Chapter Twenty-Four
Day 8
Before long, Laurel falls asleep. I don’t.
She sleeps with her back to me tonight. I watch her shoulders rise and fall in a perfect rhythm for what feels like hours.
Eventually, I roll over and grab my phone. 4:10 a.m. There are more group chat messages, mostly between Isa and Gibs. I scroll all the way to the most recent message but can’t focus enough to read any of them.
The journey downstairs is quick, the halls dim and silent. The door is already propped open. I slip outside, then look up. The woman in the apartment across from my room must be asleep. Her windows are dark.
I make my way through the grass. Andy sits in his usual spot, but Isa is perched on my bench. The place they usually sit is occupied.
Gibs spots me first. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
I blink. “I thought you’d be sleeping.”
Laughter. It reminds me of tapas. Port Vell.
But when I step into the light, they all go silent.
I look between them. “What?”
“It’s just…” Andy glances from Isa to Gibs.
“You’re really done up,” Gibs says.
“You really are.” Isa’s voice is softer. They pat a spot on the bench next to them.
I tuck my still-straight hair behind an ear, then sit.
That’s when I notice that Isa’s wearing a skirt.
Flustered, I look back at Gibs. “Why are you awake?”
“Y’all’ve been talking up these hangouts so much,” he says. “I decided I’d join one.”
“Actually,” Andy says, “he’s just wired because he drank a gallon of Coke earlier.”
Gibs shrugs. “Same diff.”
I can’t help stealing another look at Isa’s skirt. It’s purple, like their hair.
And Laurel’s new dress.
Yesterday floods back to me: Breakfast. Splitting up in the subway. Overwhelm at the boquería. Xavi bailing on Andy.
“Anyhow.” Andy turns to me. “You do look really nice.”
The sleepover with Laurel. An unwanted makeover. My refusal to share clue answers.
“I hate makeup.” I swipe at my face. My knuckles come away with blush and foundation. “But I do like my curly hair. And freckles.”
“No offense,” Gibs says, “but why do you look like that, then?”
I shake my head, not wanting to talk about it. But the answer spills out.
“Laurel wanted to give herself a makeover, but Sophie-Anne and Madison showed up. Then, I was the only one not wearing makeup, and they kept asking me to let them help. I didn’t want help, or any makeup, but they said it’d impress Meritxell, so—”
I swallow the rest of my words, but it’s too late. I gulp air, but my breathing picks up. Faster, shallower. The garden blurs.
“Okay, am I, like, the only one here who’s not gay?”
“Shut up, Gibs,” Andy and Isa say together.
“Put your head between your legs.” Isa turns to me. “Deep breaths.”
My whole body trembles as I lean forward. I try to breathe, but—“I… can’t.”
Andy kneels in front of me. “You can. One breath in, then let it out long and slow.”
Gradually, the garden stops spinning.
“Ellen, is it okay if I touch you?” Isa asks.
“Okay. I’m going to put my hand on your back. Let me know if you want me to stop.”
I take another breath in, then let it out slowly.
At first, Isa touches me gently. Then, more pressure as they rub soothing circles on my back, my neck, my shoulders.
Finally, I’m able to sit up.
“Sorry.” Even though I feel better, my voice sounds faint and shaky.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Isa says.
Andy and Gibs nod.
“No, there is.” It’s not only about the scene I just made. I suck in a shuddering breath, then try to explain. “I love patterns, like how Laurel and I are the two Els. So when I met Meritxell, I thought—I don’t know—maybe it meant something. But I left you all after we agreed to see the castellers today. Andy didn’t get to hang out with Xavi because of me.”
“That’s honestly fine,” Andy says. “Xavi’s cute and all, but I probably would’ve been super nervous if he was around.”
“We had a fun day anyway,” Isa says.
I definitely didn’t.
“Are you sure you’re okay, though?” Andy asks.
“I’ll live,” I say, which is true, even if it didn’t technically answer his question. I don’t want to talk about my day or the scene I just made.
“Want to try to solve the third clue?” It feels like I’m grasping at anything I can reach. I glance at Isa, trying to keep my eyes off their skirt. “I didn’t bring my clue sheet with me, but I could look at yours again?”
“Y’all can.” Gibs yawns, then hops up from his bench. “I’m out.”
“I’m getting tired, too,” Andy admits. “Plus, I thought we were going to wait until next week to give ourselves a break?”
“Oh, okay.” My heart sinks. It feels like I’ve hardly seen my teammates all day, even if it was my choice.
“We’ll work on it first thing on Monday,” Isa promises as we head back to the hotel together. “Want me to help you get that makeup off? I’m not sharing a bathroom, so it wouldn’t wake anyone up.”
Grateful for the offer, I nod.
We say goodbye to Andy and Gibs on the girls-plus-Isa floor. With every swish of Isa’s skirt, my confusion builds.
“Can I ask you something?” Isa asks as they hold the door open for me.
“Yes.”
“Do you really think Meritxell—or anyone—would like you more if you looked a certain way?”
They close the door with a quiet click.
“No.” My shoulders round. “It’s not even that. Laurel was just so excited to do makeovers. I wanted her to be happy, so I agreed.”
I want us both to be happy, actually.
“She’s your best friend, right? You said you’re… the two Els? Something about a pattern?”
I nod as Isa grabs a tissue box off their bedside table. “Since third grade. And there’s so many things on this trip with the same pattern: Meritxell. Barcelona. It felt like destiny, even if I don’t believe in stuff like that.”
Isa passes me a tissue. I blot my eyes, and it comes away with a smear of sparkly bronze.
“I don’t have actual makeup wipes, but I’ll do my best with what I’ve got. Which is basically just Kleenex, so sorry in advance.”
Isa waves me into the bathroom, and I sit on the closed toilet seat. They twist the faucet on, then stick a wad of tissues under it. Soon, they’re dabbing it against my cheek. My chest flutters with every cool touch while Isa’s skirt sways below us.
“I don’t believe in fate stuff, either.” Isa’s voice stays low, even though there’s no one in the hotel room connected to their bathroom. “But I want to tell you something no one else here knows. Not even Andy or Gibs. Promise to keep it to yourself?”
“I promise.” Isa’s tissue slides toward my ear as I nod, but they don’t tell me to stay still.
“Okay.” Isa takes a deep breath, just like I do to steady myself. “My full first name isn’t Isa, obviously. That’s just a nickname. I wasn’t going to share my full name with anyone because it’s seriously none of their business. And this may just be a big coincidence but…”
The tissue goes still against my cheek.
“My old name was Isabel.”
For a moment, I forget to breathe. Maybe I haven’t given fate enough credit.
“So…” Isa’s voice stays low, but it sounds different now. Vulnerable. “What do you think?”
“I think”—I tilt my head up to them, meeting their gaze for a split second—“Isa fits you much better.”
“Yeah.” Isa’s exhale is half breath, half laugh. “No question.”
“I still don’t get why they put you on the girls’ floor when you’re not one, though.”
“It could’ve been worse.” Now that we’ve changed topics, Isa’s words flow at their usual speed and confidence. “My parents looked at tons of schools before they found Lynnwood, all because the public schools couldn’t handle my pronouns.”
“That sounds like my mom and abba. Lots of schools wanted to put me in a special education program when we moved to Georgia. But I’m in advanced classes, so that’s not what I needed.”
“I swear.” Isa shakes their head. “Sometimes adults totally freak out about labels but don’t bother to get to know the person behind them at all.”
Yes. That’s exactly right, I think, as my attention shifts to Isa’s skirt again. They turn, dropping a wad of tissues into the garbage bin.
“Can I ask you a question, too?”
“Sure, but I think we should stop asking if we can ask,” Isa says. “Let’s just say what we’re wondering. If the other person doesn’t want to answer, they don’t have to. Cool?”
“Okay,” I say. “If you’re not a girl, why are you wearing a skirt?”
“I know some people get annoyed by this, but I’m going to answer your question with another question.” Isa leans forward and wets more tissues. “What makes a skirt a ‘girl thing’?”
“I don’t know.” Now that I stop to think about it, I honestly don’t.
“So, to me, it’s just another label—and not even a good one. No one complains when a Scottish guy wears a kilt, right? Because it’s a Scottish thing. And when someone like Laurel wears a skirt, it’s a girl thing.
“When I wear one?” Isa dabs the tissues against my other cheek. “It’s an Isa thing.”
That makes sense. But it leaves me with even more questions.
“Back on our first day, you said something during introductions.” I search my memory. “About how there’s no reason people can’t use more than one set of pronouns?”
“Right. Some people do. There’s a kid who uses both he and they in my therapy group.”
A spark in my chest. It’s hope. Maybe recognition.
“But how does that work? Does that mean they’re a boy or nonbinary?”
“It means whatever they want it to mean.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” I shake my head, and the tissue tumbles out of Isa’s hand.
We reach for it at the same time and nearly bump heads. They grab it first, then toss it into the garbage.
As Isa starts on a new set of tissues, we both go quiet. My head swirls with things I thought I knew, facts that should’ve been irrefutable. Now it doesn’t feel like I know anything for sure.
“Categories help me understand things. I make lists so everything has a place.”
More silence. More dabbing.
“But I can also see why they’re bad.”
“Not bad,” Isa says. “Sometimes they just don’t tell the whole story.”
I think of the game Laurel and I play, creating lives for people based on how they look. Maybe we only ever skimmed the surface of each person but missed the bigger picture. Our assumptions could’ve been totally wrong.
“So you have these very specific categories,” Isa says. “How do I fit into them?”
“I had to make a new list,” I admit.
“Okay, I love that.” Isa’s grin lights up their whole face. “And honestly, labels are cool, but sometimes people need more than one to describe themselves. Sometimes pronouns change because someone’s still trying to figure things out, you know? It’s all good. Okay, done!”
They step away from me. My reflection stares back from the mirror, skin rubbed clean and pink, freckles visible again. My hair is still straight, but a shower will fix that.
“Thank you.” I swallow a yawn.
“No big.” Isa clicks off the bathroom light. “I’m glad you look like you again, mostly.”
“Me too.”
I follow Isa to their door.
“Buenas noches, Ellen,” they whisper. “Sleep well.”
I pad across the hallway.
“Buenas noches,” I whisper back.
It will be a good night now, thanks to them.