Every day after the last bell rings, I visit the school library. On the far left side of the library, in the third row on the fourth bookshelf, there’s a school bus for a bookend. Beneath that bus is a note with small, slanted handwriting.

Moonfall. It is gloriously bad, beautiful in its terribleness, honestly. You’ll understand what I mean. You aren’t prepared. I promise.
—K

Each note, no matter how simple or detailed, encourages an aching grin. The notes have become a needle full of adrenaline shot into my heart. All those cheesy feelings from tales come rushing in; butterflies, flushed cheeks, and a dazed grin from a single thought about these notes, and who wrote them. But lately, I’ve been wanting much more than a note, so much more than exchanging the occasional sentence or two.

I give a quick response in my own chicken scratch;

I promise there will be an essay on it for you here tomorrow. I can’t wait, or maybe I’m dreading it? A bit of both tbh

But I don’t return the note to its proper spot. Black spots litter the end of the paper from the constant tapping of my pen.

These notes have been a silly little secret between my mysterious pen pal and me for two months, but I don’t want them to be secrets anymore. I don’t want to be a secret, even if that dark voice at the back of my mind murmurs that it’s better to remain anonymous. There is a chance they won’t like the real me, as I have been told that I’m being dramatic or too much for others to deal with.

Pacing the hall, I adjust the strap of my backpack. The nerves weigh heavy, chewing like a rat with a string of cheese at the sliver of confidence I’ve built over the last week. I hop in place, once, twice, a third time and…

Or no essay and we could watch it together instead?
—A

I slip the note back before I change my mind and walk away. Come tomorrow, I’ll know if K’s curiosity mirrors mine.

That sliver of confidence fades, overcome by dread because, if they agree, then we’ll meet. K will learn I’m agender and pansexual. I’ve been out for a little over a year, but this is coming out all over again. There is someone I want to tell and I’m terrified of what they’ll think, how they’ll feel, and how they will treat me.

What if they suddenly aren’t interested? What if they think I’m not worth respecting?

There’s always the chance that K may laugh in my face, may show that look of confusion, like they want to tell me off for being stupid enough to join the alphabet soup brigade, or they refuse to understand because that means all the ridiculous rules that have run their lives meant nothing. They could have imagined me all this time as their ideal person, then I pop up and ruin the illusion.

To top all that dread off, I’m not the most popular kid in school, either. I’m not a fantastic sports player or an amazing gamer, although I can get pretty wicked with board games. My fashion sense is questionable, at best. Anyone who takes the time to find matching socks in the morning is far more questionable, in my opinion. And I have a string of bullies lined up to repeat overused jokes that my grandparents probably said in their youth, which is why my family doesn’t speak to my maternal grandparents or my paternal grandfather. They weren’t as supportive as my parents. As grateful as I am that Mom and Dad stood up for me no matter what, I can’t deny the guilt at having ruined their relationships with their parents by simply existing.

So, yeah, if K and I meet, they could absolutely hate me, or we could meet and be everything I’ve ever hoped for.

My heart skips recalling how this all started over a reading assignment. I had a book report to do for my English class, so I traversed the library in search of a novel that wouldn’t bore me to death when I found a piece of paper next to the bus bookend. There was no name, only notes and eraser marks along with a Watch List on the back bottom right-hand corner.

I left the paper where I found it, but that evening, when my thoughts bombarded me with terrible memories of a piss poor summer, I remembered the two movies listed. I chanced searching for them; Dinoshark and Fateful Findings.

I consumed both movies back to back, my brain slightly mortified by the horrendous creations I consumed, and returned to the library the following day. The paper remained. Although I did not know if the owner would ever find it, I wrote a note that read;

Those movies were fucking awful. I loved them. Got any more suggestions?

Two days later, I found a response on a folded piece of paper that stuck out from beneath the school bus.

The entirety of the Sharknado series should keep you busy for a while. If you want a cult classic, watch The Room.
—K

Since then, K and I have talked every school day for two months through nothing more than notes in the library. Sometimes I check throughout the day and K has already responded. Sometimes I get one note at the end of the day. Regardless, finding K’s response has become the spark to sputter my engine to life, that has me staying awake through every class no matter how monotone my teacher’s voice is. Seriously, some could make a living recording audiobooks to ease troubled sleepers to bed.

Tomorrow may be the end of these notes, if K doesn’t respond well to my suggestion.

Maybe asking to meet was too much. I should have asked for their number or we could start chatting online. I can tell them I’m agender, at least. If they don’t take that well, I won’t have to see their face, their disappointment, or judgment. I face judgment daily. I am not keen to face more, especially from someone I care for.

Telling my parents had been hard enough, wondering if they would respect me or laugh like the kids at school stumbling upon online content about nonbinary or trans people. They treat the idea of us like the scary unknown, the unfathomable alien tech or the discovery of an ancient language they deem lesser and confusing.

Somber thoughts have me stopping at the bottom of the stairs leading to the parking lot. Fall has arrived. In PA, the changing leaves may last two weeks, if we’re lucky. Right now, reds, oranges, yellows, and browns overtake the trees. A cool breeze cuts through the thin lining of my jacket. Students pile out of the front entrance and leaves crunch beneath their shoes.

Every stranger that walks by has me asking myself, is that K? What about her? What about him? What about them? Who are you, K?

Are you the girl with pigtails and nails so long that my dad likes to call them nose pickers? Or maybe the class clown laughing with friends and tripping over his own feet? Perhaps the theater kid that’s reciting their lines or the cheer captain grabbing the pom-poms from her car?

Over a thousand students at Grandville High and somewhere, in this mass of hormones and existential dread, is a student with a love for movies and a secret pen pal.

I desperately wish to find the answer to the mystery that is K because I’ve really enjoyed talking with them. After my complete fiasco of a breakup over the summer, I direly need an avoidance. K has given me that and more. They’re witty and cool and nice. I’d like to call us friends. I’d like to think we would be good friends, maybe more than that if I were so lucky. And after my previous failure of a relationship, it’s a miracle I’m looking for more than friends at all. I thought I had sworn off love, but K makes me want to try again.

Damn it all, I’m going back and asking to exchange numbers or socials instead.

I turn around with every intention of changing my request. Too bad I run smack dab into Kace Wellings, varsity jock and bully extraordinaire. The typical tan, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Prince Charming with all the natural advantages the world can handle. Although the sour look on his face reminds me of the expression my baby cousin makes when he needs a shit.

“You going to apologize or what?” Kace snarls.

I assume he would have shoved me to my ass if not for his girlfriend, Lavender. She reminds me of a Disney Princess with those curls of red hair, big blue eyes, and a thin frame. Lavender’s no angel, but she isn’t keen on Kace getting physically violent, which is a blessing in disguise for the entire population of Grandville. Point proven by her pressing a gentle hand to Kace’s chest.

“Let’s go, babe. It was clearly an accident,” she says.

“Sorry, Kace,” I say, hoping to spare my life should a time come when Lavender isn’t around. Better to be safe than sorry is a motto I live by when pertaining to buff football players that could kill me with one swing of his meaty fist.