I am not used to seeing Ryan like that.
He doesn’t spot me at first. I hang back, look instead at Katie and Violet. I have no idea what they said to each other, but the result is visible: They have found each other at last. And with every minute, they are finding each other more.
I told them they didn’t have to come with me, that they could abandon their third wheel and he would be fine.
“No way,” Katie said. “We’re a tricycle, and a tricycle goes nowhere without all three wheels.”
Now both of them are studying me, seeing me trying to avoid the fact that Ryan doesn’t look up the minute I walk into a room. Like there’s any reason he would, when he has Taylor right there.
“Go say hi,” Violet prods. “Stake your claim.”
But before I can do that, Quinn sashays over. He’s wearing a pink tuxedo with a pink carnation in the lapel.
Very subtle, I hear Ryan whisper in my head.
“Be still, my gay, gay heart,” Quinn purrs, “but it seems like the traffic’s gotten hella Sapphic. Katiegirl, have you brought the woman of your dreams to our shindig this evening?”
Katie blushes. And once she realizes she’s blushing, she blushes even more.
“Enchanté,” Violet says, offering her hand. Rather than shake it, Quinn lifts it to his lips.
“Enchanté!” he echoes.
I look back over at Ryan, and, yes, he’s watching us now. When he sees he’s caught my eye, he waves. Taylor notices the gesture, then looks over to me, too. He joins Ryan in waving.
“Go on,” Katie says.
It can’t be more than fifteen feet, but the time it takes for me to get to them is immeasurably awkward. And it’s even more awkward when I get there and Taylor stands up to greet me.
“At last!” he says as he wraps me in a hug. Then, when he pulls out of it, he adds, “I mean, usually I get to meet a guy before I see him in his skivvies, but I guess in your case, I’ll make an exception.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Ryan says, also standing, but not giving me a hug. He introduces me to Taylor’s friends, and I miss all of their names. They offer to make space for me at their table, but I indicate the lesbians I came in with and say I should probably sit with them.
“Good man,” Taylor says.
I am trying very hard not to hate you, but you’re not making it easy, I don’t say in response.
Quinn has made his way to the mic and is telling everyone the slam is about to begin.
“Anyone who wants to sign up should do so right away. We only have six poets on the list so far. Listen, people—don’t make me go to free swim, because you know this lifeguard will drag people into the water.”
“I dare you to put your name on there,” I say to Ryan.
He smirks. “Oh, Belated Barnaby, I already have.”
People are taking their seats. I see Lehna skulk in and sit at a table in the back with June and Uma. Violet tries to signal them to come over, but Lehna shakes her head.
I wish Ryan good luck, then walk back.
“How’d that go?” Katie asks when I sit down.
“What am I doing here?” I reply.
I am not a poet. I am a baseball player whose heart is being broken by a poet. There’s a difference.
Quinn calls the slam to order. “As you all know, this event is a fund-raiser for The Angel Project, which helps queer youth here in San Francisco, most of them from the streets or from really horrible home conditions. Our first poet, Greer, currently lives in The Angel Project’s youth residence. I think it’s fitting that we should start with them.”
Greer steps to the mic, wearing a red-and-white polka-dot bow tie and a nervous-but-determined expression.
“Thanks, Quinn. As he said, my name is Greer. I was kicked out of my house because my parents couldn’t deal with me being genderqueer. This was in California, only about two hours from here. Like so many other people, I decided to come to San Francisco, because it’s supposedly the most tolerant place in the world. I quickly found out that tolerance doesn’t necessarily translate into a job and a place to live. Things got very desperate, until I found The Angel Project. They gave me support and helped me figure things out. So I’d like to dedicate this one to them.”
The audience has grown still, respectful. Katie reaches for Violet’s hand. Then, seeing me notice, she takes my hand, too.
Greer doesn’t have any paper in front of them. It’s all from memory.
When I was little I loved to paint— the brush was a plastic wand with a punk-rock haircut at its tip, while the colors sat like candies in their tray.
If you wanted orange, you’d introduce red to yellow.
If you wanted green, yellow would have an affair with blue.
Like any kid who isn’t encouraged to question, I had been taught the meaning of colors— blue and pink, most of all.
We all knew which one princesses wore.
We all knew why I was given so many princesses to paint.
But one day I wondered what would happen