Acknowledgments

Thanks to my agent, Danielle Bukowski—you’re still the only person I’ve ever trusted with a first draft. Thanks to my editor, Mo Crist, for understanding exactly what this book was trying to be. Thanks to everyone else at Norton: Gabrielle Nugent, Meredith Dowling, Sarahmay Wilkinson, Rebecca Munro, Janet McDonald. Thanks to Greg Ariail—god only knows how much of my work you’ve read over the years. To Emet North, thank you for always letting me be insane at you. To Charlie Sorrenson for all the hours of conversation. To Julie Krzanowski for a million texts about gender and Chilean literature. To all the trans and queer friends in Texas: my life here would have been empty without you. Thanks to Rox Sayde, Paul Van Koughnett, Hally Waters, Tez Figueroa, Fern Stevens, and the rest of the Gay Oedipus Players. To Sunshine Kreidner and Alec Bersoux and all the other Anti-Binary Homies—all the parties in this book belong to you. To Jess Gritton and the rest of the Sunday kolaches crew. Thanks to Ginger Bloomer and Gary Poole. To Rose McMackin, with “well, actually’s” and land art. To Annar Verold and Claire Bowman and Stephen Krause and everyone else who worked at Malvern Books. Thanks to my teachers: Patricia Worsham, Matthew Schultz, David Means, Hua Hsu, Michael Martone, Kellie Wells. To everyone who has ever worked at Alienated Majesty, First Light Books, BookWoman, Ernest & Hadley, Brookline Booksmith, Harvard Bookstore, Porter Square Books, and Givens Books. Thanks to Cady Vishniac, the first stranger to ever believe in my work. Thank you to my cousins and brother and aunts and uncles. To David Steenberg, the least repressed member of the family. To my parents, who read to me every night growing up (not just the boring parts of Moby-Dick). Thank you to Erin Leahy for understanding, friendship, and dragging me to Boston in the first place. Thank you to Erik Baker, who taught me more or less everything I know about Alfred Hitchcock. To Kevin Norwood and to Rae Beaudoin, my first and best Texas friend. To Justin Saret, I’m still very sorry about the unicorn birthday party. To Andy Cawley, who’s been there since I was a dirtbag teen. To Simone Scott, who’s been there even longer. To my cat, Jojo, who is biting my leg as I type this. And thanks and love to Gabi—I wrote the last forty pages of this book to distract myself from my insane crush on you. Look at us now.