Page 4 of The Rebel's Guide to Pride

Cohen and I had once been…something. But we were nowhere near friendly now, not after he burned me freshman year. His last text message from back then was seared in my mind:I never want to talk to you again.And I refused to willingly subject myself to more of his jerk attitude than necessary. Just being in the Queer-Straight Alliance together was pushing it.

“You know that antagonistic fucker and I can barely be in the same room. I’m this close”—I held my thumb and pointer finger up—“to knocking that condescending sneer off his face.”

“Please,” she began with a leveled gaze, “do not get intoanother fight before Saturday’s over. It’s the firsteverPride in Beggs—your first sincefinallycoming out to everyone—and we have to keep our shit together until then.” She brought her hand up to her chest, another tradition we’d started in honor of our mutual admiration of boobs. “I titty promise that I’ll be the one throwin’ punches if y’all act up.”

I couldn’t blame her. She’d spent most of junior year begging Mayor Buchanan to have the celebration, and the QSA had gotten enough signatures on their petition before I’d joined. Despite the mayor’s lack of support, Pride would officially happen on Saturday, all because of her.

“I titty promise to be the best gay ever,” I swore, pledging my allegiance, and flashed a reassuring smile to hide all the traces of doubt.

There was only one step left in getting back at my father. I had to be his definition of theworsttype of gay, which meant being out and proud. I’d been trying ever since December, but I still didn’t know how. I’d spent too long being silent, reserved,discreet.Being the JACass’s idea of thebest.Being someone who was confused by where they fit in with the LGBTQIA+ community. Not knowing how to be this best worst version of myself made me feel like a failure, and that was something else I didn’t know how to tell Sawyer yet.

There’s a run-down building right off Beggs Town Square. I only ever knew it to be the old Walt’s Diner that closed when I was a kid. My mom, however, saw what itcouldbe. She used her life savings to buy it on the same day she left my father.In three months’ time, she’d opened Roaring Mechanics. Its vibrant emerald-green logo shined like a beacon of hope.

Automotive repair was in her genes, and owning her own shop like her father’s had been a lifelong dream. My father had never allowed it, though.What would people think if my wife did manual labor, Katherine?He never understood why she wanted to tinker on engines. That’s why she secretly taught me how, just like my grandfather had shown her. Working on the family SUV had become our thing over the years. But I never thought living above the mechanic shop would also become our thing.

That week between last Christmas and New Year’s Day had been a blur, but I can still remember how she’d kept promising to make it right as we moved in. With each box we unloaded, I’d replayed the series of events: I came out, my father told my baseball coach it was a joke, the argument over dinner that led to Mom slamming down her fork and declaring, “Enough!” Each moment had led to us starting over, but the second-floor apartment was a considerable downgrade from the plush life we’d had before.

My new room was tiny in comparison to the one I’d grown up in. There was just enough space for a bed, nightstand, and dresser. I told myself it was temporary, a quick escape until she found us a house. Yet nearly six months later, we were still here, still living among boxes and clutter as she tried to save up enough money. At least the lone window in my room opened to a fire escape. I was able to climb down and ride my dirt bike when the walls felt like they were closing in.

And sneak back up without alerting Mom of my comings and goings.

I used it to avoid her after the blue hole. She’d given up on calling me while we were there, and the silence was much worse. I knew she’d have a lot to say when I finally left my room. Until then, I was doing everything I could to put it off.

My backpack was on the bed, the contents of the shoebox I’d swiped from the old bedroom dumped out. Over the years, I’d been using it to hide everything that earned my father’s disapproval. The first spark plug I’d changed in the family SUV. Club forms for the QSA I’d been too afraid to fill out. A rainbow flag Sawyer brought back from last year’s Birmingham Pride, even though we’d argued over me not going. Every volume of the X-Men graphic novels, because he didn’t consider them “real” books. An old edition ofThe Montgomery Southern Gazettenewspaper. And a picture of Mom holding me as a baby.

I picked up the frame, a finger tracing along the glass. Mom was standing outside of my grandfather’s mechanic shop in Montgomery. Both of us were looking at the camera, my toothless grin wide as I held on to a doll. That might’ve been the first and last time I’d been truly free, without the JACass domineering my life.

After setting the picture on the dresser, I turned my attention to the newspaper. It was from June 2023 with the headline “THOUSANDS MARCH ON WASHINGTON, DC, FOR PRIDE.” But it was the photo accompanying the article that had stuck with me. An unnamed man was caught mid-scream as he waved a sign protesting anti-LGBTQIA+ bills. The way he stood tall in his black leather jacket identical to mine, ripped jeans, the same maroon Converse sneakers I spent a month searching for—he was who I always wanted to be.

Unapologetically queer.

I carefully tacked it on the wall by my nightstand and then unfolded the rainbow flag. It was huge, with bright colors that lit up the bare white walls of the room. That was how my life felt now after the divorce—a fresh canvas I could color in. I glanced at the space above my headboard and knew it would look perfect there.

As I hung it up, I heard the distinct sound of a chair scraping across the floor. My breath stilled as footsteps padded down the hallway. Mom had left the small dinette she used as a home office, each creaking step coming closer to my room.

Here we go,I thought as the doorknob twisted. Her presence brought the smell of flowery perfume like the gardenias she’d planted in our old front yard. Slowly, I pushed in the last thumbtack on the flag without looking at her. Silence exuded from where she stood at the threshold while I waited for her to lay into me.

“Zeke,” Mom finally said, but her tone didn’t denote any anger. Instead, it sounded like it always did when she called me the middle name she’d chosen. Like she said it with a smile because she named me after Zelda Fitzgerald, her favorite woman in history.

“Sorry I didn’t answer your calls,” I said with caution, finally turning toward her. “Sawyer and I were swimming and—”

“Dear god.” Mom cut me off with a sharp intake of breath. “What happened, hun?”

She hurried toward me and tilted my chin down to get a better look at my eye. Heartbeats throbbed in my face as she studied the bruise. Lines etched on her brow, and I knewthatlook. It was the same overthinking one I saw in the mirror—along with the same heart-shaped face and unruly blond waves.However, it was the green of her eyes that set us apart, never letting me forget I was my father’s son.

“Did you get inanotherfight?” she asked through an exasperated sigh.

“What’s your definition of a fight?” I countered. “Because I threw a punch, and then he threw one. That’s all.”

“That’s two too many.” She pursed her lips, standing on her tiptoes to inspect the damage. “At least you don’t need stitches again.”

“It was totally my bad. I misjudged Billy’s strength. Next time—”

“There better not be a next time, Zeke. You’re gonna get hurt if you don’t stop picking fights.” She shook her head slowly, collecting her thoughts. “Does this have something to do with what happened to your dad’s billboard?”

“No…Well, kinda. More like really bad timing.”

“He called to give me an earful.”

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