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“Well I am.” I nearly choke on the sob caught in my throat, throwing a look at Atlas as blood pounds hard enough in my ears to make my head ache. “I should have known better.”
I slam the door shut behind me, not wanting to hear anymore bullshit or logic of how all this is really what’s best for me. Because I’m too much of a goddamn fuckup to make my own decisions about my life, my body.
The adrenaline tells me to take the fresh bottles of pills in my pocket and dump them in the nearest ditch. But I don’t want to start from scratch. I don’t want to lose the loose control I’ve maintained over my own mind.
Unchecked bipolar can be a real bitch. The urge to self-destruct is almost irresistible.
Thankfully, I know some creative alternatives to get the high without sacrificing my sobriety.
Chapter 3
Corvin
The fate of the queer community at Tennessee University shouldn’t lie on the shoulders of three RAs and an advisor, but administration doesn’t care about that. All they care about is recruiting more sports players and incentivizing them by giving them their own private dorm buildings.
“They have the funding. They just won’t use it for us.” I pinch the bridge of my nose just below the rim of my glasses.
“He said, and I quote,” Korra groans and rolls her eyes, “‘It’s unfair to all the other clubs and activities on campus for us to support a dormitory exclusively for your community.’ He then went on to ask if we’d support special dorms for ‘white’, ‘colored’, and ‘Asian’ students. Like some kind of gotcha moment or something.”
Yeah, growing up queer in the bootlicking south has been nightmare enough without the school trying to play the race card against us.
“That’s disgusting. Being queer isn’t an extracurricular. And it’s not like non-queer kids aren’t allowed in the dorm. They’re just screened for the safety of the queer kids who do live here.”
Korra and I have both been RAs in the building for the last three years, partially because we don’t trust our responsibilities with anyone else, and in part because no one else wants to put up with the bullshit.
Miss Nickelson is our advisor, a member of the staff who oversees us. Unfortunately she has no real decision making power and is basically a glorified babysitter. That hasn’t stopped her from going to bat for us and being an ear for the dorm’s problems.
“They gave us a ballpark number for the building’s upkeep, which is all the money we’ve been fundraising and then some,” she says with an apologetic grimace.
Every year we pull a fundraiser together to supplement the gap in funding the administration says we need, but they’ve decided to pull what they’ve been providing with the excuse of wanting to allocate the funds back toward sports.
“The funds are already locked in place for this year, but if we don’t come up with a steady way to bring in money, all our underclassmen will have to be moved back to the main dorms or find off campus housing next year.” Korra flops down in the ugly yellow recliner in the dorm’s basement that she’s claimed as hers every meeting.
“We can raise the money somehow for the next group, but what the dorm really needs is a sponsor,” Rascal says from where he’s tucked into the corner of the couch.
This is Rascal’s first year as an RA, but he was a freshman in the dorm last year and is familiar enough with the fire we’ve been put under. I may have vented about it in bed a time or two during our summer fling.
“None of us are connected enough to know someone with that kind of money.” I plop my elbows on my knees and rest my chin on my knuckles. “Let’s focus on raising what we can. If we each put together a fundraiser we should at least be able to put up our usual portion plus extra.”
Korra kicks her legs over the arm of the recliner, twirling the ends of her box braids between her fingers. “Okay. How about we each come up with a couple solid ideas on our own, and then meet back next week to pool together and make a plan? Rascal, I know you’re also running a new club, and Corvin I know you’ve picked up some extra responsibilities this year. So let’s take the weekend to breathe and regroup.”
It sucks this is the position they’ve put us in. Most students wouldn’t take it on themselves to defy the school they’re attending, but Korra and I both fought to upkeep this place and make it the kind of safe space we never had growing up. Neither one of us can stand to watch it crumble.
Not when people like Rascal and Shiloh really need it—even if the latter would never admit it.
With the meeting wrapped up, I slip the strap of my school bag on my shoulder and offer the group a friendly wave before heading up the stairs to the main floor of our dorm building.
It’s been a constant in the back of my mind that Shiloh gets back from rehab today. Soon we’ll be sleeping in the same room, and I’ll watch those disdainful eyes hate me up close instead of in passing.
I’m fine with him hating me so long as it keeps him from blaming himself.
I’ll take every ounce of hate and blame he can throw at me if it keeps him from sinking into the nastier details of that night.
I spent a good portion of the last few weeks reorganizing the room to fit the both of us. Where a single, full sized bed once sat now is one of the school’s bunks. This was so not only could we add a second desk for Shiloh, but also a dresser where I moved all of my clothes and personal items from the closet.
That way he has plenty of space for privacy.
Which I know is important to him.
