Page 7

JULIE

That’s how I find myself standing at the garden gate of my old elementary school, looking at third graders who are too wiggly for my liking. It’s not that I hate kids. It’s more like I don’t like them.

Randall, on the other hand, is surrounded by them. He looks at home here, with his hands in the dirt, pulling weeds with enthusiasm.

I stand by the chain-link fence surrounding the school’s community garden. Before I open the latch, I consider leaving. Spending two hours with Randall and a bunch of eight-year-olds sounds awful, but if I give up now, I’ll fail the project. Randall will get a better grade than me and, by default, win.

Never.

Randall sees me and waves me over.

“I’ve got gloves for you!”

Sure he does. I smile politely as I walk in. My gold wedge heels sink into the dirt immediately, and I freaking fall down face-first. I taste earthy dirt in my mouth. This is a sign from the universe that I don’t belong here.

Randall holds out a hand. I begrudgingly take it and definitely don’t notice how his biceps flex when he lifts me up.

“Probably not the best shoes for gardening,” says Randall, eyeing my heels.

“Anyway,” I say with a huff, “Should we start off with a tour?”

Randall smirks. “Of course you have an agenda planned.”

I fold my arms over my flowy black-and-white polka-dot blouse. I bend down to a kid who has on a red T-shirt that says GARDEN OF EATING .

“Can you show me around?”

In response, he grabs my hand and tugs me toward a row of artichokes. I notice a handwritten sign stuck into the ground, “Okie Dokie Artichokie.”

“These are mine. I raised them in seed pods I made from toilet paper tubes,” says the kid.

“Oh, cool.”

Soon, more kids join us, pointing out their handiwork to me. The garden is abundant with a variety of fragrant herbs, vegetables, and fruits. Randall was always great at gardening. But I somehow destroy plants the moment I touch them. I stick my hands in my pockets as an extra precaution.

London arrives, looking as out of place as I do in his starched white button-down with crisp black jeans that he most definitely had someone iron. But if he feels awkward, it doesn’t show.

He lets himself in. He high-fives some of the kids. When he reaches me, he smiles.

“You’ve got some dirt on your cheek,” London says, leaning forward.

He brushes the soil off my face with the gentlest touch. If I had any sparks with him, this would definitely set me off.

It doesn’t.

I glance at Randall. Somehow, he manages to talk to every single kid as they shout and point. It just sounds like noise to me.

“Should we take Julie to the rooftop garden?”

The group shouts their approval, and I shield my hand over my eyes to look up at the school roof. I hate heights. Randall knows this thanks to one terrible Santa Monica Ferris wheel ride in the sixth grade where we got stuck at the top for 117 minutes when the power went out. And yes, I counted every single minute that I faced death. I swallow hard and make my face still, trying to control the rising panic in my chest.

Suddenly, I’m transported back to that fated Ferris wheel ride.

Randall, who went by a different name back then, was on the edge of his seat, gazing out at the inky black ocean waves and the bright moon. I focused on my hands and swore that I could feel the earth shaking under us. Randall said it wasn’t an earthquake. It was just the Ferris wheel moving. Great, I said, I’m going to die on this metal machine and my best friend doesn’t believe me. Randall squeezed my trembling hands, and as the ride lurched forward, he said, “I will always believe you.”

RANDALL

The rooftop garden is up a long black metal fire-escape staircase that runs along the outside of the building. I see Julie, frozen at the bottom. I forgot about her fear of heights. She’s just stuck in one spot, terrified.

The kids bound up the stairs. The banging sound of metal as their shoes hit each step makes Julie wince.

JULIE

This is the sound of death. Randall heads down the stairs and reaches out for my hand.

“Come on. I’ve got you.”

I can’t explain it, but my body rejects his words instantly. I yank my hand away. Years of my hurt hurl out the words before I can stop them.

“You’ve never gotten me,” I spit.

RANDALL

My hand goes to my heart as if Julie has physically wounded me.

Tears rim her eyes, and I resist the urge to comfort her.

London steps in to take my place.

I look away.

JULIE

“I was scared of heights for the longest time,” says London.

I blink and refocus my eyes on his face. He smiles at me and takes my hand in his.

“The trick is to focus on your balance, your breathing, and to keep three points grounded.”

He leads me to the metal stairs.

“Your feet are two points. My hand is your third. Keep your eyes up.”

I feel the slightest tremble as my heels make contact with the metal stairs. I bite my lip and look up.

RANDALL

I trail after London and Julie. I don’t know why my stomach feels twisted at the sight of their clasped hands. He’s helping her up the stairs. It’s a nice gesture.

JULIE

The dread of heights seizes my legs, and I freeze again.

Below me, someone lets out a sharp whistle.

“Garden of Eating crew, Julie needs your help,” calls Randall. “Cheer her on as she climbs up.”

A dozen little faces peer down from the roof. They clap loudly, hollering, “You can do this!”

It’s completely ridiculous, but it somehow loosens the grip of fear.

With each step, the kids get louder. Even London and Randall have joined in. It’s their mission to get me to the rooftop.

Let’s do this, I say to myself.

RANDALL

She makes it to the rooftop. The third graders surround her in a wave of high fives and cheers. Julie blushes, a rose color coming to her olive cheeks. I’ve forgotten how cute she can get when she’s bashful.

I shake my head at the thought and focus on London’s hand on Julie’s back. The way he checks on her.

JULIE

The kid who tends to the strawberries takes my hand and walks me to the edge of the roof. I step back so I’m not too close. I haven’t exactly conquered my fear of heights just yet.

“Look, miss,” says the kid. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and finally stare out at the horizon. The kid is right.

The sky is striped with layers of cotton candy pink and orange sherbet. The tops of palm trees dot along the clouds. Los Angeles at its finest. I breathe in the air. Something in my chest finally loosens.

“It is beautiful,” I say, bending down to my new friend. “What’s your name?”

“Eric,” he says. “Come on.”

He runs forward. I follow. That’s when I notice that this once-deserted rooftop has been transformed into a fully functioning garden.

RANDALL

I watch as Eric leads Julie around the garden. London is being led around by Laura. He keeps sneaking glances at Julie, waiting for her to return his looks.

She doesn’t. Julie bends down to touch the red bell peppers that aren’t fully grown yet.

Eric waves me over.

“What is it, pal?” I ask.

“Julie has never had kohlrabi before,” says Eric.

“That’s not right,” I say.

Julie scrunches her face. “Celery root? No thanks. I hate celery. It tastes like juicy dental floss.”

Eric giggles.

“It’s true. It always gets stuck in your teeth. Yuck.”

“What’s our number one rule in the garden?”

Eric puffs out his chest. “We have to try it before we say no. Unless you’re allergic.”

I bend down to find the right green globe of kohlrabi. The outside should be hard. I pluck one that looks good.

Julie wrinkles her nose. “You’re not exactly convincing me with that knobby gnome version of broccoli.”

I roll my eyes. I forgot how picky Julie can be with vegetables.

“Eric, can you grab me a peeler from the supply shelf?”

He dashes off with thundering footsteps.

“I knew your halmeoni could grow tomatoes in a parking lot, but what you did here is something else.”

Julie and I are close to each other. I’m taller than her so I peer down.

“I started gardening a lot during my transition,” I say softly.

It’s the first time I’ve mentioned that time in my life when I was figuring things out.

“Gardening was quiet. I liked raising these tiny seeds to sprouts, then watching them grow each day. It felt fitting, you know.”

Julie touches my arm. “I had no idea.”

“How would you?”

JULIE

Randall’s arm is sturdy and strong, different. When we were kids, we were both sticks running around. After puberty hit, we filled out in different ways.

“I wish I had known,” I say.

“Yeah, well, it took me some time to figure it out myself.”

We are interrupted by the return of Eric, who proudly holds up a vegetable peeler.

Randall hacks away at the hard exterior skin of the kohlrabi. Underneath that layer is the soft flesh of the root veggie. It’s pale white, similar to jicama. Randall slices off bits of it. He hands one to Eric, then me.

Eric eats his piece with relish. I hold my section up.

“Is that kohlrabi?” asks London.

Randall nods, handing him a piece.

“My dad always likes to cut it in thick wedges and grill them up,” says London, between bites. “Wow. This tastes amazing.”

“Fine! I’ll try it,” I exclaim.

The kids around me laugh. I bring the vegetable to my nose. It doesn’t give off a weird odor, so that’s good. I toss it in my mouth before I can change my mind. I crunch down and it tastes… good. It reminds me of slightly sweet jicama.

“Okay, I admit it. It’s good,” I say.

Randall gives me another piece. As I nibble on it, I think about what Randall said about his transition. We had stopped talking by then. I had to hear about Randall’s transition from Mercy.

It’s funny. When Randall changed his name and pronouns, it didn’t surprise me. Randall always knew himself well. But now that we’re talking again, there’s an ease in his smile, and the way he holds his body makes it clear how happy he is.