Page 82 of The Rebel's Guide to Pride

“But,” he said without missing a beat, “it’s fucking Mason Bedolla.”

“Yeah, you said you didn’t like him on multiple occasions,” I pointed out, “but whatactuallyhappened between you two?”

“It’s stupid.” He shrugged, and I waited with raised eyebrows for him to continue. With a heavy sigh, he added, “We chatted on Insta, and when we finally hung out, he, um, changed his mind.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He only wanted to be friends.” He avoided my gaze and kicked at the ground. “He didn’t say it, but I could tell by how he acted…It’s because I’m me and he’s perfect. I was so embarrassed that I deleted all the selfies from my grid.”

“No, he’s not perfect, more like an incredibly stupid asshole.” He shrugged again, the muscles in his jaw tense. “And I wouldn’t have gone with him just now, if you were wondering. I like that you’re you.”

The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed, and a shy smile pulled his expression out of the past. Pulled me into the present, where I’d been so afraid of living. We were running full-on at each other, had been since he’d sent me that first DM. Sincethatquestion all those years ago. It was as though we’d picked back up from where we’d left ourselves in his bedroom listening to our favorite band. But now it was my turn to ask.

“Cohen,” I began, tugging him to a stop, “will you be my boyfriend?”

“Vote Bedolla, a voice for the real people of Beggs!”

The words on the flyers had etched themselves in my mind. Every time I passed one out, I could hear what my mom had told me. It wasn’t just a vote. If everyone here joined together, it became a battle cry—a fighting chance.

I glanced up at the billboard we’d graffitied, thinking those words were the final thing I would do to help. But in reality, I knew what it was now. “Hey, Cohen,” I said, as we made our way to the parade float. It was nearly time for Carmen’s speech and then the drag show. “Can I register to vote?”

“You don’t need permission,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re eighteen, and it’s your right.”

“Wow, way to go all textbook propaganda on me,” I tried to joke, but it came out as confused as I felt. “I know we’re doing the registration, buthowdo I register?”

“It’s really easy,” he explained, passing out another brightly colored paper. “You just need your driver’s license. We’re using vote.gov on the tablet, and you just have to fill out the form for our state.”

“That doesn’t seem so bad…”

I trailed off as people started shoving around us. As incoherent shouts rang out. Then I saw a sign, bright-red letters on white. “Gays aren’t welcome in Beggs,” I read as more of them appeared. Dread sloshed up my throat and rushed into my mouth, the taste of bile making me gag. “Vote Buchanan to keep Beggs safe!” and “Vote for the safety of our kids!” and “Put families first!” and…

“N-no,” I stammered, unable to tear my eyes away from their hateful messages. “Not again.”

“Picketers,” Cohen said, and then he was moving.

I followed after him as he wound through the crowd. Each frenzied step took me back to the night of Buchanan’s rally. Panic recoiled in my stomach, my vision pinpricking as my heart sped up with dizziness. It had been too real seeing their homophobia from the billboard, but this was different. They could see me, could see how we were terrified, and they still spewed hate at us like we didn’t matter.

“We don’t want you here!” someone yelled. And then another: “We won’t let you corrupt our town.”

Cohen looked back over his shoulder, registering my fear,and grabbed my hand to pull me along. His palm reminded me I wasn’t alone, that we were here. I focused on that as he guided me toward Sawyer and Kennedy at the parade float.

“Are y’all okay?” one of them asked when we burst through to them.

I couldn’t tell who had said it. Too many shouts were being thrown out, closer than before, and I looked back. The mayor’s supporters were storming up the rows of tents. I didn’t know what to do, how to help.

“Hey, breathe,” Cohen said calmly into my ear. He reached out to touch me but stopped himself. “You’re panicking. Just take deep breaths, okay? I know it’s scary, but look. They can’t get to us here.”

I glanced to where he’d pointed and tried to make sense of what I was seeing. People were lining up to block their path. The owners of Ryland Farms were holding their hands out, standing side by side. Owen and the other rangers of the nature preserve. Bronwen the librarian and Jess from the rec center. Even Damian, Billy, and the other guys from the team waving rainbow flags in solidarity. My mom and, most surprisingly, my father.

They were all forming a barricade.

The sound system crackled behind us, and “This isn’t our town!” boomed through the speakers with fiery authority. I flinched back and looked up at the float. Carmen stood tall, commanding the platform I’d helped build. Her pink donkey shirt was worn proudly, rainbow paint on her cheek as she lifted the microphone.

“We aren’t hate,” she addressed the square. “Do you know what I see up here? I see families, friends, loved ones—thesupport system this town needs. Fighters who ensure our LGBTQIA-plus community and their allies will be welcomed here. This is who we are.”

Cries of protest rang out in reply, but then I heard a shout of encouragement. Then another as cheers spread out around us. Their wave of voices rose higher and higher, rushing toward the float in support.

“When I think about Beggs,” she began, raising her voice over the crowd, “I’m reminded of when I taught elementary school. When it was story time, I’d gather my students on a giant rug and hold my finger up like this”—she brought an index finger to her lips for emphasis—“for everyone to be quiet and listen. That’s what we as citizens have done for far too long, staying seated and silent while my opponent, Mr.Buchanan, tells us a story. But I decided to take a chance the day he announced his first anti-LGBTQIA-plus ordinance. A very brave young individual took a stand to fight back, and it inspired me to speak up.”

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