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Chase nods. “Sort of half support group, half activities. I came out as gay to my parents when I was fourteen.”
Chase is gay. Up until this point, I was unsure whether we were just friends or if there was potential for something more. Now more seems like an exciting and realistic possibility, one that makes me stumble over my next words.
“I’m, uh—me too,” I say, because I’m still figuring out how to verbalize it. “I mean—I came out to my parents a few years ago too. I’m—I’m bi.”
As soon as I say it, I sense my shoulders relaxing—not necessarily in relief, but more like I didn’t realize I’d been clenched up about this for so long. This is the first time I’ve been around other queer kids. The first time I feel, automatically, that I have some common ground with other people.
My religion connects me to Sophie, sure—but that feels so much larger, less individual, at least to me. My sexuality is mine.
It feels kind of like I already belong, and I didn’t even have to try.
“Me too!” Kat says, and holds out her fist, as though I’ve now been inducted into a club with some kind of bisexual fist bump.
So I bump it. And I grin.
“And I am still figuring things out,” Dylan says.
Chase and these near-strangers know a secret about me. Sophie, who sacrificed so much for me, doesn’t.
I try to push the guilt away.
“We should take these to the van,” Kat says, gesturing to the instruments.
Chase glances at me. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“I’m so glad we have a fan,” I hear Aziza say as the three of them head out into the parking lot before Laserdog takes the stage.
“So. What did you really think?” Chase asks. He’s sitting on a couch across from me, and he leans closer, balancing his elbows on his knees. Before the lights cut out for Laserdog, I see the nerves painted on his face, the worry line between his brows, the set of his jaw. Then he’s thrown into a soft blue darkness.
“You’re putting me in a terrible situation. You realize that, right?” I shout to be heard over the music, some kind of electro-funk that’s not really my thing.
“Yes. But you know music. You know Laserdog is garbage.”
“The audience loves them.”
“I value your opinion.”
I scoot to the edge of my couch so I don’t have to yell nearly as loudly. Chase values my opinion. I’m touched by that.
“You’re all good at your instruments. It seemed like . . . you weren’t as cohesive as you could be. Like . . . you were all battling for attention.”
He’s quiet for a few moments, staring at his sneakers. I wish I could take it all back. That clearly wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He wanted me to tell him they were brilliant.
“That’s actually really helpful,” he says finally. “It was hard to hear up there, with the monitors and everything. So thanks. I mean it.”
I still feel like I should have bent the truth.
He taps my shoe with his, which sends a bolt of lightning from my ankle to my hip. “You think you might want to try it out? Playing with us? If we’re not too shitty, that is.”
“Only marginally shitty. I can handle that.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket—fifteen minutes before my curfew, and my dad’s on his way.
“I’m getting picked up soon,” I say, standing. “My parents . . . I told you they’re overprotective.”
He nods, getting up from the couch. “Got it.”
“I had a good time. I mean it.” I dust off my dad’s pants. I’m sure they were outdated even when he wore them.
