I pause, nod at him. “What’s your question, sir?”
“You say we should separate the transgenduh students from the othuhs, to protect them from bullies,” he says, and God, that accent’s thick. “But aren’t you just trading one kind of violence for anothuh? Bullying for loneliness? Loneliness that could lead to suicide?”
I want to say yes. Of course. He’s right. Herding trans kids off to our own bathroom might make us safer. But it won’t solve the problem of bullying, and it will make us feel other, and less than, and bad, wrong, dirty.
But I can’t say yes. I don’t. I put my hands around the throat of my conscience and I press down.
“No, sir; single-stall bathrooms are not a slippery slope to suicide.” I say it smug, cocky; I earn a laugh from the last judge on the left. “The real danger is to the trans children you would force into close quarters with bullies.”
Matthew stands again. “Point of—” he begins, but I wave him down.
“My opponents talk about ‘inclusivity,’ ” I say, my fingers curling into quotation marks. “But their definition prioritizes assimilation over the well-being of vulnerable kids.”
Matthew rises; I flick my hand at him, forceful. I can’t stop now. The judges are leaning forward, listening to me, hanging on my every word.
“Our friends from Massachusetts would ask a transgender boy of fourteen, a freshman, to share a locker room with upperclassmen. Nearly full-grown men, Mr. Speaker, who might be harboring hate in their hearts. Is that the ‘inclusivity’ we should strive for? Forcing a child into a space where he’ll be hurt? And then cooing about how we’re protecting him? Welcoming him? Saving him from suicide?”
It’s only when I pause that I notice the judges aren’t even writing notes anymore. They’re staring at me, wide-eyed—wet-eyed, in the case of the guy on the left, reaching up to dab away tears with his thumb and forefinger. To my left, James covers his face with his hands. Matthew glares at me, beneath dark brows, like he wants to stab me.
And to my right, Jonah’s mouth hangs open, his face a mask of plain and total awe.
I may be going against everything I stand for, but goddamn if I’m not doing a great job.
“Thank you,” I finish. “The opposition rests.”
* * *
—
The tennis players don’t look us in the eye when we shake hands. That’s how bad it was, this round: a slaughter. When we make our way to the judges’ table to thank them for their time, that man on the left gets teary-eyed all over again, his eyes welling as he takes my hand in both of his.
“That was excellent,” he says in a low voice. “Truly spectacular.”
“I’m pretty sure judges aren’t allowed to say stuff like that,” I mumble to Jonah as we pack up our things.
He laughs. “Pretty sure the rules don’t apply when you’re listening to Finch Kelly, the G.O.A.T.”
Before I can ask him why he’s calling me a goat—I mean, is it a term of endearment? Why?—Adwoa swoops up behind us. She shepherds us, not unlike goats, into the hallway.
“Finch!” she whisper-shouts, because James and Matthew are still well within earshot. “You made the judges cry! Over bathrooms! That might be the best I’ve ever seen you. Actually, no—that might be the best round I’ve ever seen, period. You didn’t come to play with those little tennis boys, Jonah. Your P.O.I. in Matthew’s speech? Flawless.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jonah says, smiling, all modest, “but this is Finch’s moment.”
Before I can stop him, he’s wrapping an arm around me, and then Adwoa, bringing us together for a tight group hug. His chin rests, light, on the crown of my head. I feel scared and cozy, all at once. I want to wriggle out of this hug; I want to never, ever leave it.
The celebratory mood continues when we reach the dining hall. Adwoa finds the other coaches and regales them all with the tale of our monumental victory just now. The proverbial fourteen-year-old trans boy of my speech, menaced by Neanderthal upperclassmen in an all-male changing room. I’m nodding along—and, truthfully, feeling antsy about all the attention—when something catches my eye across the room.
Massachusetts Red.
They’re slumping in a couple of wooden chairs in a far, dark corner. James, the one with the photographic memory, is rubbing at his watery eyes. He might even be crying. It’s hard to tell. His partner, Matthew, is stroking his fine, dark hair, and nodding. Total compassion is written all over his face. He leans in, close, and whispers something in James’s ear. James laughs. He lowers his hands. His eyes are shining now.
When he turns and kisses Matthew on the forehead, I’m sure I’m seeing it wrong. I blink: There it is again! Another kiss, quick, on the mouth. And then they’re pulling apart, bowing their heads to the notepads in their laps, like nothing just happened, nothing at all.
It’s the smallest thing—you really could blink and miss it—but it tears through me. I jerk my head away, but I can still see them, even when I screw my eyes shut. Those boys, that kiss, seared in the pink dark on the back of my lids.
They have everything. Don’t they? Everything I want, and everything I’ll never have. They have more money than they’ll ever be able to spend. They have athletic ability on top of academics, enough to kick down the doors of any selective college in the country.
And they have each other. In this sad, quiet moment, they have someone to hold. To kiss. I’ve never wanted that before. But now, watching them, their closeness, I realize: I do. I want someone.
And I’m afraid of what I want.
chapter fourteen
“So, Finch, tell us how it went.”
I’m in a concrete stairwell off the Gray School dormitory, laptop on my knees. It’s eleven o’clock my time, eight theirs. Mom and Dad are leaning into the camera, eager to hear all about my arduous day. Roo, in the back, occupied by a video game, looks much less eager.
“It went well, I think.” It’s hard to muster much enthusiasm after the excruciating twenty-four hours I’ve had—the bad news from Georgetown, the wildly confusing almost-kiss with Jonah, the long speeches that go against everything I stand for. “Really well, actually.”
“Really well?” Dad repeats. As he leans close, the pixels of his face blur. “Today was . . . how many rounds?”
“Four,” I answer around a yawn.
“So you’ve done six rounds total,” Mom says. “Two last night, four today. Is that right?”
“Right. And tomorrow are the”—I yawn again, a great big world-eating one, this time—“finals.”
God, but it’s been a long day. Jet lag has done me no favors. I’m practically sleepwalking through this call, actually nodding every few minutes. I might not be able to keep my eyes open much longer.
“And you think you won all your rounds?” Mom sounds more optimistic than I feel.
“Well, we’re a little worried about the last round of the day, against these two girls from Connecticut. But I think we won, still. And even if we didn’t, our overall scores might be good enough to make finals.”
“Right on,” Dad says. “And you’d better believe we’ll be watching the finals tomorrow. Do us proud, kid.”
“Wait.” I’m confused: We couldn’t even afford one plane ticket. “What do you mean? How are you going to watch the finals?”
“They’re filming the final round,” Roo says, glancing up from her game. “You didn’t know that?”
“Really?” I yawn, scratch at the stubble forming along my jaw. “A livestream or something?”
“No, no,” Mom says. “It’s going to be on CSPAN, they said.”
“. . . Oh.” I’m wide awake, suddenly, wired with fear. “Are you sure? Where’d you hear that?”
“On the website,” Mom says. “In big capital letters, right along the top.”
“CSPAN. Huh.” I run a hand
through my hair—greasy, gross. I’ll have to shower before I go to bed tonight. If we advance to the finals and I appear on national television with an oil slick on my head . . . “CPSAN is . . . big.”
“Damn right it’s big!” Dad says, bringing his palm down on the desk. “You’re gonna be on TV!”
I’m about to tell my dad that appearing on TV is among the top five most terrifying things I can imagine when a notification pops into the upper-right of my screen: a call request from Lucy Newsome.
We haven’t spoken since that disastrous day on the bus. Why now? Did something happen? Something terrible? Rushing through my goodbyes to my folks, I press accept as fast as I can. There she is, my best friend, sitting crisscross on her bed in her favorite pink terrycloth pajamas. A bread clip rakes her hair haphazardly out of her eyes.
I half expect to feel upset when I see her. Guilty. Instead, I feel relief. Complete and utter relief.
“Hey,” I say, “I’m sorry.” I know there’s nothing else to say until I get that out of the way. “I was a total dick to you on the bus that day. I never should have pressured you like that. The past couple days have been . . .”
“. . . hell,” she finishes for me, giggling. “I know. I was really mad at you.”
“Are we good?” I ask her. “Can we be good?”
“I don’t know if we’re all-the-way good,” she says, with a sigh that comes across as an explosion of static. “But I think we can get there.”
“You know what? I can work with that. I want to make it right, Lulu. Whatever I have to do. I’ll even come canvassing with you sometime. If you don’t mind teaching me the ropes, I mean.”
“I would love that,” she says. “It’s just good to talk to you, man. I want to hear all about your—Oh!” She lets out a gasp, leans forward, and firmly seizes the steering wheel of our conversation. “Dude! How’s Jonah doing? I’ve been dying to talk to you about Jonah, oh my God. Did you hear that Bailey didn’t get into Juilliard? Has Jonah heard? Karma’s a bitch!”
Normally, I’d join her in gloating, but I’m still smarting from my own rejection letter.
“Jonah’s doing fine,” I say, side-stepping the Juilliard thing. “We went to a party last night.”
“No way!” Lucy gasps. “A real one? With drinking and ass-grabbing and everything?”
“Oh, absolutely not,” I tell her—and then backtrack: “Well, I did have one sip of Jonah’s beer . . .”
“Finch!” Lucy crows. “You’re a bad boy now! I love it!”
“And me and Jonah, we went out onto this balcony, and we were talking about Bailey and . . .” I trail off; I don’t want to tell her about Georgetown, not yet. And, besides, I could still get in. If I win the final tomorrow. “And I was sort of, uh, petting him on the head, I guess. I had my hand in his hair. And then . . .”
“I knew it!” Lucy drives her fist into a pillow. “I knew you liked him!”
“I don’t . . .” I pause, glance around, make sure no one’s in the stairwell. “I do not like him.”
“But you made a move,” she says. “Stroking his hair and stuff.”
“That was not a move,” I whisper-hiss. “It was a friendly, supportive . . .”
“Whatever.” She waves a hand, dismissive. “So you were sitting there, platonically stroking his hair for friendship reasons. And then what?”
“You’re insufferable,” I tell her. “You know that, right?”
“But you love me for it.”
“I do,” I say. “A lot, I do.”
“And while we’re on the subject of people you love . . .” She brings her brows up, high and mischievous. “Let’s talk about you and Jo . . .”
The door to the stairwell swings open. I look up: Jonah.
“Bye, Lucy!” It comes out a yelp. “Adios! Arrivederci! Nice talking to you!”
She starts complaining, pissed that I’m hanging up without an explanation. I’ll have to apologize later. I mash my thumb against end call—just in time, too. Jonah’s already standing over me, looking very amused.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says.
“You know me. I’m easy to startle.”
He leans against the concrete wall, giving me that easy smile he’s got. His hair is slick, still, from the shower, and he’s wearing what might be pajamas: soft gray sweatpants, a hoodie somewhere between purple and pink. His fingers play with the dangling drawstrings; I watch, rapt.
“You’re out here all alone?” he asks.
“All by my lonesome,” I answer.
“I thought you wanted to get to bed early,” he teases, “after all our carousing last night.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Jonah’s already bending, pulling my laptop gently from the lap that housed it.
“Hey!” I leap to my feet, try to snatch back my battered computer. “Give it back! Right now!”
“No,” he says, and folds the machine in half. “No more internet tonight. We’re going on a walk.”
“Shouldn’t we be sleeping?”
“Nope.” Jonah shakes his head. “You need to relax, dude. We’re going out for a midnight snack.”
“A midnight snack?” I lift a brow.
“I know just the thing.”
* * *
—
Fifteen minutes later, we’re perched on a park bench overlooking the Potomac. The dark water rushes past, glowing with the distant light of the National Mall. We can see almost all of it: the glittering dome of the Capitol, the forbidding obelisk of the Washington Monument, and even Lincoln’s columns—although not, from here, the man himself.
In the midst of all this majesty, Jonah lifts the lid of the box in his lap and retrieves a Boston Cream for me.
“A dozen doughnuts.” I take the first, perfect bite. “You don’t think this is overkill?”
“Not a chance.” Jonah shakes his head, swallowing a bite of double-chocolate glaze. “We can always save some for the morning.”
A bit of cream spills onto my chin, but I can’t find it in me to care. “Part of a healthy, balanced breakfast,” I say, and earn a gentle laugh from Jonah.
“So,” he says shyly, “we didn’t really get a chance to continue our talk last night.”
“Oh. Right. Last night.”
I’m very conscious, suddenly, of how dark it is. And how late it is. And how alone we are, here, overlooking the grandest monuments in the country. Does he want to . . . kiss? I scoot away from him, feeling my body stiffen.
“I just meant about Georgetown,” Jonah says, flushing a little, embarrassed. “I know how much it meant to you.”
Oh. Oh. Never mind. No romance here. None.
“Well, the final is tomorrow,” I tell him, “and we went up against those top-tier Connecticut girls tonight, so we could still be in the running.”
He lifts a brow. “What does that have to do with Georgetown?”
“Well, if we make it to the finals, and we win, I can go back to the admissions committee, right? I can say, ‘Hey, look, I’m a national debating champion—don’t I deserve to get in?’ ”
“Finch,” Jonah says, his voice small, solemn. “I don’t think it works like that.”
“They’re not going to turn down a national champion, Jonah.”
He gives me a look so pained that I can’t help but wince, too.
“Before Bailey dumped me, you and I talked a lot about him.” Jonah speaks slowly, carefully. “You and Adwoa kept telling me that I deserved better. But it never sunk in, because I just . . . I couldn’t even imagine better than Bailey.”
“. . . Right.” Where is he going with this?
“I think that’s why the breakup hit me so hard,” he says. I note the past tense here; hit me, not is presently hitting me. “I really thought Bailey was The One—capital T, capital O. If he d
umped me, I’d never have another shot. Not with anyone.”
“So you’re saying Bailey is Georgetown.” I catch his drift. “And I should give up on . . . him? . . . It?”
“I’m saying the thing you want isn’t always the thing that’s best.”
“But Georgetown is the best!” I take a frustrated bite of my Boston Cream. “It’s the best college in D.C.,” I say, crumbs spilling from my mouth, then swallow. “Am I a bad person for wanting the best?”
“Georgetown isn’t the best. You’re the best. You’re going up against all these prep school kids with zillionaire parents, and you’re talking circles around them. You’re kicking their asses.”
“But it doesn’t matter how good I am, or how much I study. Those kids are always going to have things I don’t. And the only way I can level the playing field is if I—”
“Oh my God, Finch, stop,” he almost shouts. It shocks me. I reel back, away from him, but he’s still going: “You deserve to be here, dude! No matter where you go to school! No matter how much money you’ve got!”
“I live in the real world, Jonah.” I rise from the bench and brush my hands, sticky with sugar, against the seat of my pants. “And I have one thing going for me: I’m good at this. At debating.”
He looks up at me, sighs. “You’re breaking my heart, man.”
“I’m breaking your heart?”
“You have so much going for you.” Jonah rises from the bench, his hands closed in loose fists. I can tell that he wants to reach out with them, grab me by the shoulders, shake me ’til I understand. “And there are so many people who look up to you. Want to be like you.”
“Like who?”
“Like me.”
I roll my eyes. “No, you don’t.”
“I do! I’ve said it before!” In the space between us, he shakes those twin fists, insistent. “You’re smart, yeah. But we meet a ton of smart people at these tournaments, and you’re not like them. You don’t lord over anyone. You want to share what you know. I’ve never seen you happier than when you’re, like, breaking down the wealth tax thing, or whatever, making someone really get it. You want people to care the way that you care.” He takes a breath; the fists come loose. “And you care so much, dude. About everything. I swear, before you do anything—whether it’s the state final or, like, ordering lunch—you weigh all your options. You really think about it. Like, ‘What’s the best possible thing I could do, right now, with what I’ve got?’ ”
Both Sides Now Page 22