Page 7 of Don't Let Me Go
Guess that was the wrong answer? I’m not sure what the right answer would’ve been. All I know is I feel like I’m failing a test that I didn’t even know I was supposed to take.
Then again, failing is something I’m good at. I’ve failed my parents as a son. I’ve failed Micaela as a boyfriend. I failed my coach and my team and my school. Hell, I bet most people back in Tally would say I failed the whole damn city.
“Have you ever been to Italy?”
Riley’s question catches me off guard. “Italy? Uh. No.”
“Oh.”
Once again, my answer disappoints him. I don’t like losing whatever game we’re playing, so I add, “I’ve always wanted to go, though.”
Riley nods and chews his lower lip as he mulls over my response. I’m not sure where these questions are coming from or where they’re going, but to avoid another awkward exchange that leaves me feeling like I’ve flunked my midterm, I change the subject.
“Thanks again for letting me join you and your friends tonight. I haven’t gone out much since I moved here, so I appreciate the invite.”
Riley shrugs. “It was all Duy.”
“Yeah, he seems like a cool dude.”
Riley’s green-glass eyes turn back to me with a cutting glare. “They.”
“What?”
“Duy is nonbinary.”
Shit. Right. I knew that. Aunt Rachel told me Duy wasn’t a boy when he—fuck—whentheydropped off that welcome-to-the-neighborhood cake.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m still getting used to the whole pronoun thing. We didn’t have any trans students at my school in Tallahassee.”
Riley shakes his head and snorts. “Okay, first off, Duy is nonbinary, not trans. Some nonbinary people identify as trans, but some do not. Duy does not. Second, I can one hundred percent guarantee that you had trans students at your school. If you didn’t know about them, it’s because they didn’t feel safe telling you.”
Fuck. This guy’s not giving me an inch. I should probably stop talking. But I don’t want him thinking I’m some ignorant redneck. Before I can say anything, though, Duy and the two girls return, their arms overflowing with junk food.
“Okay,” the redhead announces, “we got you hot dogs for protein, French fries for starch, Diet Coke for caffeine, funnel cakes in case your blood sugar is low, popcorn and pretzels ’cause why not, and, last but not least, a giant fried pickle because that’s the closest thing we could find to a vegetable.”
Riley stares at the mountain of food that’s just been dumped in front of him and shakes his head.
“Seriously, Audrey? You expect me to eat all this?”
“I told you it was too much,” the other girl, the one with the cute button nose, says to her friend. (Tara? Tala? I’ve got to get better with names.)
“We’re covering all the bases,” Audrey answers as she plucks a French fry from its basket. With her bell-bottom jeans, beaded necklace, and white flowy blouse, she’s rocking a sixties flower-power look pretty hard tonight. But it suits her. As does Tara’s/Tala’s mixed-and-matched ensemble of lavender jeans, blue blouse, and maroon leather jacket, which I could see Micaela wanting to borrow.
“Please tell me you’re going to help me eat all this?” Riley pleads, pushing the pile of food toward his friends, who have seated themselves at the table.
“Well, if you don’t want the funnel cake...” Tara/Tala says, reaching for the fried dough.
Audrey raises an eyebrow. “Really, T.?”
“It’s only my third.”
“Yeah, your third in ten minutes. You still have powder on your nose from the last one.”
Audrey leans forward and kisses the sugar off her nose. And before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Oh! You two are a couple?”
Audrey narrows her hazel eyes at me. “Yeah.And?”
“No. Nothing,” I cover, trying to downplay my surprise. “I just didn’t, um, know. Duy didn’t tell me.”
