Page 37 of The Rebel's Guide to Pride

My palms gripped the handlebars as I gave the dirt bike some gas. Warbles sounded from the engine. I turned sharply out of Sawyer’s neighborhood, picking up speed. The headlight beam lit up the darkened streets of Beggs while my mind raced, my phone weighing heavy in my pocket with messages from Mason I couldn’t reply to, a message in the group chat demanding I come back.

Sawyer might’ve been pissed, but now I was too. She didn’t care enough to let me explain myself, just like Cohen. It was like dodgeball all over again. We might not be playing the game anymore, but I was still ducking her aim. Ever since she and I became friends, she always called the shots. First at recess, and now with the speakeasies.

But they weremine.She was trying to take them away from me. Doubt ensnared me as I drove home.

You have to stop this nonsenserattled inside my head as I looked up at the new Chapman Law billboard my father had installed. The picture of us in matching dress shirts reminded me that I’d had no authority over my life when the photo was taken. Now I got to decide what my college plans were and live with Mom and be out like I should’ve been all along. That’s why I’d really wanted to join the QSA, to find away to be me. I just hadn’t realized what I was doing before the speakeasies.

I lowered my gaze to the town square and saw the Family First posters still on the lampposts. It was as though we’d never set up Pride Day. Not a single rainbow flag was still flying. Mayor Buchanan had done his best to soothe the anger we’d caused with the event, a debacle that had been covered up with his new ordinance.

My eyes moved toward the pavilion and the donkey statue. A literal jackass, just like my father, like the mayor and everyone else who supported him. I could feel the spark of anger deep inside my chest as I stared at it. How it’d once mesmerized me but now made me feel like I didn’t belong in Beggs. That I needed to keep my head down so nothing could hurt me.

I gripped the handlebars harder in frustration. If only they knew we hadn’t gone anywhere. We were still here, still celebrating Pride. My line of sight focused behind the statue on the bright lights of Jones Hardware. The front window displayed signs for a paint sale, and I glanced back at the billboard. An idea formed as I steered the dirt bike toward the parking lot. This town was in desperate need of a reminder that they couldn’t erase the pride in Beggs.

It was as though I was moving on autopilot, the same as when I’d climbed up that rusty ladder weeks ago. I lowered the kickstand and marched to the hardware store. A waft of cold AC blasted me as the automatic door slid open. Blinking away the harshness of the fluorescents, I searched the aisle signs for the paint section.

“Welcome to Jones,” a clerk called in a smooth baritone. “Can I help you find something?”

My momentum fizzled to a stop. The sound of Damian’s voice took me back to that same night when Billy punched me. I wanted to spontaneously combust. To be anywhere other than here.

“Zeke?” Damian called, and I reluctantly turned.

He was propped up on a stool behind the register. The store’s orange shirt was bright against the brown expanse of his biceps, stretching tight as he crossed his arms. I focused on the white hammer logo instead of meeting his gaze. “Didn’t realize you were working here,” I muttered, a ghost ache radiating from my right eye.

“Dad needed help this summer,” he said carefully. Too carefully. My attention snapped up to his face. The reserved set of his mouth told me he wasn’t in the mood for bullshit. “We’re about to close.”

“I won’t be long,” I offered, unable to move as he considered me. His tight expression was giving apprehension. It was the same one he wore when he was up to bat, bases loaded at the bottom of the ninth inning. “Look, man, I’m not here to start anything. I just need to get some paint and I’ll be gone.”

He nodded once, his jaw relaxing. “Sorry about Peak,” he said with a sigh. “How’s your eye?”

“Fine.” The bruising had nearly faded, along with the sting of Billy’s words. “It was my bad. Totally forgot they don’t call him Lightning for nothing.”

“For real,” he breathed out. “I tried to stop him, but you were making it worse.”

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just that the team’s response to me being gay…Billy has been such a dick about it. And yeah. I’m sorry, man.”

We maintained eye contact for a few seconds, and then he nodded once. “I don’t give two shits about you being gay, just so you know.”

“Thanks, Damian. Really.” I tried to smile, but I couldn’t. I’d just assumed Damian was like Billy, was like the others who’d gone full-on paranoid in the locker room.

“I know it might be too late, but I’m here if you want to talk.” He shrugged, offering a smile. “I never stopped being your friend. Okay, that’s a lie. I might’ve been mad at you for like five seconds when you quit the team without telling me. I had to hear it from Peak.”

“Sorry I didn’t give you a heads-up,” I offered.

“We’re all good, bro,” he said, glancing at his smartwatch.

“Right, you’re about to close.”

“Let’s hang soon, okay?”

I nodded, turning toward the paint aisle. Just like that, we were on friendly terms again. It felt like we were back in the dugout and sitting together on the bench. As though I hadn’t tried to fight Billy and put Damian in the middle of it. Too bad Sawyer and I couldn’t make up so easily.

Some fights hurt worse than getting a fist in the face.

Chapter 16

BUCHANAN IS A JACKASS

I smugly stared at my newest Instagram post as Mom talked to a customer. The donkey statue was coated with pink paint, with those four words written in black. The caption read “Whoever did this is a true king.” I’d worked quickly after leaving the hardware store, snapping a picture before anyone could see me. The only person who knew I’d bought the paint was Damian. Before I could worry about him snitching, though, he’d commented with laughing emojis. Maybe we really were all good.

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