Lily and Dunkin

“You said you were going to do it.” Dare shoves me again, and I lose my balance and fall off the sidewalk.

“It could still happen,” I say, getting back in step with her. “The year’s just starting.” I hope she’ll quit being disappointed. I’m disappointed in myself enough for the both of us.

“It’s not going to happen if you don’t make it happen.” Dare stops walking. “Nobody can do this for you, Lily. Did you ever consider there could be someone like you—hiding—at our school, and if you’re brave, it could make it easier for that person?”

I doubt anyone else at our school is like me. But the thought gives me a spark of hope.

“When you’re brave and honest, you make it easier for the next person. Like Rosa Parks. Jackie Robinson. Thurgood Marshall. Ruby Bridges. Like—”

“Jenna Talackova. Janet Mock. Laverne Cox. Jenny Boylan.”

“Exactly.” Dare nods. “I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m saying it’s important, not only for you but for the next person.”

“I know,” I whisper, my head down. And I do know, but I can’t think about the next person right now. I can barely keep myself together. In addition to four new mustache hairs, which I plucked, I found another couple wiry hairs down there this morning, and I’m going to lose it if Dad doesn’t let me get hormone blockers soon.

“I’m not sure you do,” Dare says loud and clear, never knowing when to let something go.

Sweat drips down the sides of my face, and I just want to get to school before I’m a gross, sweaty mess for the first day.

Dare points her finger right under my nose. “If you can’t be comfortable with who you really are, then how do you expect anyone else to be?”

She’s right. She’s always right, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I want to get my head in the right place for school. “Could we please talk about something else?”

Dare looks me in the eye, squeezes my shoulders and says, “Sorry. Sometimes there’s no off switch to my mouth.”

And like that, we’re okay again, bumping shoulders and moving forward.