You Know Me Well(61)

“Which is…?”

“Who are you? Not your names—I know your names. But I need to know—Who are you?”

*

We all show up for the last day of school. Our lockers are mostly cleaned out. Classes are afterthoughts. The only reason we are here is to be with each other.

The last day of school has always seemed to me to be the doorway to summer—nothing further than that. But today it strikes me in a different way. I hear the future whispering that there will come a time when this building will not be my world. These kids will not be my life’s sole population. There will come a day—soon—when I will walk away from this. Every now and then, I’ll return as a ghost, as my memories step through these hallways. But I will already be in the afterlife, which will be my new, better life.

I tell Katie how I’m feeling, and she seems to understand. I don’t tell Ryan, because he has his own news to deal with. He’s a one-man pride parade—last night the three of us decorated a shirt for him to wear. By the way, I’m gay, it says. A few people seem surprised when they read it.

But mostly?

People stop him to say how much they love the shirt.

*

Who are you?

Kate answered Garrison Kline instantly.

“I’m an artist.”

He smiled. “I don’t doubt it. But show me some proof.”

So she took out her phone, looking as nervous as I must have looked when I’d stepped onto that bar in my underwear. She showed him some photos of her work. He seemed genuinely impressed.

“This has suddenly become much more interesting,” he said once he’d swiped through. Then he turned to me. “How about you? Who are you?”

And because I was still hurt, and because I was still aware of the silence of the phone in my pocket, I found myself saying, “I’m not Ryan’s boyfriend.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Neither do I.”

Garrison Kline nodded. Then, gently, he said, “I don’t think that’s a good answer, because I don’t think that’s an accurate answer. I want you to try again. Who are you?”

“I am becoming—” I started. Then I tried again. “I am becoming—”

But I couldn’t figure out the end of the sentence.

“Maybe that’s your answer,” Katie said. “You’re becoming. You’re in the process of becoming. You just don’t know what yet.”

That felt right. It felt okay to stop there, for now, as we walked through the future.

Satisfied, the photographer began to take our picture. Solo and together.

It was only the next morning that we would see:

We looked great.

*

I am walking on my own to Pink Saturday. Tomorrow Ryan and Taylor and some of Taylor’s friends will join us for the parade, but today it’s only me who’s meeting up with Katie and her contingent.

It’s only as I’m a block away from the Castro that I realize: I’ve done this all myself. This is the first time I’ve ever come here on my own, and the remarkable thing is that I’m only noticing it now. I take my place in the crowd—a crowd that doesn’t feel anonymous, because each of us is so individual. There are too many types of us to be counted; there are too many variations of our pride to be pigeonholed. I see people my age and people five times my age. I see all of these people freed from their given definitions and fashioning their own way of being defined. I get looks from guys, for sure—and while I don’t shy away from them, I don’t fall into them, either. I am not here to pick up or be picked up. I am here to be with my friends.

From the top of Castro Street, it looks like a river of people. It looks, I realize, like a march—rows and rows of people, gathered to exert their power. Only this time we aren’t marching. We don’t need to show our numbers to show our worth. This time our power comes from staying in this space, from walking the hallowed ground of our history and bringing it to life. I am alone, yes. But I am a part of this. I am a part of everything. I feel it—I’ve been living in a world, but what I have is a universe.

Katie texts to say she’s waiting under the Castro Theatre’s neon marquee. Without another thought—without any hesitation—I plunge in and head toward her. I join the fray.

I’m ready now.

I am becoming—





22

Kate

“You’re here!” I shout when I see him.

Mark has broken free of the crowd. He’s looking at me and grinning, and I grab him in a hug.

“It’s just you,” he says. “And, oh my God, look at you!”

I laugh. This morning I raided my art supplies and the costume bin in the garage. I arrived at Lehna’s house with a bag full of paints and body glitter, tutus and ribbons and everything rainbow I could find, relics from our pride-filled freshman year.

She had already assembled her outfit carefully. A backwards cap, shorts, and a crop-top shirt with the sleeves cut off. I talked her into adding rainbow suspenders, and then she told me all about Candace as I assembled my outfit.

I settled on the same jeans I wore last Saturday, but this time with a metallic gold leotard and a pair of white angel wings. I let my hair fall down past my shoulders, and I dabbed gold glitter on my cheeks and then I painted my arms in so many shades of pink and red and gold, all swirls and stars and joy.