I keep my gym uniform in my backpack—simple maroon shirt and black basketball shorts that everyone wears. I don't use any of the locker rooms—I just can't. My gym teacher is reasonably understanding—so I get to use the family bathroom in the school.

It's better than the other bathrooms, at least. Usually cleaner. Usually, the boys' bathroom has a very sticky floor. Maisie, a girl in my English class, has told me that the floor in the girls' bathroom is just as sticky, so maybe floors in the school are just sticky? I don't know. (You’d think, with how high tuition is for anyone who can’t get a scholarship, they could afford a good janitor.) The family bathroom is three whole hallways away from both of the locker rooms. I fold my uniform over my arm and try to pull the door open.

...It's locked. It's never been locked before, I'm not even sure if that many people have actually ever used it. I try again.

"Hey, I'm in here!" Someone shouts.

I step back. After a minute, I hear running water. Then the door opens. "Sorry, I was just changing my tampon, I didn’t even know anyone else used this bathroom."

They...look like a guy. A guy with a feminine voice and a blue streak in his blond hair, straight, chin length. I'm about to open my mouth to say absolutely anything, but before I can, he interrupts me, "Oh, wait, you're that trans girl who comes in for a muffin ever Wednesday and Friday! My mom always has one ready for you!"

"...Hi," I say.

"Hi." He grins. "I didn't know you went to Scarlet Skies! I...I probably should have though, I've seen you in your uniform. ...Um..." He frowns for a moment. "Sorry! I just...There's not a lot of trans people at this school. I'm George."

"George," I say aloud. I can't think. "Oh, I'm...Rozhan."

He grins again and grabs my hand. ...He smells like baked bread. "Sorry if I took so long, it's just...It's weird walking in to the boy's bathroom with a tampon. You know?"

"No," I say. "I don't know."

"Oh, right, duh! Sorry, I'm a total ditz. Here, I'll get out of your way." He steps out of my way like he says he would. Even though his hair is blond—and looks like he's a natural blond—he has an olive skin tone and dark eyes and just, traits that look Hispanic, but I think it'd be rude to ask.

"Are you Hispanic?" I ask, like an idiot. Likely a rude idiot, too.

"Ha, I'm half Cuban and half Columbian. Mom's white though. I mean...other mom. I...I have two moms, you know. Um...Wait, that'd be Hispanic, right? Or is it Latino? Latina? I...I don't know. What about you?"

"I'm...I'm like, a quarter Native American—Flathead, I think, we don't talk much about that, for some reason—and a quarter Japanese, and then another quarter Iranian, and the rest is Kurdish? I'm trans."

"Ha, yeah, I know!" He chirps. "Your necklace is so cool, I think you look great. Anyway, sorry, I need to get class before my teacher thinks I died in the hallway. See you tomorrow at the bakery, maybe?" He smiles, kind and bright, and turns on his heel walking down the hallway. I stay a moment, trying to think.

I don't know what just happened.

The entire day is tough—but the next day, in the morning, I walk to the bakery I frequent. Some mornings, Kohl drives Deming to school, and it's a couples thing so I don't come along. I never have much money to buy much of anything, but every Wednesday and Friday, I can afford a single, blueberry muffin at the bakery down Canal. Instead of the usual, white woman who's there at the counter, it's George. He smiles and waves at me—he's wearing a tank top that has really large arm holes and shows off his binder. "Morning!" He chirps.

I smile. "Hey."

"Same muffin as always?" He asks.

"Yeah," I say. I reach for my wallet, but he stops me. "On the house," he says. He presses the muffin into my hand and smiles. "I'm gonna have to get ready for school in a minute..." He yawns. "Have a good one, Rozhan."

The walk to school is quiet without Deming, but I know that at least he's having fun with Kohl doing whatever couples do. The muffin's warm in my hand—it usually makes my mornings a bit better when I don't have Deming around to entertain me, anyway, but the steam is visible. This morning is colder than most around.

When I reach my locker, I glance at the mirror again. I'm considering saving up for dry shampoo—I know it's not as good as actually washing my hair, but it's not really about what's healthy for my hair, it's about looking like I'm put together so no one looks at me weird when I don’t wash my hair.

...There's an envelope in my locker. Small. White.

I pick it up and look at it—it has my name on it. Rozhan Martin. I don't recognize the handwriting.

I close my locker and tear it open—probably just a bit too eagerly, I think. ...Definitely a bit too eagerly, the envelope is in half, a tear going halfway through Rozhan. I pull out the piece of paper and for a minute, I am so utterly confused I just stand there.

Deming turns the corner right as I'm about to unfold it. "What is that?" He asks. He's eating a small sandwich bag of trail mix—but he's only eating the raisins. He tends to give the leftover trail mix to Kohl—it was honestly how they started dating, and I suspect if Kohl were to ever propose, it'd be with a bag of trail mix instead of a ring. Or at least, that'd be how they celebrate their proposal.

I look it over again. "I don't know."

"Well, open it and read it!" He exclaims. "Ooh, I bet it's a poem!"

I stare flatly at him. "Why would someone cram a poem in my locker?"

He blinks. "...Because they have a crush on you?"

I shrug that comment off—that's not where my head is at right now. "Okay, sure they do, but I don't want to read the poem they wrote about it."

"But, Rozzie, you write poetry," he says.

"But I wouldn't ever put a love poem in someone's locker—this isn't a fanfiction or whatever, Deming." I don't mention that I'm pretty sure my poetry sucks. Sometimes it seems good—and then, other times, it feels too emo, and sometimes it doesn't make sense, I just don't know.

He rolls his eyes and pops another raisin in his mouth. "Come on, come on, let's look at it!" Normally, in the mornings at school, we each take an earbud from my phone add start listening to this one DnD podcast we both like—not because we've ever played DnD, but because it's absolutely hilarious and queer as fuck, and I really think we need more medieval LGBTQ+ representation literally just because. (I mean, there's so much potential, holy fuck!) We get like, a quarter way through a single episode and then rush to class.

I frown—I'm ninety percent sure this is some sort of prank or something dumb. I'm not sure if I really want Deming to read it with me. "It's probably nothing, I should really just throw it away."

"What?" Deming gasps. "No, Rozhan, no. No. It's time you have some sort of wild high school romance like I had with Kohl."

"Didn't you grab his hand in the trail mix bag or something?" I ask.

"No—our hands touched in a Hot Topic when we both reached for the same nail polish. I was buying it for myself with birthday money, he was buying it for his baby sister's birthday, who's like twelve or something, I dunno." He glances at his nails. "Anyway—come on, what if this is really cool? You should read it. Read it. Read it."

I look at it. It's just a piece of paper—I doubt there's anything cool about it. "...Deming..."

He looks at me and his eyes soften—he knows I get like this sometimes. "Come on, girl—it's not about to bite you. And if you get a paper cut, I have a band aid in my pocket right now."

Reluctantly, I unfold it and start to read.

Rozhan Martin,

Wow. You have no idea how difficult it was to just write that down, your name, I mean. I gotta say, it's a great name, you chose a really good one. Again, this is kind of difficult for me to write down, especially since my handwriting sucks and I'm trying to make sure this is legible so I'm just writing really slow right now.

I think I have a crush on you. It's...kind of embarrassing, partially because it's a crush you know, but also because...there's just something about you that makes my face heat up and toes curl, you know? And I keep thinking about you—my friends say you aren't that pretty, but I don't know. There's something about you that's really eye catching. You know? I'm in one of your classes—you're the smartest person in that class, I swear, and...I don't know, I mean...I held a conversation once with you, and I can't even remember what about, but it was something you got really passionate about and it was so unbelievably dorky, and I think that was how I started to notice.

One of my friends actually suggested I do this, said it happened to them in middle school and it was a huge confidence booster, and...I'd like to see you smile a bit more. I don't mind that you smell like cigarette smoke, or that you sometimes have a lisp when you talk, or that you curse so much sailors want to wash their ears out with soap. And the fact that you were, you know, not born Rozhan doesn't really bother me, my friend suggested I add that.

I just think you're really cool. I'm hoping that, one day, I'll be able to talk to you in person, once I get the courage to. I don't want to freak you out or anything—but I think you're super cool and really smart and I just...hope one day I will be able to talk to you in person, and that maybe I'll be able to take you out for dinner and some popcorn?

Hope I didn't weird you out!

¿

For a minute, I just stare. "Okay," Deming says next to me. "So, maybe it's not a love poem." I look over at him, wondering if I read it correctly. "But a love letter is just as good!"

This doesn't feel right. I honestly think it might be a joke. "It's probably a prank," I tell him.

Deming rolls his eyes. "You have such low self-esteem, girl. When are you gonna realize you're fucking amazing and everyone should want to date you? ...Well. Everyone who's into girls, I mean...I don't want to date you, I sure hope Kohl doesn't want to date you and...No adults should want to date you because you aren't legal yet and that shit is nasty, but—Okay, I'm getting off topic here, I love you and you're amazing, Rozzie!"

I smile—Deming's always been like this. He used to beat up bullies for me on the playground, and I would talk some massive shit about anyone who messed with him with the girls during lunch because I got along with some of the girls in elementary. Always supportive, always in my corner, always loyal. Fuck, I love Deming. "Have I told you the best?"

"I like being told I am!" He says. He moves a strand of his colored hair out of his face. We have spent way too much time reading the note in my locker. The bell will ring any minute now. "...I should probably get to class, girl."

I'm going to snort every time he calls me 'girl.' "Okay. I'll see you, Deming."

"Bye, Roz." He turns on his heel and goes to class. I look at the note the entire way to my own. It's a joke, it is definitely a joke, but...you know. A part of me doesn't care—is it so wrong to just kind of hope it's real, and to wish someone really did have a crush on me? I fold it up and slide it into the binder I'm carrying.

I can't help my smiling as I get to class.