of people who share our likes or beliefs, and this is the equivalent of an LGBTQIA Center for straight people.
To be honest, I thought being a cheerleader was kind of bullshit. I’ve changed my mind. They flip and throw each other in the air and drop into splits. At times, they are working harder than the football players. I haven’t been able to take my eyes off Georgia. She’s in her element. Smiling and playing and hyping the crowd. I have a newfound respect. And a deepening crush.
Update: The announcer has declared this a close game, tied at fourteen near the end of the second whatever. There are two minutes on the clock.
Another Update: I’m starting to regret the nachos.
A mom with wild red hair parks herself next to me. “Honey, the kids sit over there,” she says, pointing in the general vicinity of the student section.
“I’m new to Hillcrest,” I say, having no reason to lie. “I haven’t made friends yet.”
“Oh? Well, I have a very nice daughter. Maybe she can be your friend?”
“Is she cute?” I ask.
“See for yourself,” she says, then points directly at Georgia.
“Georgia?”
“The one and only.” She pats my head and gets up. “OK, babygirl, I need to go.”
Babygirl?
“Toodles,” she says, then disappears back into the mom mob.
Holy shit, I just met Georgia’s mom.
But she thinks I’m a girl.
No, she thinks I’m a babygirl.
I’m destroyed.
It must seem silly to get upset about something so small. When I’m misgendered, it feels like I was trying to pull something off and got caught because I wasn’t good enough. I failed at passing as male. My self-esteem takes an immediate nosedive.
After something like that happens, I always feel the need to man up. I crank up my stubbornness and use it—like fuel—to power my move to the student section. No more hiding among the parents. I’ve got to be brave and confident.
I walk over and take a seat on the bleachers right in front of Georgia, about five rows up. She spots me immediately and waves. I wave back and try to act like I don’t care about this moment at all.
A loud whistle blows, signaling the end of the first part. The football guys run off the field and the band rushes on. Oh man, it’s only halftime. I’m going to be here for the rest of my life.
The Hillcrest Band stands in formation, completely frozen, at full attention. This is their time to shine. The cheerleaders huddle together by the railing, talking, drinking from water bottles, and checking their phones. I feel my pocket vibrate.
GEORGIA: Come here.
I look up, and she’s staring right at me. She wants me to go to the railing and talk to her. I get up but take my time, playing it cool. (Pickup artist advice: make her wait.)
I’m dodging the herd of students getting up to hit the bathroom and concession stand during the break. I approach the railing where she’s waiting for me. The band has started their show, and the volume is next-level loud.
We both cover our ears and yell.
“LOOK WHO MADE IT,” she screams over the blaring horns.
“YOU WERE WAITING FOR ME?” I ask.
“NO WAY. I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m pretty busy down here.”
I only hear bits of what she’s saying but go with it. “I HAVE BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME!”
She comes closer to the railing; the band has dropped out, and it’s just the drum line beating at the same speed as my heart. We take our hands off our ears.
“For me?” she asks.
“For you,” I confirm.
She fights a smile. “So,” she says, “what do you think of all of this?”
I look around at her world. “I think . . . you look cute,” I say.
She laughs and shakes her head. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”
I peek over her head at the group of cheerleaders with every single eye on us. They immediately look away and pretend to talk.
Georgia puts her hand over mine on the railing. “Don’t mind them, Pony.”
I want to talk, but all I can think about is her hand on mine. I blurt out, “Hey, I met your mom.”
She steps from me, pulling away her hand. I feel my eyes go big. Why did she do that? As if perfectly cued, the marching band joins back in with the drummers. The horns come in, loud and strong.
“WHAT?” Georgia asks.
I repeat it louder. “I MET YOUR MOM.”
She looks around, confused, and keeps her distance. “MY MOM?”
“WE HIT