lasagna. Now it’s ready. “Bon appétit!” I say.
“Bon appétit!” they repeat.
Dad puts his napkin in his lap. “So, how do you plan on saving the water supply?”
My spatula slices through the layers. “Oh! Pony had a great idea. Tell him,” I say.
His face goes red. “That was a joke,” he whispers.
“Just tell him,” I chide.
“OK. We invent a bucket that you use, you know, as a bathroom. And the bucket makes purified water. Through science.”
We both laugh. “This year’s Nobel Prize,” I announce.
“Goes to the Purify Potty,” he says, and we both laugh again.
Dad catches my eye and lifts an eyebrow. “You always finish each other’s sentences?” he asks.
Whatever, that’s a normal friend thing.
We stuff our faces while recapping last night’s SNL for my dad, who goes to bed too early to watch. I wonder if he can tell that Pony is transgender? Probably not. Pony passes the test with everyone.
“Mr. Roberts, how’s the online dating going?” Pony asks.
“Well, don’t want to brag, but I have been on three dates.”
“All to the same bar,” I add.
“The Mucky Duck is charming! I have a second date with Cynthia tomorrow. Got any dating tips for me, Pony?”
“Six thirty-one,” I say and they both look at me. “Just noting the time of when this dinner officially got weird.”
Pony wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Well, I don’t have tons of experience, but I think you should compliment her. Listen to her.” He looks at me. “Don’t hide anything from her.”
My face goes as red as the lasagna. Dad is eating it up. I was not aware of this second-date-with-Cynthia business. We haven’t been talking as much lately.
“I’m inspired by your advice, Pony,” Dad says, placing his napkin over his plate. “Thank you. And thank you, wonderful daughter, for the wonderful dinner. I’ll leave you to cure the water problem. I’m off to watch 60 Minutes and text Cynthia.”
As Dad exits, whistling, I roll my eyes at Pony.
“That must be awkward,” Pony says under his breath.
I cover my face with my hands. “Ya think?”
“Hey, at least you’re close to your parents.”
“Oh yeah, I’m really, really lucky,” I say, then uncover my face.
Pony sits up straight, his move before getting serious. “My dad isn’t cool with me being trans.”
He whispers trans like it’s a bad word. Pony is finally talking to me about this stuff. I have millions of questions but also don’t want to say something insensitive.
“Because he’s in the army?” I ask.
“That’s part of it.” Pony starts tapping his plate. “He thinks it’s a phase, and I’ll change my mind soon. He won’t stop using my deadname.”
“Your deadname?”
“That’s when someone uses my birth name—my girl name—instead of my chosen name.”
“That’s awful,” I say.
He shrugs. “It is what it is.”
“If Pony is your chosen name, why did you choose it?”
He hides a smile and looks away. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Maybe someday?” I ask, making the biggest eyes possible.
“Maybe,” he says.
“Ice cream?” I ask.
“Definitely.”
I bring the plates to the sink and get the Blue Bell Vanilla Bean ice cream and chocolate syrup. We talk endlessly, high on sugar and good company. We just fit together in this way that’s comfortable and exciting.
“This ice cream is good,” Pony says, scraping his spoon at the bottom of his bowl. “Much better than the Hillcrest cafeteria ice cream that leaves a flavor in your mouth reminiscent of household cleaner.”
My heart drops all the way to the ground and into the basement. Those are my words. He read the cafeteria food review. He knows it’s me. I’m out of words but manage to push out, “How?”
He looks down and smiles. “How did I know you were Anonymous? Maybe I know your voice.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You read the Hillcrest Reporter?”
“Sure,” he says, shrugging. To be honest, I hoped Pony would read the articles. “Georgia, you are a good writer.” And I hoped he would think I’m a good writer. My heart flies up from the basement and shoots off into the clouds.
“Thanks,” I say.
“But why write under Anonymous?”
I rearrange the place mat, uncomfortable. Every molecule in my body wants to make up a story. I don’t want to tell Pony the real reason, even though he probably knows. “It’s against the rules of being a cheerleader.”
He gives me side-eye. “Is it?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that I don’t want people to know that part of me. It’s silly, but I don’t want it to hurt my reputation.”
“That must be exhausting,”