Page 6

“We have a last-minute oil change coming in.”

Mom’s voice drifted under the minivan, and I snapped my attention back to the engine above me.

My hands ached as I gripped the wrench and tightened the plug.

It had been a nonstop day of emptying inky goop from engines into drain pans and refilling them with fresh oil.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of grease, and rolled out from under the car on the small dolly mechanics used.

“Great,” I said through a yawn, and sat up, stretching my neck.

“Mmhmm,” Mom hummed as she adjusted the green shop hat over her blond waves. Her eyes softened as she looked down at me. “I know this must be jarring for you, and you never had to work before…but I’m really glad to have you down here.”

What she meant was that she needed the extra help but couldn’t afford to hire someone. Money was tight now, and the support payments from my father were barely helping us make ends meet. But she wanted to prove she could take care of me, of us.

“I mean, this is punishment for flunking my junior year,” I mumbled.

“Almost flunking,” she corrected with a wry grin.

I shot her an unamused grimace, my face going slack as she took a seat across from me.

We sat in silence for a moment as sounds from the lobby TV reverberated off the tiled floor.

I checked my phone so I could count down the hours until the QSA set up for tomorrow.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be near Mom, but she kept trying to talk to me like we were back in the garage at our old house.

“Hey, Zeke,” she continued, forcing the conversation, “I know how hard it’s been…Are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” I replied quickly, not wanting to rehash the past for the third time today.

She was trying to prove she was here for me now with the incessant questions.

But it never got us anywhere. The topic brought up too many emotions.

And it always ended with me feeling guilty for the fact that, deep down, I resented her for letting my father walk all over us.

Her gaze held too much pity, and I quickly averted mine.

My eyes went back to the portrait of Zelda and the smile she wore as if she knew exactly what I was going through.

It was easy to imagine living a life like hers.

One day I would get away from the JACass and all his plans.

But I still didn’t know who I was without them.

“You know, you remind me even more of her now,” Mom commented.

I glanced over, and she nodded toward the back wall. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“Zelda never let anyone stop her from doing what she wanted,” she said. “She never tried to be perfect, she was a rebel. A free spirit who partied in speakeasies and kept everyone on their toes. Just like you’ve been doing since…”

I chewed my lip, my hands fidgeting as I looked up at Zelda.

Maybe I could be like her. Maybe I could live my life and not give a shit about what other people thought was best for me.

It was like when I held a wrench in my hand, wielding it under a vehicle’s hood.

How it felt to know I could easily take apart any engine and put it back together.

Complete control—that’s all I really wanted.

“How about Pride Day tomorrow?” Mom continued, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Everything okay with that?”

“Guess so?” I said, this time with my voice rising. What Cohen had said still shook me. Are you even paying attention?

“You guess?”

I rolled my shoulders back like Coach had taught us to when we were tense with stress. There had been no nerves when we’d planned Pride, but I’d gone out riding again last night. Unable to sleep. Unable to get Cohen’s voice out of my head for miles and miles.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” I said in a determined voice, more to myself.

“If I haven’t said it already,” she started, “I’m glad you’re getting involved.”

Another attempt to prove she was here for me. She’d been going above and beyond since we moved out, to ensure I was supported. As much as I appreciated her efforts, it felt like it was a little too late.

I sighed roughly and shrugged. “I don’t really do much—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she corrected. “You’re speaking up by being part of it. That’s what’s important now. You never know who’s listening, so be proud.”

Pride is about being heard. But to me Pride felt like a fight. A war between who I should be and who I was.

“Just promise you’ll be careful tomorrow—” I started to interrupt her, but she shook her head. “You’re never careful. What you’re doing is more important than getting into stupid fights.”

“Fair.” I reached up, tenderly touching the bruised skin around my eye. “Fighting’s bad, I know.”

“One more thing,” she added, standing as a car pulled up to the garage door. The last-minute appointment was the only thing between me and getting out of here. “Promise you won’t—”

“I won’t get in a fight, I swear.”

She pointed a finger at me, grit under her nails like mine. “—that you won’t take the bait if someone tries to provoke you,” she finished.

“Got it.”

I rolled my eyes, but what she’d said echoed inside me.

You never know who’s listening, so be proud.

That advice was more supportive than what my father had said when he’d found out about Pride Day.

He’d told me to be quiet and not draw attention to myself.

He’d warned that people would protest. It’d made me feel like the space my friends had fought to take up didn’t matter, that it was easier to stop trying than to risk causing a scene.

The Beggs Town Square was nothing more than a bit of hoity-toity landscaping.

It housed a raised pavilion and a monument in the square’s center commemorating the town founder.

Fancy pea gravel lined the sidewalks as they twisted and turned with small-town charm, leading toward the statue.

My parents had taken me to see its installation when I was a kid, Mom and me playing hide-and-seek in the bushes along the paths.

I could still remember darting out of the hydrangeas beside that marbled likeness of Mr. David Beggs and his faithful donkey.

Could still remember how this kid had been snapping pictures of it with a retro camera from the ’90s.

He’d grinned and told me how the founder single-handedly built this town, and I stared up at it with wide eyes.

That was the moment I knew that one day I wanted to do something important too.

It was also the moment I’d first met Cohen Fisher.

But he didn’t remember how he’d smiled at me or how we’d played around the square that day.

We’d grown apart only to come back together freshman year, only to grow even farther apart after our falling out.

So far that he no longer felt like the person I once knew.

Even though he could still often be found with a vintage camera, he was a stranger who made me feel like I would never be good enough.

He was a few steps ahead of me as we passed the statue in a rush.

The evening was dragging on while we worked to hang up the last of the QSA membership flyers.

Every time he would hold one up for me to tape, he’d let out an irritated sigh if I took too long.

Yet he never complained. I didn’t know what was worse, his quietness or the threat that at any moment he could turn into a sharp-tongued smartass.

The streetlamps flickered to life in the settling dusk as I trailed after him.

The beams were a spotlight on Sawyer’s hatchback.

Its molten shade of orange glinted as two shadows kissed in the front seats.

After we’d turned the pavilion into a makeshift stage, Sawyer and Kennedy decided to take a break.

And by “break,” they’d obviously meant an hour-long make-out sesh while I was stuck with Cohen.

“Can you hurry ?” he called, finally breaking his silence.

He was at the next lamppost, and I could see his eye roll from here. “Can you not walk so fast?” I replied, making sure I took my time catching up to him.

“I have somewhere to be after this,” he said.

“A hot date?” I teased with a sneer. He only shook his head instead of sparring with me. “What?”

“Nothing.” He grabbed the tape out of my hand and hung up the poster himself. “I promised I wouldn’t let you get to me.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, rushing as he hurried to the next post.

“You know exactly what it means.” The expression on his face, how it went slack, deflated my grin. “You’re trying to get under my skin because that’s what you do, and I’d much rather get this over with.”

I wanted to argue with him, but I was too tired after working all day. “Fine,” I said in a huff, dropping the pretense. “If you need to be somewhere, then go. I can finish this by myself.”

He shook his head severely as we continued walking. “This is too important to risk you screwing it up.”

“What the hell?” I grabbed his arm and stopped him in his tracks. “I’m here helping, so why are you—”

“I’m just giving my opinion, Zeke.”

“If you’re gonna ride my ass, at least buy me dinner. Damn.”

A flicker of disgust, of something similar to annoyance, flashed across his face. Then he jerked his arm out of my grasp and held up the flyers. “Do you even know why we’re hanging these up?”

“Because the QSA is leading Pride Day,” I said. “I can read—”

“It’s not just that.” He rubbed at his messy bedhead, a humorless laugh echoing into the dusk. “Why are you even in this club?”

“Let me see,” I said, counting on my fingers. “I’m gay. It’s the only queer club at school. And my best friend, Sawyer, started it.”

He ignored my emphasis, conflict knitting his brows as he studied me. “God, you’re such a bad gay.”

“Excuse me?” My voice broke despite myself.

The guilt struck, sinking its fangs into my stomach.

He was right, and I knew it. Knew that my involvement with the QSA was for selfish reasons, that my ulterior motive was shitty, that I didn’t know how to be gay without hearing my father’s voice telling me to stop flaunting it.

I was a failure at being their version of the best and being my father’s version of the worst.

“I, uh, I’m pretty sure you can’t say that,” I managed.

“It’s the truth, Zeke. You’re so worried about yourself that you don’t notice what’s really happening in town.” He pointed at the flyer, reading the last line. “?‘Beggs High School needs you to join the QSA.’?”

“So what?” I asked, snatching it from him. “We already have four members. Maybe we’ll get a few more.”

“Hopefully we will.” He stared at me as his glower dimmed to despair. “The principal changed the rule for clubs. If we don’t get at least twenty people signed up, the QSA will be disbanded when school starts back up in the fall.”

“Nobody told me about that!” I exclaimed in frustration, rereading the flyer. “Nothing on here says that.”

“We’ve talked about it in meetings.” The edge dropped from his voice as he spoke. “But you don’t come to all the meetings, and when you are there…you’re not really present.”

“That’s because…” Because I didn’t know how to be someone who belonged in the QSA. And I didn’t know how to tell him the truth or explain myself. “Cohen…I mean, it’s because…”

“It’s okay, Zeke.” He took the flyer from me, then walked onward. “Let’s just get through tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get some sign-ups, and then you can resign from the club since it doesn’t seem like you really want to be here anyway.”

“It’s not okay…” I called after him, my voice a whisper.

I suddenly felt like I was up at bat, a human-shaped jumble of nerves.

I leaned against the lamppost and tried taking a few calm breaths, another tip from Coach.

But there were too many curveballs as I attempted to swing the doubt out of my head.

Pride is about being heard. Strike one. You never know who’s listening.

Strike two. You’re a bad gay. Strike three.

There was no winning when it came to Pride. My eyes burned, and the stars in the sky blurred. No matter how hard I kept trying, I didn’t have anything to feel proud of.