“But what about Lindsay?”
“What about her?” he asks, stretching out his long legs in front of us. I lean over and check his watch, noticing the period is almost over.
“You like Zaq and Lindsay?”
“You’ve never liked more than one person at once?” he rebuts, already knowing the answer.
“Touché,” I groan, flopping back against the wall.
“I probably should’ve formally introduced myself as biromantically asexual, but I’m still figuring out the biromantic part,” he confesses, and I feel a surge of companionship flicker in my chest where the angry fire previously burned.
“I feel like I’m still figuring out all my parts,” I admit quietly.
The bell rings, ending first period. We stand; my legs are stiff. I look up from adjusting my dress to see him staring down at me.
“Is this the part where you tell me it gets better?”
“This is the part where I tell you that you already know it will.” His tone is solemn, but not pitying.
I roll my eyes.
“I’m serious,” he says. “I know what you’re going through.”
“I’m not going through anything.”
Wesley frowns. “Come to the art studio at lunch if you want to keep avoiding Talia,” he says, surprisingly changing the subject. “I know Zaq already agreed to show Agatha some vintage plus-size fashion magazines he brought today, and Talia rarely comes into the studio unless Zaq and I are both working.”
I nod, grateful. I doubt he’d be working today if it wasn’t clear I needed an escape. Before he can turn away and head to his next class though, I have to ask.
“Your parents, are they cool about you being biromantic and asexual?”
He smiles, that proud beam returning to his face. It hurts, and for a second I get what he meant about struggling to be around Talia’s and Zaq’s openness. “Mom’s got an ace pride flag on her office wall, and my dad has bought me at least ten graphic T-shirts with asexual puns on them. They just placed orders for some bi stuff after I talked to them about my questioning.”
I try to imagine Mom with a pride flag and Dad gifting me punny shirts. But I don’t know what flag would represent me, if I even deserve any of them. I can’t imagine what I don’t know, and maybe that’s been the real problem, for all of us, this whole time.
EIGHTEEN
Even when I took a drawing elective freshman year, I never spent much time in the art studio. I stubbornly didn’t see the point in spending more time than necessary in a place dedicated to an activity I lacked any and all skill in. But after narrowly missing Agatha and Linds at our lockers, I headed straight for the studio to meet Wesley for lunch.
“What’re you working on?” I ask as I sit on the stool beside him, pretending like I don’t feel a little weird being in here.
He slides the paper on his desk toward me hesitantly, staring at my face as I take in his gorgeous drawing.
It’s a collection of doodles, all depicting different scenes of him and Lindsay, eating next to each other at the lunch bench, laughing in his car, playing video games, and even leaning into each other while stargazing. The entire thing is drawn in black and white, leaving Lindsay’s vibrant orange hair the only color on the page. From what I’ve seen, it’s different than his other work, but just as incredible.
“It’s beautiful, Wes,” I sigh. The drawing isn’t for me, but I feel flattered on Lindsay’s behalf.
His cheeks burn red as he slides the drawing into a black folder and sticks it in his backpack. “I was going to show it to her on Thursday if she still hasn’t said anything to Sammie or me about prom.”
“Look at you taking a stand to get the girl.”
He shrugs, lowering his head, but looks pleased. “I’m surprised you aren’t discouraging me. Considering Sammie is your best friend.”
“True,” I concede, pulling out my bag of cheese crackers. Not talking to Mom means packing my own subpar lunch. “But I’m tired of all the prom date drama.”
“Really?” He pulls out a tiny bottle of yogurt. “But you and Agatha love this stuff.”
“Loved,” I correct, stuffing a handful of crackers in my mouth and trying to talk around the crumbs. I can’t believe our bet was only a few weeks ago. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then. “Like seriously, it’s just a dance. Who even cares?”
“Uh, you do.”
“Not anymore,” I say. “I haven’t even started making the corsages or boutonnieres; I don’t know how I’m doing my hair; I haven’t planned my makeup or picked what sandals I’m wearing. We never looked into renting a limo or booking a hotel for a mini after-party. It’s like none of it even matters anymore.”
“So you’ve just … given up on prom?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Then why did it hurt so much to know Talia was going with Zaq and not you?” He finishes off the last of his yogurt but pulls out another before I can even blink.
“I just wish she would’ve told me,” I insist, then crush a mouthful of crackers between my teeth hard enough to earn a nasty glare from the girl drawing a few stations away.
“And if she would’ve told you she was dating Zaq beforehand, you wouldn’t have yelled at her and cried to me?” He cocks his eyebrow.
“I don’t like your drawing anymore.”
“You’re only proving my point,” he laughs.
“So what if I got upset about it? That’s not who I am.” I toss the remaining crackers back into my backpack. My appetite has vanished.
“If you mean someone who gets upset over your expectations letting you down, I feel like that’s exactly who you are.” He pauses, fiddling with the remaining foil on the rim of his yogurt bottle. “If you mean queer, then…”
My stomach drops. “What did you just say?”
“Queer,” he repeats. “As in not-straight. Not ‘the default,’ whatever the heck that means.”
“Isn’t that word … controversial?” I ask, my mind flashing to Jeremiah, my hand instinctively fidgeting for a drink.
“For some,” he says, and to his merit, he doesn’t react to my disgusted expression. “But for others, it’s reclaimed. Not everyone likes it, and that’s totally their right, but it makes me feel good. Talia and Zaq use it too, even if it isn’t the main word any of us identify with.”
“Oh.” It’s weird to see the word in two different lights—insult and comfort.
I turn away from Wesley, letting my eyes scan the artwork plastered around the studio. Half the space is filled by high desks like the one we’re sitting at, two stools per station, while the remaining area is split into desktops and empty easels. Up against the back wall, above the computers, my eyes are drawn to a large surrealist painting of a girl, her face comprised of triangles painted various shades of brown. The big Z in the corner confirms for me who painted it. I look for Wesley’s work, but it’s hard to tell what’s his, given his diverse style.
“Okay.” Wesley stands and claps. “What classes do you have for the rest of the day?”