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“Why’s Brad wearing a suit?”
“Oh, he’s probably planning to change shirts and go to an informational interview this afternoon. Every time I’ve seen Brad in the past two years he’s been on his way to an informational interview.”
I laugh. My anxiety—about Gretchen, about labels, about meeting new people—is starting to fade into the background just a little.
Derek points out the rest of the UBA board members at the table. Shari, the perky blonde, is the social chair. All the other board members are guys.
“So, are you going to sign up or what?” Derek smiles at me again.
“Oh, right.” I smile back. I can’t believe how nervous I was about this.
While I wait my turn at the sign-up form, Shari notices me again. “Oh, hi there! I’m so glad you’re signing up! I see you already met Derek!”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised to see that Derek is still standing next to me. I thought the UBA people were all supposed to run back into the crowd, seeking out more converts.
“Did you meet Brad yet?” Shari asks. I look up, but Brad has retreated back behind the table and is furiously poking at a tablet.
Shari and Derek roll their eyes at each other. I’m getting the sense that Brad is president of the UBA because it means Brad gets to go on informational interviews and talk about being president of the UBA.
“Well anyway,” Shari says just as I reach the front of the line. “Ahem!”
Suddenly Shari’s voice is projecting past the table and out to the gathered crowd. The freshmen stop talking and push toward the front of the table to hear. A hush has fallen at the booths around us, too. I have to admit, Shari’s got some serious crowd-control prowess.
“You guys,” Shari says, beaming out at the rapt group, “I’m so excited to tell you what the UBA board’s decided to do this year! I know you’ll all want to be part of it. You all know that awesome new show The Flighted Ones?”
Lots of people nod. I’ve never watched The Flighted Ones, but my sister Audrey is obsessed with it. It’s about a group of twentysomethings who turn into winged superheroes at night and fly around fighting crime. Two of the characters are gay and are considered hot by the people who have opinions about such things.
“We’ve decided to have official UBA-sponsored Flighted parties every Tuesday night!” Shari says. “We’ll watch the show and have snacks! Everyone will want to come because everyone’s watching the show anyway!”
Next to me, the other freshmen murmur assent.
“Well, but that’s not all you’re doing this year, is it?” I ask.
The murmurs stop. I can feel the other freshmen looking at me. Shari and Derek are, too. Even Brad has lowered the tablet and is peering in my direction.
Crap. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Now, though, with all those eyes on me, I have no choice but to keep going.
“I mean, it’s not that I don’t like cupcakes and cheesy TV shows, because I do, sometimes,” I say. “But there’s also going to be advocacy work, right? We’re going to do stuff to address the key issues affecting the queer community?”
I stop talking when I realize Shari’s glaring at me. I shouldn’t have mentioned the cupcakes.
Great. I haven’t even joined yet and I’ve already pissed off the UBA’s queen bee. I should probably slink off and join the Queer Youth of America, Inc., Harvard-Radcliffe Chapter. I can see their table in the distance. A giant poster of Neil Patrick Harris is hanging from it.
“We need more members,” Shari says to me, not projecting anymore. “If you know a better way to recruit members than fun social gatherings then you can run for the board next year.”
“Now, Shari,” Brad says, chuckling, even though everyone else behind the table looks uncomfortable. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to imply that—”
Derek interrupts Brad in a voice loud enough to match Shari’s. “Hey, Toni has a point. We have a lot of other goals for this semester. Maybe the officers should each give our prospective new members some of the bullet points?”
Shari groans.
“Derek, that’s an excellent idea,” Brad says, turning back to the tablet screen. “Why don’t you kick us off?”
“Okay,” Derek says. “So, hi, everyone. I’m Derek Richmond, and I’m the cochair for transgender outreach. Now that we’ve got gender-neutral housing campus-wide, my fellow cochair and I thought this would be a good year to work on an official guide to transitioning at Harvard.”
Wow. I’d love to read that. I’ve seen stuff on the internet about transitioning, but it’s mostly about why binding your chest with ACE bandages is bad for you. It isn’t about the scary, big-picture stuff that keeps me up at night, like having to ask my professors to call me by some other name. Or having to tell my mother.
I catch Derek’s eye and nod. Derek smiles.
“So, I’m seeing a few confused faces,” Derek goes on, looking around the table at the other freshmen. “What that means is, we need a guide for transgender students who are transitioning. They could be starting to live openly as women, or as men, or as a nonbinary gender, or making some other change related to their gender presentation. The transition guide will have sections on how to tell your roommates and professors you’re transgender, how to get your name changed on your ID, where to find gender-neutral bathrooms, how to get legal hormone injections, safe places around town to shop for clothes and makeup, whatever. We’ll post the guide on the web and try to get some stories in the Crimson, too.”
The space around the table is getting even more crowded as the freshmen lean in to hear what Derek’s saying, but there are still a lot of blank expressions. I’m so busy watching the crowd I almost miss what Derek says next, but I snap back to attention when I hear my name.
“We could use some help writing the guide from someone who’s new to the Harvard community,” Derek says. “Toni, are you up for it?”
Now everyone’s staring at me again. The other freshmen in particular.
I shift from one foot to the other, but Derek looks perfectly at ease, waiting for me to answer.
It would be stupid to say no. This is as involved in the group as I can get freshman year unless I want to help with cupcake-baking duty. Besides, it sounds interesting.
I wish everyone would stop staring at me, though.
“Sure,” I say.
“Cool,” Derek says. “Why don’t you come back with me after the activities fair? You can meet Nance and we can brainstorm.”
“Excellent idea, Derek,” Brad says without looking up. “I’m sure he’ll have a lot to contribute. Kartik, your turn.”
Kartik, the treasurer, takes over and starts talking about fund-raisers, but half the people gathered on both sides of the table are still looking at me.
I push my way toward the sign-up form and write my name, fast, then back away.
As soon as I’m safely anonymous in the crowd again, my heart starts to slow down. That was terrifying.
Also...kind of awesome.
Now that I’m not nervous anymore, it’s easy to find the other clubs I liked and put my name down on their lists. I sign up for a couple of others, too. Why not? Maybe I should start being more spontaneous now that I’m in college. Maybe that’s how you meet the people who are actually worth meeting.
As the fair winds down, I make my way back to the UBA table. I dodge Shari, who’s sweeping the table clear of cupcake crumbs, just in time to see Derek look over and wave for me to follow.
Whew. I’d been half-worried Derek would forget about me.
We walk across the Yard onto a road I don’t recognize. I’ve never been to any of the houses where the upperclassmen live.
“Will Nance be home when we get there?” I ask as we climb the steps to Derek’s floor. “What about Frisbee?”
“Yeah, she’ll be there,” Derek says. “To be honest, Frisbee was an excuse. Nance hates hanging out with big groups at UBA events. She prefers to handle things behind the scenes.”
That seems odd for someone whose position title has the word outreach in it.
Derek’s house looks a lot like my freshman dorm—old and grand. Loud voices echo toward us as we climb the stairs to Derek’s room.
“Er,” Derek says before turning the key in the lock. “I should probably apologize in advance for anything my roommates might say over the course of the afternoon. Sometimes they get kind of...well. You’ll see.”
With that I’m nervous again.
Derek’s room has a huge common area that’s a lot nicer than mine. It has a bar on one side, a big-screen TV and two leather couches. As the door swings open, I see two people sitting hunched over on a couch in front of the unlit fireplace, arguing about what sounds like the plot of a video game involving toy ponies. When they see me, they stop talking right away.
“Toni,” Derek says, “this is Nance and Eli.”
Nance and Eli wave. Then in unison, as if they rehearsed it, they say, “Yo.”
Then both of them, and Derek, too, start laughing and talking about how funny it is that they both said “Yo” at the same time.
I wave back.
Derek goes over to sit on the couch, perching on the arm and gesturing for me to come join them.
I do. All three of them smile back at me.
They look almost like a family, hanging out here. They remind me of my group of friends back home. Except that in my group of friends back home, I was the only one who was trans.
“Hey,” I say. I try to smile at them as coolly as possible. In this moment, my greatest wish in the world is for the people in this room to like me.
“Toni and I met at the UBA table at the activities fair,” Derek tells the others.
An extremely short Asian person with extremely tall pants stands and slaps my hand. “Hey, man. I’m Eli.” Eli’s voice is very high.
“This is Nance,” Derek says, pointing to the girl who’s still sitting down. “Nance, Toni’s helping us with the transition guide.”
Nance squints at me through a pair of glasses that are almost identical to my own.
“You’re a freshman?” Nance asks in a Southern accent that sounds fake.
“Yep,” I say. “Sorry.”
Eli and Derek laugh.
“S’okay, man. You can’t help it,” Derek says.
I sit down on the couch next to Eli, determined to act as if I fit in here. “What, are you all sophomores?” I ask.
“No way! We look like sophomores to you?” Eli asks.
Eli’s the only one whose gender presentation I can’t figure out. I’m pretty sure Derek’s a trans guy, and I’m pretty sure Nance, whose haircut is almost identical to mine, is a butch lesbian. I can’t tell about Eli, though.
“Sorry, no, you all look really old,” I say, even though Eli looks about nine. All three of them laugh. “Grad students?”
“Juniors,” Nance says, then turns to Derek. “Was tabling as vile as usual?”
Derek shrugs. “Will you guys please at least show up at the next meeting? Don’t make me and Toni fend for ourselves all year.”
I try not to smile, but I’m positively giddy that Derek’s including me this way. As if I’m already part of the group.
“No way,” Nance says. “I put up with those bitches enough as it is. I’m sick of hearing Brad go on and on about how he’s one of the first out gay guys in his final club. It’s like, way to be a groundbreaker. You’re a rich white guy who got a bunch of other rich white guys to let you pay them to be their friend. Five points to Brad.”
Eli laughs. “I might go to a meeting or two. I like free cupcakes.”
“Does Shari make those for all the meetings?” I ask.
“Usually,” Derek says. “She’s gotten good at the food coloring. Every meeting has a different theme. Maybe she won’t make them next time, though, now that you called her out on it.”
“No way!” Nance says. “Did he really?”
It takes me a second to realize Nance is talking about me.
“Yeah, and you should’ve seen it,” Derek says. “Toni opens his mouth once, and Shari’s all over him.”
Okay, now Derek’s doing it, too.
No one’s ever called me by male pronouns before.
It’s strange. Not necessarily bad. It’s...I don’t know what it is, actually.
“So, Toni, what’s your story?” Nance asks. “You got somebody back home?”
“Back home?” Was Nance asking about my parents? I don’t usually rant about my mom to people until I know them better.
“You know, like a girlfriend?” Eli blushes. “I mean, or a boyfriend, or whatever?”
“Oh. Yeah.” A boyfriend? How weird. First the pronouns, now this. It’s been years since anyone thought I was into guys. “My girlfriend goes to NYU.”
“Cool,” Derek says. “Do you have a picture?”
“Yeah.” I try to ignore the familiar twinge of anxiety that’s flared back up in my stomach now that we’re talking about Gretchen and flip through the photos on my phone until I find a good one. “This is us at Queer Prom last year.”
“You had a Queer Prom at your high school?” Nance asks. “Where are you from?”
“DC,” I say.
“Oh,” Nance says. “Figures.”
I want to ask what Nance means by that, but then Eli peers at my phone and whistles like a trucker. Except with Eli’s high-pitched voice it sounds more like a teakettle.
“Nice,” Eli says. “Very nice.”
“Yeah, you’ve got a definite hottie there,” Nance says.
