Cole
Even though it was late September, summer still clung on with fierce intensity. The air was thick with humidity, leaving everything with a moist texture reminiscent of my childhood summers. The smell of this time of year was often enough to transport me back to that last summer riding in the truck with Lucas. I remembered hiking at Tallulah Gorge, and a weeklong road trip to Panama City, nights partying with his friends and avoiding Big Bill.
All of it represented a life I had always intended to leave behind. The one thing I never expected was to find myself living again in the rural South.
Everything was strangely normal when I got to the restaurant at six o’clock the next morning. Same routine as always. Check the parking lot. Go inside; check the condition of the bathrooms; walk through and look at the floors, the grills, the waffle irons; check temperatures for the hot and cold stored foods.
As I made my way along the area behind the back counter, I realized that things weren’t normal at all. The grill filters were gleaming, as were the backs of the egg pans which had been scrubbed to a mirror shine. The floor deep under the dish pit, and even the pipes, had been scrubbed clean. Someone had to have been down on their hands and knees under there. The windows were clean, everything was put away properly. Even the waffle irons, which were a bitch to clean because they maintained a constant temperature of four hundred degrees, had been thoroughly cleaned.
There were no customers in the restaurant yet, and my third shift, Linda and Dakota, were lounging at the counter as they often were when I came in. Dakota was going through her tickets for the night. I looked over at them, then back at the gleaming clean kitchen, then back at them. “Did you guys do this?”
Linda said in a slow drawl, “Second shift did a little too.”
I could imagine. Keeping a twenty-four hour a day, seven days a week restaurant clean was a constant battle. Motivating my employees to become engaged in keeping it that way? Insurmountable. I was stunned by what I was seeing.
“It looks great. Good job, guys.”
I turned to head to the back room and unlock my office, when Linda called my name. “Cole?”
I turned around.
“We heard you got in trouble for kicking those guys out.”
I shrugged. “It’s no big deal,” I said.
“Is to me,” Dakota said. She didn’t really look at me when she said it.
I gave them a half smile, but there was little else to say. So I turned and walked into the back room.
They’d been at work back here too. The shelf area where the hourly employees kept their coats and bags and purses had been decluttered and organized, and the floor had been detail-cleaned right down to the grout in the corners. I didn’t understand it. I’d had this restaurant for almost three months and had struggled against a long-term trend here of neglect. My predecessor hadn’t been that interested in keeping the place clean, which was one of the reasons why our business was so slow. Correcting that trend had been a goal which I hadn’t accomplished yet, one of my biggest frustrations about this job. I couldn’t understand what had prompted the sudden change. Had Brian offered them all bonuses or something?
I was unlikely to answer that right now. I unlocked the office and began preparing for shift change. I scanned through the notes left behind by Bryan’s manager-trainee, who closed out yesterday’s first shift, then started counting the drawers.
As I was doing that, the swinging door to the back room opened and Julie entered. She was wearing a sweatshirt and carrying her uniform shirt as she walked by, saying, “Morning, Cole.”
“Morning,” I said without pausing what I was doing. As I finished my count and began entering the numbers into the computer, out of the corner of my eye I caught Julie peeling her sweatshirt off.
What the hell is she doing? She had her back to me, revealing a well-muscled lean body. She wore a nude strapless bra. Christ. I diverted my eyes, back to the computer and my work. But the whole time, my mind was running in circles. Was she being intentionally provocative? What was she trying to do?
I could still partially see her reflected in the glass one-way mirror between my office and the rest of the restaurant. She was getting her uniform shirt on.
I tried to formulate a rebuke. But I had no idea what to say. I finally decided to let it go then picked up my phone to call Brian and report my numbers for the day. The conversation was short and awkward. Brian didn’t mention our argument from yesterday. I wasn’t foolish enough, however, to think that he would let it go. I would hear more about it.
When I was finished with that, it was time to head up front. But Julie appeared at the door of my office.
“Hey, Cole. Are you doing okay? After, you know … yesterday?”
As she asked her question, she leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed under her breasts. The effect pulled at my eyes and was obviously intentional. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
I stood up from the stool at my desk, with the intention of her getting out of the way so I could go out front. Instead she stayed, blocking the door, which had the effect of putting us two inches away from each other.
She spoke in a breathy voice that disturbingly reminded me of Teagan. “You know, while your wife is out of town, if you need a home-cooked meal or anything…” Her voice trailed off suggestively.
Shit.
Crazy. I remembered the crazy emotional high when Teagan first approached me, when we first had dinner on a business trip, when I kissed her for the first time. I remembered how alive I felt, how fucking amazing it was.
I remembered how stupid and entitled I was, how much I hurt my family, and it was like someone had dumped a bucket of ice on me.
I didn’t want a young pretty waitress. I wanted Erin. I wanted my family.
I pushed past her. “No, thanks, Julie.”
Sam
My text message was simple. Dad, can I take Mom’s van?
I sent it about eight a.m., but I knew he’d be busy, so I logged into Second Life while I waited. The sim was usually quiet this time of day, and that morning was no exception. For the past few nights, I hadn’t played much, just a couple of hours a night. Gunstock was usually on when I was, and we’d been spending more and more time together. I’d kind of hoped he would be now, but no luck. Maybe tonight.
It was weird. Neither of us knew who the other was in real life. And he could never know. But in the confines of our little world, I was … falling for him?
No. Not really. This was all fake. But our characters? That’s what they were doing. And sometimes it felt almost real.
I wandered around aimlessly online for a while. There were only a couple of people in Erie, and they were players I never actually interacted with. I wasn’t in the mood. I felt strangely restless, and very, very nervous.
I was planning to talk with Mrs. Mullins today. About Hayley.
I didn’t hear from Hayley at all last night. Which was unusual … unusual enough that it made my stomach knot up in fear. I tried to tell myself to not be paranoid, but I hadn’t heard from her this morning either.
At eight thirty, Dad texted me back: What for?
Great. He wanted to ask questions. I responded: I want to go buy some drugs and bring girls back to the house.
I could imagine his expression. There was brief pause, then he responded: All right. Be careful. Don’t scratch up your mother’s van.
I laughed. LOL. Thanks.
I quickly sobered up though. I dialed the school and asked to speak with Mrs. Mullins. After a few moments, she came on the line.
“Mrs. Mullins, am I allowed at school to meet with you?”
“Officially, no. But what’s this about?”
I took a deep breath. Then I said, “I need to talk to you about something really, really important. And it needs to be in person.”
She didn’t respond right away. But after a few minutes, she said, “This had better be really important, Sam. I’ll meet you at the Starbucks in fifteen minutes. Will that work?”
Fifteen minutes? I could make it, barely, if I skipped my shower and just got dressed and went. I scrambled, throwing on whatever clothes were handy, then had a panicky moment when I couldn’t find Mom’s keys. That’s because they were hanging on the hook where they were supposed to be.
I drove carefully. I’d only had a driver’s license for a few months and hadn’t had much practice driving lately. But since Mom was gone, I decided to ask Dad if I could use the van to go to school. It would be nice to stay clear of the school bus for a while.
I made it in exactly fifteen minutes. I looked around: she wasn’t there yet. So I took a seat and waited. I didn’t have to wait long—she strolled in just a couple of minutes later.
“I’m getting a coffee. Would you like something, Sam?”
“I —”
“Don’t worry, I’m buying.”
“Coffee, then. Thank you.”
After she ordered and got our drinks, I poured a lot of cream and sugar in then sat down at the table facing her.
“All right, Sam. So … what’s the mystery?”
I took a deep breath. I still had incredibly mixed feelings. What if I was wrong? What if this was only going to cause trouble for Hayley? What if she decided we couldn’t be friends anymore?
“Sam…” she said.
“It’s Hayley,” I blurted. “I’m worried about her.” I closed my eyes. I felt like I was betraying Hayley. But I continued. “Her father is the one who gave her the bruises. And when she was late yesterday, my Dad and I dropped her off—I was worried. Her father was real mad.”
She nodded. “I see.” Her tone was grave. “How many times do you know of that he’s hurt her?”
“I’m not sure. Sometimes she has bruises on her arm, like he twists it. And sometimes she … she winces when she moves. Like somebody hit her, but I couldn’t see the bruise.”
Mrs. Mullins nodded. She leaned close to me and said, “Sam, thank you for coming to me. I’m going to tell you something in confidence now. I shouldn’t, but I think you need to know.”
I tilted my head, afraid to ask what she was talking about.
“This morning Hayley came to school with a black eye. Mr. Flowers and I had already discussed it, and this was the last straw, so to speak. I called Child Protective Services this morning.”
I gasped. “Oh my God. Wh-what … what happens now?”
“Well, a caseworker is meeting with her at the school right now. They’ll be calling her father soon. It’s really up to the county now.”
“God,” I said. “Was she badly hurt?”
Mrs. Mullins sighed. “It’s hard to say, Sam. But the bruise on her face was bad. Almost like yours. But … a little worse.”
I shuddered. Billy had punched me in the face more than once. My face still hurt, and the bruises hadn’t even begun to fade. The thought of somebody hitting Hayley like that made me want to scream. My feelings about her confused me. They really confused me. I loved her like I’d loved Brenna—I trusted her and looked up to her and cared about her. But there was more, a pink feeling of unexplainable warmth and fear at the same time. She was so pretty. I wanted to be with her, and not just as a friend.
It was confusing, because whenever I thought of romantic things, I’d always thought of boys. I used to fantasize about going to my prom. Of being recognized by everybody else as a woman, just as sure as I knew I was one. This made me—what? Gay? Was I a lesbian? I didn’t know what I was. All I knew was that aside from my sister, Hayley was the best friend I’d ever had. I … I loved her.
“Where did you go?” Mrs. Mullins brought me right back to reality with her question.
“I worry about her.”
Mrs. Mullins nodded. Her face looked serious. “I do too, Sam. Domestic violence is nothing to take lightly.”
I opened my mouth to ask another question and froze. I couldn’t. I couldn’t. But I was tired of being so incredibly alone. I was tired of no one knowing anything about me. I was tired of having no one to talk to. I took a deep breath and froze again.
“What is it?”
“A … friend of mine. From Virginia. He told me that he was a girl. Like … inside. What would you do if a friend told you that?”
Mrs. Mullins looked at me over her glasses for just a moment. Then, quietly, she said, “I suppose if a friend of mine told me that I’d have to give her a big hug. Our society is tough on people who are transgender. They probably need love more than just about anyone else.”
Hearing that made me want to cry inside. But I kept as firm a grip on my face as I could as I said, “Isn’t that against your religion?”
She frowned. “You’d think that from all the yelling and screaming you hear about in the news, wouldn’t you?” She pointed a finger at herself. “The Jesus I follow told his disciples that whatever they did to the poor and oppressed … what he called the least of these … that they did that to Him. I think what he meant by that was that if you were mean to people, or treated them like there was something wrong with them, or especially if you harmed them in their spirits, then it would be as if you were doing that very same wrong thing to God. Jesus told me to love everybody, even my enemies. And that’s what I’m gonna do, no matter what a bunch of TV preachers say.”
I tried to hide it. I tried to stay stone-faced, emotionless. But I couldn’t help it. My eyes watered and tears poured down my face. I was stricken and grabbed at a pile of napkins on the next table, trying to wipe my face.
Mrs. Mullins said in a very quiet voice, “Sam … you’re not talking about a friend, are you?”
I couldn’t speak. I shook my head.
“It’s you?”
A sharp, stabbing anxiety came and then passed. And then I nodded.
She turned slightly in her chair. “Well, it sounds like you need a hug, baby. Come over here.”
She held out her arms and I fell apart. Because I’d finally told somebody. And it was okay.
Cole
It was a little bit after noon, and I was standing at the grill, completely in the weeds. I had fourteen plates lined up with orders, both grills were covered, and there were people sitting in the waiting area waiting for booths.
Julie called out an order with three different plates then started to run off before I had a chance to even begin marking the order down. She’d been doing that all morning and it was pissing me off.
In a sharp tone, I said, “Julie! Stay until I call the order back!”
She muttered something, I don’t know what. A moment later the other two waitresses both called out, “Good morning!”
I echoed the call without looking around. Their greeting meant someone had entered the restaurant. I just kept doing what I was doing. It had taken me several months, but I was finally getting some kind of a rhythm down. I wasn’t good at it, but I was slightly better than I had been. I’d have done a lot to be able to have a backup cook at times like this. But staffing levels were determined by corporate, and my store didn’t have enough sales to allow me a second cook. And if I kept getting this backed up, then turning out food that wasn’t great because I was too rushed, we never would get those kind of sales.
Wanda, my most experienced waitress, came over to me. She stood next to me at the grill and said quietly, “That’s the health inspector.”
Son of a bitch! “Now?”
The question was nonsense of course, just my own sense of sudden helplessness. We weren’t even due for inspection for two more months, though I’d been working to prepare my crew for when it happened. This would be my first since taking over the restaurant, and I was fairly confident we would do well. I glanced over my shoulder for just a second, and saw a sour-faced man standing next to one of the booths holding a clipboard and talking with the customers in that booth. That didn’t look so bad.
I kept track with occasional looks as the inspector worked his way through the front of the restaurant. He looked under the booths, went back into the bathrooms, then returned. He stood there watching for what seemed like an hour but was probably more like ten minutes, occasionally making notations on his clipboard.
Wanda escorted the health inspector to the grill, and I said to him, “I’m almost finished here and I’ll be right with you, sir.”
He replied in a thick Alabama accent I could barely understand. “That’s all right, son, I can examine some of the equipment and food back here. You keep on doing what you’re doing.”
I didn’t have much choice. As I finished the last orders, I watched him run a thermometer through the dishwasher to check the operating temperature, then he checked the temperatures in the sandwich board beside the grill where all of the cold toppings and meats were stored.
I felt my stress double as he frowned, shook his thermometer, and then muttered, “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
It couldn’t be that far off … I checked the temperature not long before the rush and it was well below forty degrees. A few more minutes, and I’d be finished.
Only Julie called another order in, and then Wanda did, and I was still stuck on the grill. I was starting to feel desperate.
Just as I was getting the next meal on the plate, the inspector approached and said, “I’d like to see your food storage in the back.”
There were only a couple of orders left. I called over Wanda. “Can you take over on these last couple of orders?”
“Sure thing, boss,” she said. I pointed out what I was cooking, and she said, “I got it.” She reached for the spatula, and I said, “Wanda. Hands. Wash. Please.”
She flushed red. “Yes, sir.”
Once she was done and back at the grill, I turned and faced the inspector. He still had a very sour expression on his face. I was increasingly nervous.
“This way,” I said.
“So you’re the new manager here,” he said.
“Yes, sir, since the beginning of summer.”
He grunted in a way that made me more nervous than ever. I led him to the back and unlocked the stockroom.
He pointed at the boxes of freeze-dried hash browns stacked next to the shelves. “Those need to be six inches off the floor,” he said.
Crap.
He opened the walk-in refrigerator and walked in, stabbing his thermometer into a shrink-wrapped steak that was on top of a stack. I watched as the thermometer dropped down to thirty degrees. He shook his head and said, “Too warm.”
What? “The required temperature is forty-one or below, right?”
“That’s right. You were forty-five. You need to get this equipment looked at.”
Motherfucker. This was a setup. This guy was either friends with Mayor Prichard or owed him something. I didn’t know which.
“Can you double-check?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I already double-checked. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go write this up.”
He marched back to the front of the restaurant. Holy crap. I needed to be calling Brian right now—that was SOP when the health inspector showed up, to let higher level management know. I looked at my cell phone for a moment, sighed, then dialed.
He answered on the second ring.
“Health inspector is here,” I said.
Brian immediately asked, “Is it a young woman? Thirty-ish? Or an old guy?”
“Old guy,” I said.
“Son of a bitch! I’m in Alexandria, I can’t get there any time soon. Call me when you get the score.”
“Will do.” I hung up, walked back to the front of the restaurant, and washed my hands.
The inspector approached me, tearing off one copy of the inspection.
My eyes immediately landed on the large letter F in the upper right corner. My mouth dropped open.
“Here’s your copy, son. You’ve got some serious issues here. You’ve got fourteen days to correct them, or we’ll close this restaurant down. Understand? In the meantime, you post this where it’s visible.”
“No way,” I muttered.
“Excuse me?” he said, sounding offended.
I scanned down the checklist.
Filth and garbage under the cookline.
Ready-to-eat food incorrect temperature.
Uncooked food incorrect temperature.
Incorrect hand washing.
It went on and on.
“You’re friends with the mayor, huh?” I was on the verge of losing my temper, and I couldn’t do that.
He sneered. “Who I’m friends with, and who I ain’t, ain’t none of yer business, son. You just get your restaurant up to snuff.”
He turned and walked away as I stood there, openmouthed. I couldn’t get my mind around what had just happened. I looked at the inspection report again. The score was a forty-three. That was impossible. Nobody got a forty-three on a health inspection, even the dirtiest of restaurants. Which this wasn’t. This was nothing but retribution.
The more I thought about it, the more I felt the rage threatening to bubble over. They weren’t just threatening me. They were threatening my family, my livelihood. I was shaken far beyond my expectations.
“Boss, you okay?” Wanda stood there looking deeply concerned.
“Yeah,” I said. I looked around. The lunch rush was over, and the restaurant had mostly emptied out except for the old guys who sat at the counter. They looked pleased with the turn of events … a little bit of drama to liven up their day, I guess. I needed to clean up from the lunch rush and I had a lot to do. But first I needed to make the phone call.
Performance on health inspections was a basic requirement of my job. The company had 1,400 restaurants spread across the Southern states, and when a restaurant failed health inspection everyone in the company heard about it. It had only happened once since I’d started, about three weeks into my training. One of the restaurants in Mississippi had gotten a sixty-nine.
The manager of that restaurant had been yanked from his position and put back as a manager trainee.
I dreaded making the phone call. “I gotta call Brian,” I told Wanda. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I walked right past my office and out the back door of the restaurant, dialing Brian’s number as I walked. He answered on the second ring and said, “How did it go?”
“Brian, this was set up.” I hated that my voice shook as I spoke.
“I know that. Your inspector—Nick Corcoran is his name—he and Mayor Prichard are poker buddies. How bad was it?”
“We got a forty-three, Brian. It was utter bullshit. He failed us on equipment that was working perfectly. I saw the temperatures. I can’t believe—”
Brian’s voice went dangerously quiet when he interrupted me. “Did you just say a forty-three?”
I was out of words and explanations. “Yes.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.” He hung up the phone without waiting for a response. I felt shell-shocked. I stumbled back into the restaurant and began cleaning up from the lunch rush, trying not to think about the possibility that I might lose my job by the end of the day.
Sam
I was starting to panic.
I had tried to reach Hayley all morning long, via text message, Instagram, Snapchat. She didn’t respond anywhere. It wasn’t like her, and I was worried that wherever she was, she didn’t have her phone, or something even worse.
I wanted to do something. I thought I could get in the car and go search for her or stop by her house, but I knew she wasn’t at home anymore. Where was she?
I sent her one last message on Snapchat. It was a picture of the two of us laughing together that she had taken two weeks ago. For the caption I wrote, “Worried about you.”
It was about one in the afternoon when Dad called. “Listen, Sam, my bosses are calling a meeting for four o’clock this afternoon. I don’t know when I’ll be home, but it’s likely to be after six. If you want to order a pizza, or go out and get something, there’s a twenty on my bedside stand.”
I knew about the twenty. Occasionally he had to work late—sometimes very late—and when it happened it was usually without warning. Since Mom left, he had left the money there for me in case he wasn’t home, cautioning me not to use it unless he gave permission.
He sounded really bummed out. “Is everything okay?”
There was a long pause, as if he were trying to decide how to answer. Finally he said, “It’s been a really rough day here.”
Man. Sometimes Dad seemed really remote—his dispirited tone worried me. I thought for a second about driving up there and keeping him company while he did his afternoon stuff, but I rethought that. If his bosses were coming, and he was in trouble yesterday, he wouldn’t thank me for being there.
I didn’t know how to approach this. If it were Hayley, I’d tell her I wish she felt better, or that things were going better for her, or I would give her a hug. It felt like a tectonic shift, as if the very structure of my relationship with my dad had suddenly morphed. I finally said, “I hope things go better for you, Dad. I’ll save you some pizza, and I’ll straighten up the kitchen so you won’t have to mess with it when you get home.”
Dad responded in a warm tone. “Thanks, Sam.”
That meant I had four or five hours to kill. I thought about my box with the too–small dress that Brenna had bought me. I really needed to replace it. For half a second I had the crazy thought of going to Target with the money and buying something new. But I couldn’t do that. There wouldn’t be any pizza at home when Dad got home and that would be impossible to explain.
The money was in Mom and Dad’s room … and there was a closet full of Mom’s clothes.
The thought was stunning. Mom wouldn’t be home for days, possibly weeks. I felt emboldened. Somehow the tears I cried with Mrs. Mullins that morning left me feeling both raw but also courageous. I couldn’t believe I had actually told someone … and that they had accepted me.
I got up, shaking. As I walked toward my parents’ room, I thought about it only being two years before I’d be eighteen. Maybe I could get a job now and use that to pay for the hormones.
How could I ever pay to actually transition? Dad’s health insurance certainly wouldn’t cover it, and I’d read that the procedures could cost tens of thousands of dollars. For a second, despair threatened to well over, but I pushed it away. I opened the door to Mom and Dad’s room, and slid open her closet.
I sucked in a deep breath.
I reverently began to slide the hangers. Here was a pale blue sundress she wore in the summer. A formal evening gown that felt like silk, black with lace at the edges. There was a red sleeveless dress with a short skirt that I didn’t think I had ever seen her wear. Simple skirts and sweaters. I wanted to try all of them on.
Part of me wanted to start with the gown and the heels, to make myself beautiful. But not today … I wanted to be comfortable. I wanted to feel like I was home on a normal day, in normal clothes, for once being myself. I took down a short-sleeved baby blue button-down shirt and one of her ankle length skirts. I took the clothes out of the closet like they were spun of gold. I knew I was taking a terrible risk—if my dad came home right now, there’s no way he would ever understand.
At this point, I couldn’t be deterred.
I found a pair of her sandals, flats, that looked like they would fit. I didn’t know her shoe size, but my feet were small. I took the clothes back to my own room, undressed, unceremoniously dumping my own clothes to the floor. I began to dress.
The skirt fit okay, despite my lack of hips. The blouse fit, though it was a little tight across the shoulders. But it looked all wrong. I dug into my closet, pulling out the box where I had my own things hidden. I squeezed into the bra that Brenna had bought me, despite the fact that it was painfully tight. I stuffed the bra with socks, wishing with everything I had that I could one day get the hormone treatments that would make it real. With the shirt back on, I looked better.
I carefully brushed my hair, smoothing it out as much as I could. Then ever so carefully, I began to apply my makeup. I didn’t care about the risk anymore. I didn’t care how long it was going to take, or whether or not Dad came home. For once, just once, I wanted to feel like me. I wanted to feel like a real person, not some shell that satisfied everyone else’s expectations but my own.
Foundation and blush, eyeshadow and eyeliner and mascara. Brenna had taught me long ago that less was more when it came to makeup. And I had watched plenty of YouTube tutorials that made the same point.
Finally finished, I slid my feet into the gold strapped sandals and stood in front of the mirror mounted on my door.
Immediately I had to struggle to hold back tears, which would have laid waste to my mascara. But my breath caught as I looked.
What I saw in the mirror wasn’t a gangly, nerdy teenage boy. What I saw was what I had always wanted to see… a pretty, self-possessed girl. A beautiful girl.
I saw me.
Again, I had to fight back tears.
I wanted to see Brenna, and I wanted her to see me.
Maybe it was time to stop keeping secrets. Maybe I could tell Hayley. Or Dad or Mom. I was so sick and tired of pretending to be someone else.
I sat down at my desk, knowing that one of the few places I felt really comfortable as myself was online. I started Second Life and waited for my world to load up on my computer screen. My avatar appeared, and I thought maybe I should go shop and pick clothes similar to what I was actually wearing. As the sim finished loading, a note card popped up, labeled, “A note from Gunstock.”
I instantly double-clicked on it and began to read.
Dearest Tamara,
I hope I don’t have to tell you just how much I love the time we spend together. Last night was magical, and I hope you will give me the opportunity to take you out again sometime soon.
For a second I closed my eyes in happiness. It really had been wonderful. After Dad had gone to bed last night, I had signed on and immediately been greeted by Gunstock. The Twilight were hosting a rare sim-wide formal ball. To anyone watching, it probably would seem silly … seventy or more people spread across the globe manipulating electronic avatars who were dancing and talking with each other in an imaginary world. But it was real enough to me. These were people I spent a lot of time with, people I cared about. Of course none of them except Gemini knew about my real-life situation, but that was fine. They knew me as a woman. They knew me as I really was, not as the exterior shell I had to carry around and show to everyone else.
Gunstock and I had danced for a long time, as we chatted about everything under the sun. I had finally collapsed into bed at three a.m., glowing like a coal inside.
Gunstock’s note continued, I would like to propose that we have a date off-sim soon. I know a lovely place where we can dance and voice chat. I would very much like to do that with you. Faithfully yours, Gunstock Valor.
Voice chat. No. That couldn’t happen. Not now, not ever. Not just because I would sound weird. My voice wasn’t nearly as deep as most of the other boys in my class—thanks to the puberty-blocking hormones I had taken for a long time—but my voice would also attract attention from my father, late at night, something I didn’t need or want. Nothing could ever come of a relationship in real life anyway.
My thoughts were interrupted by the ping of an incoming chat. It was Gemini.
Gemini: Does Gunstock know that you are a boy? And that you aren’t even old enough to be playing in the sim?
I felt my chest spasm. I typed: What are you talking about?
Gemini: You gave me enough information to go on. I’m sorry about your sister. But you know that you have to be eighteen years old to play in Erie. You’re breaking the rules, and you’re lying to Gunstock.
The pain in my chest and throat was so bad, and I was so focused on it, that I didn’t even hear the noise at my window. Frantically, I typed: You don’t know what you’re talking about.
Gemini: Of course I do, Sam Roberts.
I couldn’t stop the tears that suddenly ran down my face. No no no no no no no no no. I typed: You can’t tell anyone. What did I ever do to you?
Gemini: You’re constantly getting into other people’s business, Sam. You think everything revolves around you. Everybody in the sim heard you and Gunstock last night at the ball. Why do guys pretend to be girls online? I don’t get it. But you’re not going to keep it up. I already sent notes to Gunstock and the GMs.
I gasped. I was panicking, but there was nothing I could do. If she was telling the truth, and she had notified the GMs, then I would be banned from Erie permanently.
I typed: Please don’t do this.
As I typed the words, I sobbed. And that was when the noise at the window finally caught my attention. I jerked around and gasped.
Billy Townsend was standing at the window. And he had his phone out. Oh my God. Had he taken a picture of me? He turned and ran.
I jumped to my feet and ran to the window. I didn’t know what I was going to say or do. In less than one minute everything that was left of my world had just blown up.
But it was too late. Billy was gone.