Page 3 of Don’t Let Me Go
Not gonna lie, I’m not loving this day. Then again, this entire year has been one giant clusterfuck. Why should today be any
different?
I told Aunt Rachel I wasn’t in the mood to go to a carnival. But Duy has been so persistent about hanging out, and my aunt
was clearly tired of seeing me mope around the house, so here I am, sitting in awkward silence on a graffitied picnic table
at a third-rate funfair while this Riley guy gives me the cold shoulder.
The curvy redheaded girl (Audra or Audrey?) said she was worried about his blood sugar, so she asked me to look after him
while she and the others went to get snacks, even though Riley insisted he was fine about a thousand times.
Maybe that’s why he’s sulking. I don’t like people making a fuss over me either. Then again, given the side-eye he’s been
shooting me ever since we sat down, I’m starting to think maybe something else is going on. He seems kind of on edge around
me.
Shit . I wonder if he knows who I am. He doesn’t look like he follows football, but maybe he heard about what happened in Tallahassee?
“Everything okay?” I ask when I catch him scrutinizing me out of the corner of his eye for the third time in under a minute.
“What?” he asks, looking startled. The sun has begun to set, but I can still see him blush under the glare of the Ferris wheel’s
neon lights. “Oh. Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
He nervously pushes a curl of jet-black hair out of his face, then scans the carnival for his friends.
With his distressed gray jeans, black T-shirt, and beaded bracelets, he looks like he’d be more comfortable at some underground indie concert than an amusement park.
I wonder if he’s also been dragged here against his will.
“Have you ever been to Orlando before?” he asks, turning back and narrowing his gaze at me as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying
to solve. His eyes are green and sharp—like glass. They have an almost spooky way of demanding your attention.
“Orlando?” I repeat. “Yeah. I’ve been here a couple of times.”
“You have?” He sits up straighter.
“Uh?.?.?.?yeah. My parents took me to Disney and Universal when I was a kid.”
“Oh,” Riley sighs, and turns away in disappointment.
Guess that was the wrong answer? I’m not sure what the right answer would’ve been. All I know is I feel like I’m failing a
test that I didn’t even know I was supposed to take.
Then again, failing is something I’m good at. I’ve failed my parents as a son. I’ve failed Micaela as a boyfriend. I failed
my coach and my team and my school. Hell, I bet most people back in Tally would say I failed the whole damn city.
“Have you ever been to Italy?”
Riley’s question catches me off guard. “Italy? Uh. No.”
“Oh.”
Once again, my answer disappoints him. I don’t like losing whatever game we’re playing, so I add, “I’ve always wanted to go,
though.”
Riley nods and chews his lower lip as he mulls over my response. I’m not sure where these questions are coming from or where
they’re going, but to avoid another awkward exchange that leaves me feeling like I’ve flunked my midterm, I change the subject.
“Thanks again for letting me join you and your friends tonight. I haven’t gone out much since I moved here, so I appreciate
the invite.”
Riley shrugs. “It was all Duy.”
“Yeah, he seems like a cool dude.”
Riley’s green-glass eyes turn back to me with a cutting glare. “ They .”
“What?”
“Duy is nonbinary.”
Shit. Right. I knew that. Aunt Rachel told me Duy wasn’t a boy when he—fuck—when they dropped off that welcome-to-the-neighborhood cake.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m still getting used to the whole pronoun thing. We didn’t have any trans students at my school in Tallahassee.”
Riley shakes his head and snorts. “Okay, first off, Duy is nonbinary, not trans. Some nonbinary people identify as trans,
but some do not. Duy does not. Second, I can one hundred percent guarantee that you had trans students at your school. If
you didn’t know about them, it’s because they didn’t feel safe telling you.”
Fuck . This guy’s not giving me an inch. I should probably stop talking. But I don’t want him thinking I’m some ignorant redneck.
Before I can say anything, though, Duy and the two girls return, their arms overflowing with junk food.
“Okay,” the redhead announces, “we got you hot dogs for protein, French fries for starch, Diet Coke for caffeine, funnel cakes
in case your blood sugar is low, popcorn and pretzels ’cause why not, and, last but not least, a giant fried pickle because
that’s the closest thing we could find to a vegetable.”
Riley stares at the mountain of food that’s just been dumped in front of him and shakes his head.
“Seriously, Audrey? You expect me to eat all this?”
“I told you it was too much,” the other girl, the one with the cute button nose, says to her friend. (Tara? Tala? I’ve got to get better with names.)
“We’re covering all the bases,” Audrey answers as she plucks a French fry from its basket. With her bell-bottom jeans, beaded
necklace, and white flowy blouse, she’s rocking a sixties flower-power look pretty hard tonight. But it suits her. As does
Tara’s/Tala’s mixed-and-matched ensemble of lavender jeans, blue blouse, and maroon leather jacket, which I could see Micaela
wanting to borrow.
“Please tell me you’re going to help me eat all this?” Riley pleads, pushing the pile of food toward his friends, who have
seated themselves at the table.
“Well, if you don’t want the funnel cake...” Tara/Tala says, reaching for the fried dough.
Audrey raises an eyebrow. “Really, T.?”
“It’s only my third.”
“Yeah, your third in ten minutes. You still have powder on your nose from the last one.”
Audrey leans forward and kisses the sugar off her nose. And before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Oh! You two are a couple?”
Audrey narrows her hazel eyes at me. “Yeah. And? ”
“No. Nothing,” I cover, trying to downplay my surprise. “I just didn’t, um, know. Duy didn’t tell me.”
Audrey nods, her face and body relaxing as Tara/Tala takes her hand. “Audrey and I have been together for two years.”
“Two and a half,” Audrey corrects her.
“You can’t count those first six months.”
“Oh my gosh, Tala, how many times do we have to have this conversation?” Audrey groans melodramatically. “They count. They
absolutely count. We went on multiple dates.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know they were dates. I just thought you really liked hanging out with me and holding hands.”
“You’re such a little liar!” Audrey laughs, pulling her girlfriend into a hug.
I turn from the cuddling girls to Duy, who casually plucks a speck of lint off Riley’s shoulder in the same way that Micaela
used to pick grass off my football jersey.
“So, are all four of you?.?.?.?um...” I realize too late that I have no idea how to finish this question.
“Yes,” Riley growls. “We’re all ‘um.’ Very, very ‘um.’?”
Shit. I genuinely didn’t mean to offend anyone. I just wasn’t expecting everyone I met tonight to be gay.
“Cool,” I say, trying to shrug off my awkwardness. “That’s—cool.”
“Glad we have your approval,” Riley shoots back.
Tala shoots him a scolding look. “Be nice, Ri.”
“What? He started it.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, wishing I would just stop talking. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“It’s okay,” Duy assures me, flashing me an amused smile as they adjust the red silk scarf around their neck, the only pop
of color in their otherwise all-black ensemble of crop top and short shorts. “We totally acknowledge that your sporty football
life back in the conservative wasteland that is Tallahassee might have shielded you from close contact with amazingly fabulous
people like us. So, just for today, you get a pass. But for the record, Riley and Audrey identify as gay, Tala is bi, and
I’m queer/nonbinary with a preference for guys who look like Henry Golding or Regé-Jean Page. Got all that?”
“Got it.” With everyone sharing their sexuality, it strikes me that I should do the same, so I add, “I’m straight.”
The group stares at me, and once again I find myself wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
“That was probably obvious,” I say.
Fixing me with his green eyes, Riley grabs one of the hot dogs and pointedly tears the end off with his teeth. “There were
clues.”