“How many more tables do you need?” an older man in a blue Community Center polo shirt asks. The Winter Banquet is being hosted in one of their meeting rooms.
Bowie rubs their head, looking over their clipboard and tapping their foot. Cheyenne was supposed to be here to deal with decor, but they texted they were going to be late, so Bowie had to take over, in addition to managing the setup and caterers.
“Five more rounds, two more eight-footers. Oh, and two more carts of chairs. No, three.”
The man nods and disappears into the back hallway. Bowie takes a deep breath.
“Hey,” I tell them. “You got this.”
“Thanks, Jacks. It’s just, I really want tonight to go well.”
“Why don’t you leave the tables for me? You go talk to the event manager.”
“All right.”
I grab my tape measure out of my backpack and start checking placement, because you never know when the Toxic Safety Fandom fire marshal might show up to rain on everyone’s parade.
Cheyenne finally arrives, blown in on the winter wind. They’re my height, but wearing chunky boots that give them a couple inches over me, and they’ve got long, luxurious blond hair. If I had hair like that I would be sweeping it around dramatically every chance I got.
“Sorry I’m late,” they say breathlessly. “Had to something-something.”
They hold up a plastic bag with a Trans Pride flag sticking out of the top.
Even though the night’s theme is Starry Night—like the Van Gogh painting, not like creepy looming cardboard cutouts of celebrities—one wall is supposed to be covered with as many Pride flags as can fit.
“Can you somethingsomethingsomething?” they ask, looking around the room wildly and talking faster than I can make out.
“I have no idea what you just said,” I tell them. “Say again?”
“Sorry.” They flip their hair over their shoulder and start talking super slowly, which honestly makes it worse. “Where’s Bowie? Did somethingsomething?”
“Bowie’s trying to find the event manager.”
They keep looking at me expectantly.
“And Braden?” they finally ask.
“He’s with the caterers.”
Cheyenne rolls their eyes. “No. Did. Bowie. Talk. To. Him?”
I fight the blush coming on. Cheyenne’s the worst.
“About what?” I ask.
“Never mind.” They spin around, their hair slapping me in the face, leaving their bag of flags on the table next to me.
Yet another reason to avoid the GSA like the plague glitter.
Might as well hang the flags, though.
As I stand on my toes trying to get the ace flag into place, a hand takes the corner and gets it in exactly the right spot. I get a familiar whiff of chlorine and smile as I rip off a piece of gaff tape.
“Hey. You’re early.”
Liam tucks in my tag. “Figured you and Bowie could use a little help.” He frowns for a moment. “Does Bowie know about . . .”
“About us?” I nod. “They kind of figured it out from me being happy.”
Liam’s smile is so big, I want to kiss it off his face, but not here, surrounded by GSA members. Still, he seems to know what I’m thinking, because he licks his lips.
“Liam, bro!” Braden says, swooping in and grabbing the bisexual flag. “You here to help out?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, bro. You too, Jackson.” He briefly wraps the flag around himself like a superhero cape. “You seen Cheyenne?”
“They went looking for you. Or Bowie. I couldn’t tell.”
He gives me a gap-toothed smile. “Honestly, sometimes neither can I.”
He doffs the cape and hands it to me. “Anyway. Thanks again, bros.”
“Sure.”
And then he swoops away again.
Liam stares at me for a second before we both start laughing.
Somehow, in a twist of fate that would make great comedy and even better tragedy, Liam, Bowie, and I end up stuck at the same table as Cam and Philip. They’re both dressed smartly, in matching shirts and vests, but they look more like waiters at a fancy restaurant than boyfriends.
Liam, on the other hand, is wearing handsome gray slacks and a black shirt that hugs his shoulders just right; and Bowie is a vision in their maroon three-piece suit-gown. They far outshine me, in brown slacks and a white shirt and a green bow tie I borrowed from Dad. I don’t know why he owns bow ties; I’ve never seen him wear one, and he didn’t actually know how to tie it, so I had to look up a video.
The room is packed and loud and there’s music blaring, so I spend the meal with my hearing aids off, talking with Bowie and Liam in sign, while Cam and Philip alternate between staring at us, kissing, and picking at their (onion-free) meals.
After dinner, the DJ cranks up the speakers so loud I feel it in my chest.
Liam asks me to dance, and Cam, being physiologically incapable of letting anyone get more attention than him, grabs Philip and joins us on the floor. They take a spot next to us, dancing way too close for a school function.
Liam does a little shimmy, twirls me by the hand as Lil Nas X resonates in my rib cage. He’s got decent moves.
But I’ve been to about a hundred Iranian weddings. So I swivel my feet, pivot my hips, roll my shoulders, show off my moves. Liam’s face lights up like a followspot. He laughs, and tries to match me, doing his best to keep up, as more people crowd around us.
I catch a glimpse of Cam, whose mouth is hanging open. I guess he never knew I could dance. And I don’t like the way he’s eyeing me and Liam. If Cam suspects something, he might tell the whole department, and if the whole department knows, it won’t be long before Jasmine hears.
So I give myself a bit more space—a just friends amount of space—and when Bowie finally joins us on the dance floor, we form a little triangle, jumping and laughing and dancing.
I’m still never joining the GSA. But this? This isn’t so bad.