don’t want to be here anymore. Next time, I hope I’m born in the right body. A foot digs into my rib cage. And another. And another. But none of it matters anymore. My body goes limp, and my eyes shut.
The last thing I think is: Georgia.
TWENTY-ONE
Sunday, October 27
GEORGIA, 12:01 A.M.
The hospital waiting room is empty, quiet, sad. My nostrils burn from the pungent bleach-based cleaning products. My eyes burn from crying so much. The TV bolted to the wall blares a news channel with the same report on loop every fifteen minutes. I almost have the words memorized.
And I can’t stop shivering.
My blood ran cold when I heard what happened to Pony, and I haven’t been able to warm up. I was looking for him the exact moment he was jumped. The news about the beating spread through the crowd like wildfire. Half the crowd went looking for the fight, and the other half split to the after-parties.
I ran to the hotel lobby and called my dad. I was mad, confused, frustrated, guilty, and scared. Having too many emotions at once is like mixing too many colors together—everything turns to a grayish nothing. That’s me. I’m a grayish nothing.
While waiting in the hotel lobby for Dad to drive from Addison to Dallas, I watched Pony get loaded into the ambulance. Cops everywhere. That’s something I can never unsee.
Dad showed up soon after with a change of clothes and hot coffee. Bless him. I spilled my guts on the way to the hospital. Rambling on about Pony being transgender, how I felt about him, and what happened at the dance. We sat in the Dallas Methodist Hospital parking lot, and I cried until I was out of tears. But every time I think of Pony getting beaten up, I seem to find more. Everyone is talking online like they know what went down in that bathroom. They say Pony will never walk again. They say he will never see again. That he’s dead.
It became too much. I had to put my phone away.
I tried to get an update on Pony from the hospital staff, but I’m not family. Good thing I’m resourceful and gathered intel from overhearing chatter at the nurses’ station. Pony has a couple broken ribs and possibly a concussion. They are monitoring for internal bleeding. He’s shaken, one nurse said, and won’t talk to anyone—not even to his parents.
“I know you.”
I snap out of my thoughts and look up. There’s a short guy wearing baggy jeans with a gold nose ring and a leather vest covered in rainbow buttons.
“Probably not,” I say.
“Yes, I do. You’re the cheerleader. Pony’s cheerleader. I’ve seen plenty of pictures of you.”
“That’s creepy,” I say.
“Max,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m one of Pony’s nearest and queerest friends. Pronouns are him, he, his.”
I shake his hand. “Georgia. But you knew that.”
“Any updates?” he asks.
“Not really. I heard broken ribs.”
Max sits down beside me and lets out a sigh. “And a broken spirit.”
I nod. That’s probably why he isn’t talking.
“Do you know who did this?” he asks.
A shiver goes up my spine. “I think so,” I admit.
Everyone suspects Ryan and Mac. I wouldn’t be surprised. Those guys are awful ogres, but I had no idea they were capable of something this heinous.
Max shakes his head, defeated. “This is so fucked. And all my fault. I feel so guilty,” he says, wringing his hands. “I pushed him too hard. Told him to come out. And when he does, this happens?”
“You heard what he did tonight, right?” I ask.
“I heard he came out at the dance,” Max says. “And about the bathroom.”
“He did much more than come out. Two girls, my friends, were outed for being gay during the awards ceremony. Pony was trying to protect them. He didn’t want them to be alone in that moment,” I say, my eyes filling back up.
I give Max the blow-by-blow as he listens in awe. I show him a video of Pony’s speech that some kid posted on Instagram. When the video ends, I look over and see tears falling down his face. “Max?” I ask, putting my hand on his back.
“I’m so proud of him.” He wipes away the tears.
“It was something else,” I admit.
“And got his ass beat for it,” Max says darkly. “Those guys are going down.”
“You going to rough them up?” I ask, imagining a queer social justice league out policing the streets.
“What? No, that’s not my style,” Max says. “I like to hit