If I Can Give You That


 
 
 Dedication
 For any trans kid who’s ever felt alone.
 
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 One
 Two
 Three
 Four
 Five
 Six
 Seven
 Eight
 Nine
 Ten
 Eleven
 Twelve
 Thirteen
 Fourteen
 Fifteen
 Sixteen
 Seventeen
 Eighteen
 Nineteen
 Twenty
 Twenty-One
 Twenty-Two
 Twenty-Three
 Twenty-Four
 Twenty-Five
 Twenty-Six
 Twenty-Seven
 Twenty-Eight
 Epilogue
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Books by Michael Gray Bulla
 Back Ad
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 One
 “YOU CAN BAIL ANY TIME you need to,” Nicole reminds me for the fourth time today.
 I nod. I don’t tell her that I really can’t—at least, not without feeling bad about it—but I know what she means. She means I can escape to the bathroom, that I can slide out of the space quietly and lock myself in a stall until the meeting is over, or I can leave and catch the bus to downtown and walk back to my apartment. I can even call my mom to pick me up if I really want to.
 But even if I can do that, I won’t. I have no idea how this group will respond to a new guy showing up out of nowhere and then leaving halfway through, and I’m not gonna chance it. But I know my best friend well enough to get that she means well. So I just say, “I know,” and Nicole smiles as I hold the door open for her.
 Glenwood’s only youth center is small. The building is unimpressive from the outside, tall and gray and easily overlooked. Inside isn’t much different, but the owners—the workers? The volunteers? Whoever’s in charge of decorating?—they’ve clearly tried their best to make it as lively as possible. In the lobby, colorful afghans are slung over the backs of secondhand couches and delicate lights are strung over the chipped countertop. Art lines the walls—figures of people dancing, splatter-painted self-portraits, flowers and buildings and things, all with their artists’ names and ages displayed under their art.
 I look at it all while Nicole talks with the woman behind the front desk. The paintings are throughout the lobby, and I follow the artwork until I’m in a hallway. The pieces change to photography, black-and-white images of teens in various generic poses—arms crossed loosely, sitting on curbs, talking to one another, looking directly at the camera with somber expressions. I guess it makes sense that this is the kind of artwork they display here, especially when the whole point of having the youth center available and free for the public is to actively help at-risk teenagers in the city.
 Am I an “at-risk teenager”?
 I don’t know. Maybe.
 Across from the photographs are two doors. From the lobby, I hear Nicole wrapping up her conversation. She finds me, and we head through the doors together.
 The room is large and mostly empty, save for some round tables and a rolling whiteboard at the front. A few kids are already here, sitting on the floor or standing around. I don’t know any of them, but they obviously know Nicole. They’re quick to greet her, launching into more pleasantries and conversations while I stand around awkwardly.
 Everyone looks to be either my age or younger, placing Nicole, at twenty, as maybe the oldest person in the room. More kids trickle in from the lobby. Nicole finishes exchanging all her polite how are yous and that’s good to hears and slings an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close to her.
 “Hey, asshole,” she says, which is Nicole-speak for Come join the conversation.
 “That’s me,” I say, which is Gael-speak for Please don’t make me do that.
 She snorts and opens her mouth to say something when a boy I recognize from school comes up to us, grabbing Nicole’s attention.
 “Aww, hey!” she says brightly. Nicole says most things brightly. “You made it!”
 “Yeah! My mom ended up taking my brother instead, so,” the boy says. We’re in a class together, but we’ve never really talked. He’s shorter than me, with a bright smile and deep dimples, his blue raglan shirt pushed up to show off warm brown forearms. His dark corkscrew curls are pulled into a short ponytail at the base of his neck.
 Nicole is telling him something, still with her arm slung over my shoulder. She chokes me a little when she tries to use both hands to talk, but this is par for the course for her.
 “Oh! And this is Gael,” she says, finally letting me go, only to do something worse: motion broadly toward me, in that here’s-what-I’m-presenting-for-you gesture, which I didn’t realize I hated until this exact moment.
 “Hey.” He extends a hand for me to shake. “I’m Declan.”
 “Gael,” I say, taking it, and then, a moment too late, “Nicole already said that.”
 He laughs a little, like he’s not completely sure if he should or not. “You go to GHS, right? I’m pretty sure we’re in the same AP Lit class?”
 “Oh.” I blink. “Yeah, I think we are.”
 “How are you feeling about senior year so far?”
 I shrug. We only started back at school this Wednesday, but I don’t say that. “It’s all right. You?”
 From the corner of my eye, I can see Nicole watching this interaction between glances at her phone, a smile forming on her lips. No doubt she’s happy that I’m talking to someone new.
 “Good so far. I’m hopeful about the year.” Someone behind us laughs way louder than necessary, and Declan and I both glance at them. More people have arrived since we started talking. A few are sitting down already, some with backpacks next to them, clearly getting here straight from school. He turns back to me. “I guess we should get settled so the group can start. But it was nice talking to you!”
 “You, too.”
 Declan heads to the opposite side of the room and sits next to a girl I recognize from my Environmental Science class. Nicole takes a seat on the floor, and I follow