I’ve stuck to the halls of our high school, living my out-to-everyone life pretty much the same as before everyone (including me) knew. It was my idea to come here, but I never would have been able to do it without Ryan at my side. I don’t know what I want, so mostly I go along. We don’t talk about these moments, and I think Ryan believes if we don’t talk about them, then they haven’t been happening. In the context of our relationship, this counts as logic: We are just friends except for the moments when, oops, we’re more than just friends. If someone he doesn’t like approaches us, he’ll hold my hand to make himself seem taken, but otherwise it’s hands-off. Ryan looks a little bit scared, but he’s trying to hide it under an arched brow and a smoke screen of sarcasm. Ryan and I are underage, underexperienced, underdressed, and completely under the spell of the scene pressing up against us. The whole spectrum is in attendance tonight, breathing in the rainbow air and dancing to the rainbow sounds. In reality, we’re in the Castro, at a club called Happy Happy, kicking it up at the gaygantuan kickoff party for San Francisco’s very own Pride Week. At the same time, Ryan’s parents think he’s in the top bunk in my bedroom, slumbering peacefully after a slow night of video games and TV. Right now, my parents think I’m sleeping on the couch at my best friend Ryan’s house, safely tucked into a suburban silence.
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