People treat Grace differently since the accident. If they aren’t pitying her for her disability, they’re acting like she can’t do anything herself. Her sister Bronte is the worst for this, and Grace suspects it’s out of guilt. She never should have gotten in the car that night; she knew that, she knew it was stupid even while doing it. There’s no one to blame but herself, of course. Now, Grace is stuck with the knowledge that it was her own foolish decision that led to her disability. She should never have gotten into that car.

        That was eight months ago. Bronte had just turned twenty one and was responsible for getting Grace to and from a friend’s birthday party. She’s normally responsible, Bronte, but that day she’d gotten a little out of control. Instead of calling a parent or staying the night at her friend’s, Grace agreed to get in the car with her intoxicated sister, who clearly couldn’t see she was making a mistake. Grace remembers her friends, fellow party-goers, begging with her not to go, but nobody took Bronte’s keys. Nobody did anything.

        It was very early in the morning: four, maybe five. The girls’ parents would have been asleep. Grace doesn’t remember a lot, but she remembers enough. There was a large truck on the road up ahead, coming toward them from the opposite direction, and Bronte was drifting to sleep. And Grace had tried to grab her steering wheel, but she hadn’t been fast enough, and they’d swerved, and hit the truck full-on.

        The medical staff had been surprised that Grace survived. Most days, she is still surprised about this. A piece of bone from her fractured skull had lodged itself into her brain, and this alone would have killed most people. Grace had never really believed in divine intervention; she was never very spiritual at all, but those moments almost changed her mind. She’s not the same now, which people have pointed out. Birch, mostly. She hates this, but it’s her own fault.

        It’s November, and Grace is starting a new class. Normally, she’d hate to switch classes in the middle of a semester, but this one is important. Cujo walks fondly by her side, excitable by the throes of people walking by. Sometimes Grace think it’d be nice to be a dog: all they want to do is have fun and play with toys. Cujo is six years old. Grace didn’t know him when he was a puppy. She’s used to the stares from strangers; she doesn’t look disabled, but a lot of people don’t. It’s evening, her first and only evening class since beginning college. When her mother dropped her off at school, she’d given Grace a big hug and handed her a homemade lunch. Grace’s loved ones baby her, a lot of the time, which she’s pointed out – but they can’t seem to stop.

        Finding the classroom, Grace steps inside. She’s one of the last to arrive, and has limited options of places to sit. The teacher knows about her, and smiles when the girl and the dog get settled. “Hi, you must be Grace Greco. Welcome to biology!” Someone is already looking strangely at Grace, but she thinks nothing of it. She takes a seat, opens her new textbook.

        “Psst!” Grace’s just gotten here. Already, a young woman is eyeing her, looking disgusted at Cujo making himself comfortable. “Dogs aren’t allowed in school.”

        Ten minutes ago, after just entering the university, Grace had a seizure. She’s willing to bet she’ll have another before the end of class. “He’s a service dog.” 

        The teacher is speaking; Grace tries to listen. The woman in the desk next to hers wrinkles her nose. “You’re not blind.” It’s silly; that’s always the first assumption people make when they see a service dog. As if blindness is the only disability that exists. But she’s learned by now to fight her battles, and this one isn’t worth arguing. Cujo rubs his nose on her leg. Grace sits back to take notes.

        In Italy, Grace worked at a bakery with her mother, who’s a baker. It always smelled of vanilla, and the queue of customers was always overwhelming. Grace’s mother’s bakery was one of the most popular places in all of Tuscany. Her father worked as a carpenter and worked long, irregular hours. But the unemployment rate had gotten quite high, and her father lost his job. Things were tough after that for a while. Grace and her mother worked at their bakery, but it hardly brought in enough income to support a family of four,  and so eventually the easiest choice become to move to America. Grace still doesn’t know why her parents chose the state they did, where the cost of living can be prodigiously high, but she does as they say.  

        She’d met Birch in social studies when she was thirteen, only a few months after coming to America. He was annoying and aloof, which she later grew to treasure about him, but she remembered dreading seeing him in class. 

        “Gracie,” he’d said, in the middle of their movie night, at sixteen years old, “I think I like boys. You can’t tell anyone.” And she hadn’t. 

        The worst part of university is the seizures. Grace feels them coming on, but this doesn’t do anything to ease the embarrassment she feels losing control of her body like that. After the accident, her parents screamed at Bronte for a long time, but Grace has never blamed her. After all, though Bronte persuaded her to get into the car, Grace was the one who chose to listen. When she comes to, Cujo is pressing his nose into her side, having managed to roll her over onto her stomach. Her medication, lately, the stockpile of it, hasn’t seemed to be making a difference. That happens sometimes. She’s the center of attention, humiliated by the attention and the snickering. Most people pity her. She hates this.

        Cujo helps her to her desk. Upon witnessing the ordeal, nobody knows how to act. Nobody ever does. Grace’s eyes burn, and her head feels fuzzy. The only thing more embarrassing than falling to the floor in class is crying about it. “Good boy, Cujo,” she says, and pets him. His tongue is hanging out. “What would I do without you?”

. . . . . . . . . . .

        

        Normally, Birch hates attention, but drag shows are different. If you asked his parents, they’d say they never had him as a son to begin with, and they’d certainly never seen a drag show. It had all begun several years ago, when Birch was still in high school, and, out of curiosity he’d watched a drag show on television. It’s so hard coming to terms with that sort of thing, especially for a boy like Birch, whose upbringing was always strict and gendered. Growing up, he and his brothers had to play sports, paint their rooms blue, and forget about being emotional. This had always bothered them, but daring to speak up never made any difference anyway.

        Tucking is the hardest part of drag. It used to hurt, but now it’s just uncomfortable. By sheer luck, Birch found a gay club in the city, and he supposes that’s how all this become such a big hobby. He doesn’t talk about it. He knows there’s still so much stigma about boys dressing up like girls, or even just looking like a girl. Birch doesn’t look like a girl, but he’s slim and hairless, and maybe looks like a young teenager. More times than once, he’s been questioned at school for appearing too young to attend university. 

        His second closest friend, Ziv Goddard, dresses in the room across from him. Ziv is twenty two and much more experienced than Birch, and so he’s taken on a sort of mentor role. “Ready?” he says, as his eye powder cooks. “You’re going to do great.” It’s not Birch’s first drag show, and it’s certainly nothing serious. His first show was almost two years ago, when he was seventeen, not long ago at all. He likes sparkles and bright colors, and fluffy dresses and heels. It’s a typical look for a drag queen, but Birch has been told he pulls it off well. He’s unique looking: white-skinned and haired, with red in the whites of his eyes. 

        Birch is nearly finished dressing. He wears a new dress, yellow and feathery, light. “Ready.” Ziv dresses nicely and trendy, opting for form-fitting dresses before anything else. He wears a lot of padding, and a lot of heavy jewelry, which Birch thinks can be kind of tacky.

        “Can I ask you a favor?” Grace had said that morning, as soon as Birch woke up. She stood in his doorway in her pajamas, looking shamefaced and disheveled. “There’s a party on campus this weekend, and I don’t want to go alone. Come with me?” Grace loves parties. Birch has never once enjoyed going out and socializing.

        He frowned. “Do I have to?”

       She pouted. “No, but I want you to. Come on, it’ll be fun. Plus, Emmett will be there.” She’d gone red at this name, the name of her latest crush. Grace remained painfully oblivious when it came to dating; it was a wonder she’d ever had a boyfriend at all. A moment of silence passed. In the kitchen, Cujo crunched on his kibble. Grace stayed in the doorway, waiting.  “Please, Birch? I’ll love you forever.”

        "You better.” His room was always too bright. The light was usually off, replaced with nightlights or a large candle. Grace sure was lucky he liked her.  “Fine, I’ll come, but don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

        “Yes!” Grace bounded into his bedroom, grabbing him in a hug, which Birch didn’t mind. He’s not really opposed to hugs. “Thank you! You’re the best! I’m going to go walk Cujo.” And she bounded off, humming loudly. 

        When he finishes dressing, Birch waits backstage. He wears a gold crown with his name on it, and a curly blonde wig. A fellow drag queen stands beside him, tall and curvy, ogling Birch. “Hey, Aura, you look sickening.”

        She was gorgeous in and out of drag. “Thanks, Ruby.” The man had a short red wig and a leather dress, which made her body look tantalizing.  “I like your outfit, too.” She’s gorgeous in and out of drag. “Thanks, Ruby.” The man has a short red wig and a leather dress, which makes her body look tantalizing.  “I like your outfit, too.” He’ll never admit it, but he’s always had the hots for Ruby, whose real name is Micah.  It’s not a crush, but… if she asks to kai kai, he won’t say no.

       Grace always attends his shows, Cujo at her side. Today is no different. She cheers the loudest when he performs, and claps the loudest once he’s finished. Tonight, he promised Lynx and Snow he’d visit, even though there’s no doubt in his mind their parents will try to keep him away. He doesn’t care what they think, and he never really has. 

        Even though fall is coming to an end, it’s a good time to scuba dive. If you ask Birch, he’ll say it’s always a good time to scuba dive. Sometimes he goes with Lynx, and other times with Grace. A few times, he’s taken Bryony, though she doesn’t swim well and it’s taxing trying to keep her afloat. After returning home following the show, he gets ready to brave the ocean. It’s not like the water is ever warm. Even in the summertime, it’s less than sixty degrees. Birch is used to this. In fact, if he had the opportunity to swim in warm ocean water, he’d probably pass.

        Bryony loves the water. When Birch arrives home, she’s sitting on his couch, and he’s not quite sure how she arrived. Gracie doesn’t drive, and Bryony is far too young to take the bus by herself. Birch doesn’t question. “Hey, Bry,” he says, before heading to the bathroom to change. “Want to go swimming?”

        Grace is napping. The way Cujo guards her body, it’s probable she had a seizure right before Birch arrived home. His sister smiles, bounding down the short hallway of his apartment to watch him wash his makeup off. “Yeah! You look like a girl.”

        Many people think Bryony’s honesty is offensive, but Birch finds it refreshing. “Thanks.” The hardest part of taking the girl swimming, he finds, is trying to keep them both afloat at once. It’s not that Bryony can’t swim. She’s unskilled, and she’s too frightened to really try. “You got your swimsuit?” Then he notices the small bag sitting by her feet. Bryony almost always has a bag on her. She fills it with sensory toys and extra clothes and noise-cancelling headphones. Birch bought her those headphones. His parents can deny him all they want, but he refuses to give up on his siblings.

        Birch began to question himself when he was fifteen, after agreeing on a date with a female classmate only out of obligation. It had been a long process, and Birch remembered lying to himself for months, even years afterwards. Now he realizes how stupid that was. He suppose there had always been hints at his sexuality, from the time he was a little boy. He’d never questioned it. Not until he was a high-schooler, and started having confusing feelings toward the popular boys in his classes. He’s always liked the popular boys, the bad boys, if you will. Something about them is alluring, or mysterious, or something that Birch knows he’ll never find in himself. Still, he’s never had a relationship: not a proper one, nothing outside of random hook-ups and make outs. Birch is a serial monogamist, and it seems he hasn’t met a lot of people who feel the same way.

        He wears a wetsuit to swim. It keeps him warm, but also, he’s insecure about the way he looks. Most guys would be, if they were short and slim like Birch. He’s always liked athletic guys, muscular guys, and they aren’t hard to find. Grace doesn’t swim. She used to. These days, she’s afraid of seizing and drowning, and that’s understandable. Instead, she sits on the sea-walk and watches while the others brave the ocean. Bryony stays close to Birch. He doesn’t want her to go far. “How was school?” he asks, taking the girl’s hand as she gets situated. She’s bubbly, her blonde hair braided, just the ends dipping into the water.

        In the same way that Birch is sensitive to light, Bryony is sensitive to touch. She startles slightly, letting go of her brother’s arm to float near the sea-walk. Birch wants to scuba dive. “Fine. Oaklyn ate lunch with me. My math teacher is getting kind of fat…” She wears sunglasses, her face to the sky, and even though the water is shallow here, Birch doesn’t feel comfortable leaving the girl alone.  He puts Grace in charge, and puts on his scuba diving equipment.

        If Birch could plan his dream date, it’d be lying on the seaside, watching the moon and the stars. Alaska is beautiful at night. When Birch was homeless, he spent a lot of time taking mental photographs of nature.

        "Are you having fun, Bryony? Just let me know when you’re ready to go home.”

        “You’re not my son,” his mother had said, her face filled with rage and sadness. “We didn’t raise you this way! And I’ve tried to understand, Birch, I’ve tried to reason with you!” Her hands had been shaking, her shoulders cupped by Birch’s father, who hadn’t said a word. “But it’s no use; you won’t change your ways! I’ve told you time and time again: if you can’t respect our wishes under our roof, you can’t stay here-”

        He’d shouted back. “Where do you expect me to go? I’m your son; you can’t just kick me out because you’re homophobic!” Birch is not a violent, or angry, man. But he’s not a doormat, either. “Whether you like it or not, Mom, I’ll always be part of the family." His father had tried to reason with her. He’d tried to make her understand, but she was an obstinate woman and couldn’t be persuaded out of her opinions.

        Grace is shouting. When Birch lifts his head from under water, he hears her. She yells, at Birch and at Bryony. “I need help! Bryony, she started drowning – I pulled her out of the water, but she’s not breathing-”

        Cujo barks. Birch isn’t a first-aid expert by any means, but he doesn’t hesitate. Ripping the gear from his head, he throws it to the ground; Grace howls, Bryony lies on her back on the dock to the ocean, her hair blowing slightly in the wind. “Bry!” Birch shouts. He doesn’t shout a lot. “Bry, wake up!” He knows she can’t hear him. Instead, her small body shakes with each frantic chest compression, easy to move, but harder to rouse. It can’t have been long, but it’s beginning to feel like hours have passed, and Birch has made no progress. Cujo nudges Bryony’s hand; Birch presses down on her chest, and a stream of water dribbles from her mouth.

. . . . . . . . . .

 

        “Can you stop shuffling your feet when you walk? It makes me want to bang my head against a wall.”

        Birch frowns, looking up from the screen of his laptop. Underneath the nerdy glasses, his eyes look huge. “Geez.” Rome snorts, sitting back down at the group’s table in their study room. “What’s up your ass? I'm just brainstorming."

        “Well, do it like a normal person and stop pacing. You’re driving me crazy.” Birch is easily annoyed, but how is that Rome’s fault? Neither of them want to be here, especially with each other. Rome has to admit though: it’s kind of hot when Birch gets worked up. “Can you actually help me instead of walking back and forth like some sort of psycho?”

        “Ugh.” Rome rolls his eyes, sitting down heavily in his chair. “You’re legitimately the most infuriating person I’ve ever met. Just calm the fuck down for once.” Their project is halfway finished, and honestly, most of that was Birch’s doing. “We have two weeks left to finish.” There’s a party tonight. Like usual, Rome finds it hard to concentrate on schoolwork when there’s a party coming up.

        Everyone knows Rome. This is the way he likes it. “That’s not that long.” Birch has fucked up eyes. They roll when he tries to focus, so that he has to move his head a specific way to make out what he’s looking at. “Why did I have to get paired with you, of all people? You could win an award for world’s biggest slacker.”

        “Wow, really?” Rome brings a hand to his chest. “An award? For me? Shit, I’m honored; I better start writing my acceptance speech!” His feet are on the table, one crossed over the other. On the other side of the library, Juni sits with a group of friends.

        Birch glowers. “I hate you.”

        Normally, Rome isn’t this much of an asshole. Something about getting under Birch’s skin is, dare he say, arousing? Anyway, Birch is the world’s most Annoying Person, and he needs to know. “No, you don’t. You want to fuck me - and I can't blame you." 

        "Disgusting.” Birch makes a retching sound, pretending to stick one skinny finger down his throat. Jesus, he’s such a twink. “I’d rather fuck a cactus.”         

        “Uh huh. Sure.” Class is nearly over, and it’s Rome’s last one of the day. Tonight, he promised Gray he’d visit; they’re working on a new song, and Rome is always the first to hear Gray’s new songs. They’re talented, but it’s a shame – so much of that potential is going to waste. Rome supposes the same could be said about him. 

        When Rome was born, he had a cleft lip. This was a very common defect in the area at the time, but according to his father, his biological parents couldn’t afford to get it fixed, and so he was put up for adoption with the defect. He supposed this affected the adoption process: nobody wants a baby with a birth defect. He was five before he ever met his dads, and even after that it took half a year to get adopted. Gray was there first, though they’re younger, it was much easier for them. And Calixte., the poor girl, she only lived four years. Rome tries to remember how lucky he is; he has a family, a home, and his fathers had enough money to get his jaw fixed. Aside from a small scar, he looks just like everybody else.

        Gray’s room is eclectic and colorful, decorated with hanging chairs and paint-splattered walls. Rome knows how long it took to design it: his father Abbe is an interior designer, and he spent months making the perfect room for Gray. It’s strange though; the teenager is secretive and organized, and their room is open, bright, and arbitrary.

        "Hey,” says Rome, poking his head into his sibling’s room. "How goes the song-writing?” He sits on a wicker chair, watching Gray strum the strings of their guitar. Rome regrets not learning to play an instrument. Maybe it’s not too late, but Gray started young, and Rome is already nineteen.

        The teenager shrugs. “Good, I guess. Everyone says I should write a love song, but I can’t relate to that feeling, you know? Is that weird?” 

        Gray is sixteen. According to them, they’ve never been in love, but sixteen is still young. “No.” Rome sits sideways in the chair. “Not everything has to be about love." A plate of crackers sits on the table next to their bed. Gray’s eating habits worry Rome, though he knows there’s nothing he can do about it. Gray looks healthy, so no one really worries. But their list of safe foods is growing smaller and smaller.  A thought comes to him. “You know those people you just hate for no reason? They haven’t done anything to you, but you just hate them so much.”

        Setting their guitar down, Gray looks up. “Yeah, I have a few of those. Why do you ask?"

        Rome has to go soon. The party is at a sorority house, and Juni is meeting him there. He knows this probably means they’ll hook up. “Oh, just this dumb kid I have to work with in drama class. He thinks he’s so smart just because he’s a straight-A student, but he’s not, you know. I’m smart too, I just don’t have to go around proving it to everybody.” Gray looks amused, or mystified. “It’s like he has this huge stick right up his ass, you know what I mean?”

        “Yeah.” Gray shrugs. “I get it.” 

        Rome remembers when his sibling came out to him. He was seventeen, and Gray fourteen. It’s not like either of them ever had to worry about coming out: they have two dads, for Christ’s sake! Gray had taken him aside and shut the door to tell him they were non-binary, and asexual, and that was that. There was no huge party, no big deal, not much more was said of it after that. Rome has never come out. He’s never really felt the need to; he loves who he loves, and nobody really gives a shit.

        "I gotta go,” he says, after a moment of silence. “There’s a party at school and I don’t want to miss it.” Gray hugs him. They do this a lot, but never used to. He supposes his moving out has made them closer. “Love you, Buzzy,” he says – this is something he doesn’t say to anybody. And when Gray goes back to strumming on their guitar, Rome sneaks out of the room.