it was a cop-out for them to claim that since it happened off school grounds there was nothing they could do. Demanding changes at Bailey. There’s even a thread where parents decide they’ll set up a bullying hotline. Down at the bottom, one of the oldest comments posted is from Mom asking the poster to take it down, to respect my privacy. But then a bunch of people replied and said it should stay up as evidence. That nothing would change if people didn’t see what was really happening.
I take a deep breath and open my Instagram messages. I read what I said to Camille the day it happened. Throwing all my anger at her instead of at those boys, ’cause she was a target I could reach. A target I knew I could hurt.
Hey, I write. I’m sorry I said that stuff to you after you posted the video. I know you were trying to help.
Omg, she writes back immediately. I’m so sorry I posted it. I never should have. I get why you were mad.
No, it’s good you did. I hope it made stuff change.
There’s a long pause, and then she says, It did and it didn’t. Like the teachers are all “If you see something say something” all the time. But Tyler and Jackson are still &%#*wads.
I hope they’re not messing with you for trying to bust them, I write.
Not me. They’re focused on a sixth grader. I keep trying to get him to own his gayness so the Scumbag Squad will stop harassing him, but he’s not out yet and they’re torturing him for it.
Ugh. At least if I’d stayed, Tyler and Jackson and those boys would be picking on me instead of that poor kid. I know how he feels, I say. Someone here found out I’m the Gatorade video kid and she’s threatened to out me.
Oh god now I feel worse, Camille writes. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it would get so spread around. I just wanted those buttheads to get punished for what they did to you.
It’s fine, I write. I needed to come out here anyway. I actually did tonight to a guy I like.
Did it go okay?
I drop my phone, cover my face, and take a few deep breaths.
I can’t freaking believe how bad that went. But I also get why he wanted me to leave. If he’d been the one to kiss me first, if I found out he had girl parts under his clothes . . . I don’t know. I might have been mad.
But maybe I wouldn’t. Because he’d still be who he is. The person who saved Chewy, who’s sacrificed sleep and free time and sanity to keep her safe. To try to solve this awful problem.
I guess love for a dog isn’t a thing that has a gender. And that’s what I like about him. His dog love is more important than what’s under his clothes. And if he says he’s a boy, even if he has girl parts, then to me he’s a boy. I don’t even know if it would matter if he had different parts than the ones I assume he has. Even though I definitely like guys and not girls.
I sigh hugely. Realizing I’d like Daniel regardless of what’s under his clothes doesn’t make me feel better. Because I hoped he’d like something in me that was separate from that too.
And I don’t know if he does. I think maybe he doesn’t.
I pick up my phone and tell Camille it didn’t go great, then say I need to do my homework. She asks if I want to hang out sometime.
I hug my knees. I don’t know how it would feel to see her. If I’d think of all the miserable stuff that happened at Bailey after Griffey left. If I’d be a total killjoy.
But . . . well, Camille is pretty all right, really. She might’ve humiliated me while trying to save me, but she meant well. And she was comfortable being herself in a way I never was. Last April in the cafeteria she asked Ellie Decker if she wanted to see the school’s spring musical together, like as a date, and Ellie said, “I’m not gay,” and Camille was the poster child for handling rejection. She shrugged and smiled and said it was fine, that she figured there was no harm in asking. And Ellie was cool about it because Camille was cool about it.
That’s what I should’ve done with Daniel. Right from the start. Then at least maybe we’d be friends now. Instead of . . . whatever we are.
Nothing, probably.
Yeah, I tell Camille. I’d like that.
After the distraction of my homework is finished, I start feeling rotten about Daniel again. I sketch Chewbarka sleeping. But it doesn’t do much to help me feel better.
I grab my laptop and work on the song I’m writing for Tyrannosaurus Rocks. I focus on feeling out where I want it to go, on what I want to say.
As I move pieces of it around, I realize the shapes of the chords and rhythms I’m putting in the bridge are more complicated than the girls can handle. I go back through and make it basic. I change the lyric focus of the section from victim rage to what it’s like to be told as a girl that you should like princesses and unicorns instead of punk.
When I’m finished, I have a decent girl-punk anthem they should be able to play with a little practice. But it feels squashed. Not as cool as it could be. It’s not my real voice.
The girls in Zoey’s band are just getting started. I’ve been doing this stuff since I was in diapers, when my
