She smirked, but there was an edge to it.
Once upon a time Blythe had cheated on Armin with Ellis. Still a sore spot. But it had set off the chain reaction that brought us all together, our motley crew with its fetish for justice porn. We hurt those who hurt others. Trolled harder, hit back rougher. Made them regret every shitty little hateful moment of their shitty little hateful lives. Bad begot good, somehow. If you can call cold-blooded vengeance good.
For us, it’s not really about justice. There’s no justice in a world like this.
It’s about trolling the trolls.
I waded through the crowd, pausing when people recognized me and asked for a hug or pic. You’re Ren from YouTube, right? I love your vlog. You’re so hot/inspiring/brave. As if I were born there, online. Which I guess, in a way, I was. My boyhood was a thousand nights spent bathing in the blue glow of my laptop, watching other trans boys raise themselves into men. My stepfathers had names like Chase, Skylar, Ty. A hundred Aidens. (Seriously, what is with trans guys named Aiden?) We’re self-made men. We’re each other’s fathers, and our mother is the Internet.
As I moved through the wash of cool light and hot shadow, I instinctively scanned the male faces around me. My brain caught false flags—a certain angle of smirk, a boldly drawn brow—and I’d stare a man down, my heart thrashing.
It was never him. In five years it hadn’t been him.
But I’d never stop looking.
In the unisex bathroom Ellis stood gazing into the mirror, spooling a bang around one finger over and over till it snagged, and she jumped. Professor Carraway, a million light-years off in thought. She was the designated nerd of our little clique, always with a gadget or game controller in hand, more herself online than with real live people. We’d met in Gender in Modern Society freshman year of college. I sat beside her because she was cute. She explained with exquisite politeness that she liked girls. It was the first time I got rejected for being a boy, and it felt fucking awesome.
“How you holding up, old sport?” I said, smoothing my hair.
“Fine.”
“Crowd getting to you?”
“Not the crowd. Just certain people in it.”
Armin, obviously. “The Wolf’s calling a meeting tonight.”
Ellis stared into the mirror as if it led to Narnia.
“Space cadet.”
“Sorry. I’ll be there.”
I touched her shoulder. “Go call her.”
“I don’t—”
“You do. And Vada misses you, too. Promise.”
She gave me her bashful boy grin. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Know what I’m feeling before I do.”
I glanced at her phone on the counter. On it was a pic of Vada, her eyes smoky and sly.
“Oh,” Ellis said, blushing.
I clapped her shoulder and walked her out.
Vada was the one who’d put that ring on her finger. They lived on the East Coast, on the stone-strewn shore of Maine. Ellis was on temporary loan to us. To me, specifically. If anything happens to her, I will end you, Vada had said with a brightly murderous smile, and then punched my arm, printing a small purple flower there. She’d have been a perfect bruiser for our team.
Right. So now you’ve met us:
Me, the muscle.
Ellis, the tech genius.
Blythe, the charmer.
Armin, the profiler.
And Laney, our fearsome leader.
We are Black Iris.
———
Time to kill before midnight.
The ground level of Umbra, the Cathedral, looked like its namesake: a marble-tiled chamber lined with Gothic arches and stained glass, holy rays in shocking blue and hot pink oscillating over the crowd, their faces upturned, eyes closed in rapture. A Muse track played, the electric organ echoing up into the vaulted ceiling. I prowled toward the center of the dance floor.
I felt . . . hungry.
It wasn’t real hunger. A physical craving, definitely oral, but particular. I craved the salt of human skin. The hot copper rush from a kiss with teeth. I thought of the guy who’d grinded on me, but boys weren’t my thing. If only. At least we’re utilitarian in bed.
What I really wanted was wet cherry lips and soft hands and gasps in my ear as I held a girl against a wall.
Not like I lacked opportunity. My subscribers had a not-so-secret Fuck Pool whose members approached me saying, You’re my favorite vlogger, I’m your biggest fan, can I dance with you touch you kiss you, and I’d think, You want that guy on the screen, the guy who looks so hot in pixels, but IRL when our clothes come off your eyes will soften with pity, and so sometimes, too often, I was a preemptive asshole. Me, Mr. Feminist. The guy who swore he’d never get privilege amnesia, never forget how shitty it feels to be on the receiving end of misogyny. So I made a rule: Don’t fuck fans.
Worked pretty well, except for the fact that those fans, at least, totally accepted my trans status. Same couldn’t be said of the girls I met in the real world. Girls who didn’t know my history, my specialness.