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“That’s like a death sentence, isn’t it?” Mr. Riley’s face crinkles like used wrapping paper.

I chuckle.

“You know,” Mr. Riley’s voice dips in that “I’m the adult” tone I’ve heard in way too many family sitcoms, “GSA is always here for you. Whenever. We’re not just a poster-friendly support system for coming out and safe sex talks and navigating social situations. It’s about each of you aspeople. We’re a team.”

Yes, thanks Mr. Riley, that didn’t sound like an online slogan, not one bit.

I love GSA. It’s a home, a safe space. But is that all I am? And is the club making the impact it used to, before being gay became the “cool thing”? I can’t ask Mr. Riley any of these things. Not because he won’t listen, but because I’m afraid it’ll disappoint him. Disappointment is the perfect motivator for silence.

“I was thinking,” says Mr. Riley, dimples on full display. I don’t melt into a babbling mess the way I do for other nameless guys. “We should have a Halloween get-together for the members. A place for queer students and allies to be themselves.”

I bite my lip. Mr. Riley is about my height. Our eyes are level. There’s a quiet plea in his, and I don’t know how to respond.

“It’s not easy for them to feel normal when the mold of ‘normal’ presented to them isn’t like their own. It’s unfair. They should have an outlet to dress up and dance with people like them.”

I roll those words against the roof of my mouth.Like them.

Nothing against Mr. Riley—I don’t really know his orientation or background—but there’s more than a mold to break at Maplewood. While our high school is progressive in that it has a female quarterback and Lucy is a Latinx junior class president and Brook is our school’s most decorated—and loved—athlete, in other ways it is very, very conservative. The unspoken truths echo in every hallway.

The jocks dress in drag every October and it’s considered hilarious, but students like Oliver Nguyen can’t wear something nice and fitted from the women’s section of Hot Topic because he’s gay. Sophomore girls can wear lookalike outfits of their favorite boyband member, but Lara, who’s lived near Maplewood her whole life—her parents are freaking legacies—can’t come to school on a Monday in a button-up, bowtie, men’s khakis, and boots without receiving a dozen funny looks, without the word “Butch” scribbled onto her locker.

I can be GSA president. I can share the same circle of acquaintances as the frat-wannabe crowd. And I can still draw attention for wearing a rainbow Pride shirt one day out of the year. The whispering kind. The kind of attention that suddenly makes everyone forget I’m the same Remy Cameron that came out freshman year and became the punchline of their jokes:

“What’s he wearing?”

“Oh, my god, did you know he was the‘girl’in his relationship with Dimi?”

“Did he just say ‘fab’? What. The. Hell.”

Mr. Riley is still giving me the look. I can’t avoid it.

“Okay,” I say, shuffling my feet. “It might be cool.”

“Very cool.”

The bell rings, and I’m so thankful for an escape, a way out of this conversation and out of my thoughts.

“Think about it. Please.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Riley.”

His mouth tightens; his eyes are bright but weary. “We’ll plan later?”

“Fantastic.”

Mrs. Scott’s office should beon the cover ofCounselors Monthly, if that’s a thing. It’s that kind of vibe. Framed posters with quotes about preparation and goals and dreams stare down from beige walls. Rainbows and kittens and cliffsides with picture-perfect blue skies mock you from the wall behind her desk. Everything is tailored to inspire: green furniture, tan carpeting, and a desk covered in bobbleheads and Funko POP! action figures.

Mrs. Scott is clicking away at her computer. Her green-gold eyes are laser-focused. She’s humming something that belongs on a smooth jazz radio station.

“Well, Mr. Cameron.” She starts every conversation with eye-contact and a pageant-worthy smile, probably a tactic she learned fromCounselors Monthly. “I see we’re on course to follow our plan.”

Ah, yes. The Plan. An outline created by Mrs. Scott freshman year to map out my high school career—and the rest of my life—because every student knows where their life is headed at fourteen, right?

The Plan consists of carefully chosen classes—none of which I enjoy—to bulk up my college applications. It’s simple: Graduate, go to a “respectable” college, get a six-figure salary, marry a lawyer, have three perfect children that I’ll be too busy working to raise, retire unhappily, then die. Maybe it’s not that intricate, but it feels that way.

“And how’s AP Literature with Ms. Amos going?” She cocks a sharply-penciled eyebrow at me. “You know that is the key to our success and getting into Emory College.”

I love how, when adults are discussing a teen’s future, suddenly it’s a partner project. Everything is “we” and “our,” as if Mrs. Scott will be attending community college and struggling through a food service job with her assigned students who barely survive high school. There is no “our” in high school. It’s every student for themselves. High school isThe Hunger Gameswithout all the elaborate costumes and ridiculously attractive “teens.”