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T his is how Pride Day was supposed to be.

Sweat dampened my tank top as I took in what we’d created—the last speakeasy.

My heart pulsed with too much rage over my father’s warning.

Too much adrenaline, like we’d been on a roller coaster climbing higher and higher with the temperature.

I refused to let what he’d said stop me, and the heat hadn’t stopped hundreds of people from showing up.

Our town was revolving around David Beggs and the faithful donkey I’d once painted pink.

The sweltering breeze carried with it their excited conversations, shrieks from children playing, a buzz of excitement I couldn’t describe—a thrill that took me back.

I could still feel the crunch of pea gravel under my shoes.

The hydrangea blooms dancing across my face when I came out of my hiding spot.

A sense of awe as I gazed up at the town founder…

We might be a month late, I thought, but we are finally doing it.

“Carmen should be here any minute,” Sawyer said, pulling me from the memory, and handed me a stack of campaign flyers. “If you and your boyfriend can hand these out, we’ll get voter registration started.”

Her insinuation was thicker than the humidity.

Cohen shot me a look, his face splotchy as he fiddled with the camera strap around his neck.

We’d been staying up late to chat and ask each other endless rounds of questions.

But I kept going back to the one he’d asked me while we’d been listening to Bleachers.

Will you be my boyfriend? That same question that I’d let ruin everything between us in freshman year.

Kennedy let out an exaggerated sigh, powering on the tablet. “I think,” she began in a stage whisper, “that I liked it better when they were outright fighting. The tension is giving capital H horny.”

Sawyer gave a murmur of agreement. “You two need to other-stuff already,” she said pointedly.

“Stop,” I said, my grin notwithstanding. Even though I would very much like to do that with him, I didn’t want to risk messing things up again. It was nice finally getting to know him, letting him do the same.

“Huh?” Cohen asked.

“Don’t worry,” Sawyer said, making a crude gesture with her hands. “I’m sure you’ll understand soon enough.”

“Saw,” I laughed, but then the chuckle died in my throat when I heard my name.

I turned to see Mason making his way over to us in a slow swagger. It sent me back to the darkened bookstore on the night of the first speakeasy.

Cohen cleared his throat, watching me again. His sweaty palm slipped into mine territorially. Mason might’ve been a fun idea, but Cohen was real. The future I had never let myself have until now. “You have nothing to worr—” I tried to assure him.

“Hey.” Mason cut me off as he approached, deliberately ignoring everyone else. He gave me a slow devilish grin while he checked me out. His eyes lingered on my exposed arms in the tank top, and I knew where his mind had gone. “Need an extra hand?”

“We’re good,” Cohen snipped before I could reply.

Mason shot him an annoyed look. “I thought Zeke and I could—”

“No.”

Cohen had shut him down so fast it only heightened the awkwardness between us.

I watched their interaction with my mouth agape.

Then the snickers from Kennedy were enough to make me come to my senses.

I said, “Meet you in front of the parade float,” to Sawyer, and pulled Cohen away before it got even more cringe.

“Sorry,” Cohen said after we’d gotten out of earshot.

“What was that about?” I asked, watching too many emotions flash across his face. “You don’t have to be jealous.”

“But,” he said without missing a beat, “it’s fucking Mason Bedolla.”

“Yeah, you said you didn’t like him on multiple occasions,” I pointed out, “but what actually happened between you two?”

“It’s stupid.” He shrugged, and I waited with raised eyebrows for him to continue. With a heavy sigh, he added, “We chatted on Insta, and when we finally hung out, he, um, changed his mind.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He only wanted to be friends.” He avoided my gaze and kicked at the ground. “He didn’t say it, but I could tell by how he acted…It’s because I’m me and he’s perfect. I was so embarrassed that I deleted all the selfies from my grid.”

“No, he’s not perfect, more like an incredibly stupid asshole.” He shrugged again, the muscles in his jaw tense. “And I wouldn’t have gone with him just now, if you were wondering. I like that you’re you.”

The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed, and a shy smile pulled his expression out of the past. Pulled me into the present, where I’d been so afraid of living.

We were running full-on at each other, had been since he’d sent me that first DM.

Since that question all those years ago.

It was as though we’d picked back up from where we’d left ourselves in his bedroom listening to our favorite band. But now it was my turn to ask.

“Cohen,” I began, tugging him to a stop, “will you be my boyfriend?”

“Vote Bedolla, a voice for the real people of Beggs!”

The words on the flyers had etched themselves in my mind. Every time I passed one out, I could hear what my mom had told me. It wasn’t just a vote. If everyone here joined together, it became a battle cry—a fighting chance.

I glanced up at the billboard we’d graffitied, thinking those words were the final thing I would do to help. But in reality, I knew what it was now. “Hey, Cohen,” I said, as we made our way to the parade float. It was nearly time for Carmen’s speech and then the drag show. “Can I register to vote?”

“You don’t need permission,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re eighteen, and it’s your right.”

“Wow, way to go all textbook propaganda on me,” I tried to joke, but it came out as confused as I felt. “I know we’re doing the registration, but how do I register?”

“It’s really easy,” he explained, passing out another brightly colored paper. “You just need your driver’s license. We’re using vote.gov on the tablet, and you just have to fill out the form for our state.”

“That doesn’t seem so bad…”

I trailed off as people started shoving around us.

As incoherent shouts rang out. Then I saw a sign, bright-red letters on white.

“Gays aren’t welcome in Beggs,” I read as more of them appeared.

Dread sloshed up my throat and rushed into my mouth, the taste of bile making me gag.

“Vote Buchanan to keep Beggs safe!” and “Vote for the safety of our kids!” and “Put families first!” and…

“N-no,” I stammered, unable to tear my eyes away from their hateful messages. “Not again.”

“Picketers,” Cohen said, and then he was moving.

I followed after him as he wound through the crowd.

Each frenzied step took me back to the night of Buchanan’s rally.

Panic recoiled in my stomach, my vision pinpricking as my heart sped up with dizziness.

It had been too real seeing their homophobia from the billboard, but this was different.

They could see me, could see how we were terrified, and they still spewed hate at us like we didn’t matter.

“We don’t want you here!” someone yelled. And then another: “We won’t let you corrupt our town.”

Cohen looked back over his shoulder, registering my fear, and grabbed my hand to pull me along. His palm reminded me I wasn’t alone, that we were here. I focused on that as he guided me toward Sawyer and Kennedy at the parade float.

“Are y’all okay?” one of them asked when we burst through to them.

I couldn’t tell who had said it. Too many shouts were being thrown out, closer than before, and I looked back. The mayor’s supporters were storming up the rows of tents. I didn’t know what to do, how to help.

“Hey, breathe,” Cohen said calmly into my ear. He reached out to touch me but stopped himself. “You’re panicking. Just take deep breaths, okay? I know it’s scary, but look. They can’t get to us here.”

I glanced to where he’d pointed and tried to make sense of what I was seeing.

People were lining up to block their path.

The owners of Ryland Farms were holding their hands out, standing side by side.

Owen and the other rangers of the nature preserve.

Bronwen the librarian and Jess from the rec center.

Even Damian, Billy, and the other guys from the team waving rainbow flags in solidarity.

My mom and, most surprisingly, my father.

They were all forming a barricade.

The sound system crackled behind us, and “This isn’t our town!

” boomed through the speakers with fiery authority.

I flinched back and looked up at the float.

Carmen stood tall, commanding the platform I’d helped build.

Her pink donkey shirt was worn proudly, rainbow paint on her cheek as she lifted the microphone.

“We aren’t hate,” she addressed the square. “Do you know what I see up here? I see families, friends, loved ones—the support system this town needs. Fighters who ensure our LGBTQIA-plus community and their allies will be welcomed here. This is who we are.”

Cries of protest rang out in reply, but then I heard a shout of encouragement. Then another as cheers spread out around us. Their wave of voices rose higher and higher, rushing toward the float in support.

“When I think about Beggs,” she began, raising her voice over the crowd, “I’m reminded of when I taught elementary school.

When it was story time, I’d gather my students on a giant rug and hold my finger up like this”—she brought an index finger to her lips for emphasis—“for everyone to be quiet and listen. That’s what we as citizens have done for far too long, staying seated and silent while my opponent, Mr.Buchanan, tells us a story.

But I decided to take a chance the day he announced his first anti-LGBTQIA-plus ordinance.

A very brave young individual took a stand to fight back, and it inspired me to speak up. ”

She paused, searching until her eyes found mine.

Her kind smile took me back to Pride Day at the beginning of June.

Need some help? I’d asked when I’d seen her struggling with boxes, and she’d told me, What you’re doing today is nothing short of beautiful.

A prickle of tears stung, and I tried to blink them away.

That one day had changed my summer—the trajectory I was on—because of the grace she’d shown me, and I had no idea I’d done the same for her.

That I could be someone that significant.

“When I decided to run for mayor,” she pressed on, ignoring the roar of complaints, “it wasn’t because I thought I would be a better leader.

I knew I was a better fighter. And I will fight for the equal rights of my family and this community, for your Pride like that billboard up there says.

That’s what I set out to do with my campaign.

This summer has taught me what it means to be a real person in our town.

We’re not the ones sitting idly by while someone tells them their story.

And, Beggs, story time is over. We’re taking action to write our own story, and together we’ll tell it our way come Founder’s Day. ”

Her words echoed through the square. More shouts rang out like those at Buchanan’s rally, more loud voices yelling more loud opinions at us—this is what my father had wanted to protect me from in this town.

The uproar might’ve started because of the QSA petitioning for Pride, but I knew it had always been here.

They wanted us to feel like we needed protecting, to be quiet out of fear.

We’d been forced to live in the darkness of shoeboxes and underground speakeasies and closets until we forgot who we were.

But I knew who I was now.

From climbing up to the billboard to paint a giant penis to Pride Day to Buchanan’s rally, I had faced my fears whether I wanted to or not. But sometimes you had to face your fears because you needed to, and you didn’t have to do it alone like so many wanted you to believe.

“We need to get back to the QSA tent,” I managed to say, finding my voice. “We have to keep registering people to vote.” I have to register to vote.

“I don’t know,” Kennedy said with a shaky voice.

She was as scared as me, Sawyer and Cohen too. However, some fears were worth facing. “These people might’ve kept us from celebrating Pride Day,” I said with a steadying breath. “But they don’t get to tell us what to do anymore.”

“If any time calls for your melodramatic ass to act up, it’s now,” Sawyer said, sparing me a wink as she laced her fingers with Kennedy’s. “Let’s do this together.”

“Together,” Cohen echoed, and grabbed my hand.

My legs might’ve been wobbly, but my steps were determined as we edged along the barricade’s shield. Each supporter caught my eye in a promise that we were safe. Even though there was no hesitation in the glares being thrown our way, I stood up straighter, like I was walking into a battle.

As we passed by the baseball team, they all held their hands out with one finger pointing down.

Pitch a fastball, it meant, and that was exactly what we would do.

Then I saw my father—my dad, who was finally putting me first. He didn’t say anything, just nodded with the same approval I’d sought for years.

Then there was Mom in her green mechanic shirt.

“The police are on their way to break this up,” she called to me. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“We got this, Mom,” I said over the riot.

She gave me a mischievous smile, the same exact one Zelda Fitzgerald wore in the painting at Roaring Mechanics.

She became the person people expected her to be, Mom had said, until she realized she could shine on her own.

That was how I felt now—loud and rebellious, but most importantly, capable of fixing things.

I knew my life wouldn’t go back to normal after this election was over, though.

The mayoral race was more than just a blip on the political radar, more than two sides vying to win.

I couldn’t fix everything, no matter who won, because those protesters would still be here spewing hate.

But I would stop listening to the cautionary story we’d been told as queer kids in this small town.

Our story began today, and we would be the ones to write it.

I’d push my way to the QSA table to register voters. Then I’d wake up tomorrow and keep fighting. Keep discovering myself despite who they wanted me to be. Because to exist in Beggs and Alabama and this country was a fight, and they couldn’t blame us for what happened next.

They made us rebels.