Page 83 of The Rebel's Guide to Pride

She paused, searching until her eyes found mine. Her kind smile took me back to Pride Day at the beginning of June.Need some help?I’d asked when I’d seen her struggling with boxes, and she’d told me,What you’re doing today is nothing short of beautiful.A prickle of tears stung, and I tried to blink them away. That one day had changed my summer—the trajectory I was on—because of the grace she’d shown me, and I had no idea I’d done the same for her. That I could be someone that significant.

“When I decided to run for mayor,” she pressed on, ignoring the roar of complaints, “it wasn’t because I thought I would be a better leader. IknewI was a better fighter. And I will fightfor the equal rights of my family and this community, for your Pride like that billboard up there says. That’s what I set out to do with my campaign. This summer has taught me what it means to be a real person in our town. We’re not the ones sitting idly by while someone tells them their story. And, Beggs, story time is over. We’re taking action to write our own story, and together we’ll tell it our way come Founder’s Day.”

Her words echoed through the square. More shouts rang out like those at Buchanan’s rally, more loud voices yelling more loud opinions at us—this is what my father had wanted to protect me from in this town. The uproar might’ve started because of the QSA petitioning for Pride, but I knew it had always been here. They wanted us to feel like weneededprotecting, to be quiet out of fear. We’d been forced to live in the darkness of shoeboxes and underground speakeasies and closets until we forgot who we were.

But I knew who I was now.

From climbing up to the billboard to paint a giant penis to Pride Day to Buchanan’s rally, I had faced my fears whether I wanted to or not. But sometimes you had to face your fears because you needed to, and you didn’t have to do it alone like so many wanted you to believe.

“We need to get back to the QSA tent,” I managed to say, finding my voice. “We have to keep registering people to vote.”I have to register to vote.

“I don’t know,” Kennedy said with a shaky voice.

She was as scared as me, Sawyer and Cohen too. However, some fears were worth facing. “These people might’ve kept us from celebrating Pride Day,” I said with a steadying breath. “But they don’t get to tell us what to do anymore.”

“If any time calls for your melodramatic ass to act up, it’s now,” Sawyer said, sparing me a wink as she laced her fingers with Kennedy’s. “Let’s do this together.”

“Together,” Cohen echoed, and grabbed my hand.

My legs might’ve been wobbly, but my steps were determined as we edged along the barricade’s shield. Each supporter caught my eye in a promise that we were safe. Even though there was no hesitation in the glares being thrown our way, I stood up straighter, like I was walking into a battle.

As we passed by the baseball team, they all held their hands out with one finger pointing down.Pitch a fastball,it meant, and that was exactly what we would do. Then I saw my father—my dad, who was finally putting me first. He didn’t say anything, just nodded with the same approval I’d sought for years. Then there was Mom in her green mechanic shirt.

“The police are on their way to break this up,” she called to me. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“We got this, Mom,” I said over the riot.

She gave me a mischievous smile, the same exact one Zelda Fitzgerald wore in the painting at Roaring Mechanics.She became the person people expected her to be,Mom had said,until she realized she could shine on her own.That was how I felt now—loud and rebellious, but most importantly, capable of fixing things.

I knew my life wouldn’t go back to normal after this election was over, though. The mayoral race was more than just a blip on the political radar, more than two sides vying to win. I couldn’t fix everything, no matter who won, because those protesters would still be here spewing hate. But I would stoplistening to the cautionary story we’d been told as queer kids in this small town.

Our story began today, and we would be the ones to write it.

I’d push my way to the QSA table to register voters. Then I’d wake up tomorrow and keep fighting. Keep discovering myself despite who they wanted me to be. Because to exist in Beggs and Alabama and this country was a fight, and they couldn’t blame us for what happened next.

They made us rebels.

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