showed that video to every living being she came into contact with. “I’m so glad I could provide entertainment for you and your friends.”
“It was good!” Clem says. “We share a cloud! It was there! And besides, when Kyle saw it, I was already watching it on my phone. It’s not like I went out of my way to show him.”
My nostrils flare and I shake my head. “Whatever.” I can’t get over this betrayal, and the fact that it’s not more of a big deal ratchets my anger up a whole notch.
Clem clears her throat. “So, either of you want to go to the Prism meeting with me after school?”
Hannah and I both groan in unison.
“I have a thing,” Hannah says as she pushes up her sleeves to reach over the onion rings for the cheesy tots.
“Oh, come on!” Clem says. My sister isn’t bothered by large groups or strangers or organized activities that might make her look dumb. But she’s usually pretty good about not expecting the same of me. Groups and gatherings make me feel emotionally claustrophobic. I was a little freaked out when she started dating Hannah over the summer, like suddenly they would be so social together, and I would either be stuck home alone or left being their third wheel at a party. But luckily, Hannah’s tolerance for socializing is even lower than mine.
“Babe,” says Hannah as she checks a text on her phone. “You know organized groups aren’t really my thing.”
I shake my head. “And you know I’m just a bad gay.”
“There’s no wrong way to be gay,” Clem righteously declares.
“Well, then file me under Hannah’s reason,” I tell her, my mouth stuffed with fries just as Kyle and Alex walk in followed by Tucker and a few of his friends, who all skip the long line by scooting in with some cheerleaders to place their orders. I slither down in the bench as much as I can, hoping that I can hide from all three of them.
“Besides,” Hannah says. “I really do have a thing. My ’lita texted a second ago to say she needs me to help her pick up patio chairs she bought from someone on Facebook.”
Clem turns to her. “Grandma Camile has a Facebook?”
Hannah sighs. “She got a hand-me-down iPhone from my cousin Paul last month and now she can’t be stopped. He just dropped off the phone and left me with her. Do you know how long it took me to explain Face ID to her? Now that she knows how to use it, though, she’s everywhere. She even started her own Facebook group called DRC of CC Y’ALL, for other Dominicans in Clover City. She has exactly nine members, and five of them are moderators. She even wrote down the name of her group for her cashier at the grocery store the other day. When the cashier explained that she was Puerto Rican, ’Lita told her she could be an honorary Dominican.”
“Would it be weird if I tried to get our grandmas to date?” I ask. “At the very least, can I be her friend on Facebook?”
Hannah takes a swig of soda. “It’s not all sunshine and friend requests. Last week, she called me during class to tell me she got a message from a random person saying that the government was monitoring her Facebook page and that she needed to send in her social security number to verify her identity.”
“Oh my God,” Clem gasps. “Do they have like child lock on phones but for grandparents?”
“Is it bad that I don’t know my social security number by heart?” I ask.
“You don’t even know your cell phone number.” Clem throws herself against the back of the booth. “I guess I’ll just go to Prism by myself.”
Prism is the only school-sanctioned queer club, started by—you guessed it!—Kyle Meeks. And, for the record, I don’t think I’m actually a bad gay, but I’ve never been good at being . . . political the way Kyle and the other members are. The group has done really awesome things, like a gender-neutral bathroom in the attendance office and fighting to remove gender-specific dress codes for school dances, but some days I feel like I’m barely getting by in Clover City and maybe there isn’t always safety in numbers. Maybe numbers put a bigger target on our back? I’m this close to graduating. I’d rather not become any more of a target than I already am. (And trust me. Femme-leaning fat, gay ginger