homecoming with someone, probably of the opposite gender. It was difficult for people to conceive of the possibility that I was perfectly happy going by myself. It would have been easier if I could be honest with my friends, but I wasn’t ready to open that can of worms yet. Most of the time, I could handle it, but there were moments when I wanted to stand up and shout at everyone to leave me alone and stop making assumptions.
Tamal clapped me on the back. “Dude, you all right? You seem a little stressed.”
“I’m going to use the restroom.” Without waiting for a reply, I made my way to the end of the bleachers and down the steps, pausing every few feet to say hi to someone from the debate team or student government or baseball or church. Sometimes it was their parents who stopped me, and even though I wanted nothing more than to find a quiet spot to breathe, I took the time to shake hands and smile and be polite.
Politeness never costs a thing, my mother always said.
When I was finally able to break free of the crowd, I ducked behind the concession stand and pulled out my phone.
DreOfTheDead: can I ask a personal question?
DreOfTheDead: i’m gonna do it anyway
DreOfTheDead: so are you like into dating or sex or love or anything?
I was wondering when he was going to ask. I wasn’t embarrassed about it by any means, but he was the only person I could talk to without holding anything back. I could have told my parents, and I didn’t doubt that they would have accepted me, but many of my mom’s potential voters wouldn’t understand, and coming out publicly could jeopardize the election. I wasn’t worried about my friends rejecting me either, but I couldn’t trust them not to accidentally tell someone who might leak it to the press. Dre, however, understood the need for privacy, and the cost of it. I could talk to him about who I really was and trust him to protect my secrets.
The problem was that I didn’t know how to explain my sexuality to Dre because I didn’t fully understand it myself. I’d believed for at least a year that I fell somewhere on the ace spectrum, but the fact that there was a spectrum instead of a single concrete box I could check complicated my situation even more. I didn’t feel the need to define myself by an arbitrary word, but the word that felt like it fit best was “demi.”
I typed out and erased my responses to Dre multiple times, once giving him a clinical definition, but finally I embraced my own confusion. I wrote what I felt instead of what I knew and sent it. And then I began to panic. What if I hadn’t explained it properly? What if I’d said something offensive? What if I was wrong about Dre and he was playing me and was going to turn around and take what he’d learned to his father? Telling Dre in person had been one thing—if he’d told someone, I could have denied it—but now I’d put it in writing.
My heart was pounding, and I felt dizzy. I’d made a terrible mistake. Now, instead of being able to tell my parents on my own terms, sometime after the election, they were going to learn about it on CNN, and I was going to have to explain it while they looked at me with disappointment in their eyes. I was going to have to live with the knowledge that, if my mother lost the election, it would be because of me.
I needed to return before Tamal wondered where I’d gone. It was too late to take back what I’d written to Dre, so I was just going to have to live with the consequences if he decided to show someone. I barely noticed the people around me as I finished climbing the bleachers and sat down again.
“Feeling better?” Tamal was looking at me with real concern in his eyes.
I couldn’t lie to him. I might have been keeping some secrets, but I refused to lie. My phone vibrated, and this time I couldn’t resist pulling it out to check. I had a message from Dre.
DreOfTheDead: it’s cool if you don’t know the answer . . . i hardly know the answer to anything . . . but i kind of think you explained it perfectly
“Dean?” Tamal was still waiting for my answer.
I don’t know how