Everyone ignores them, and Mr. Thomson and some teachers talk onstage with the presenter, and they smile at the baby, and they’re all cooing at it and being normal as if the Day of Tolerance assembly wasn’t just infiltrated by negative creeps.

We have no chance of slipping out of our organized lines and skipping the pep rally in the gym. Kristina sits four people away from me, and we get seats as near to the doors as we can, but there are teachers everywhere, so we sit and watch.

Turns out the Unity Valley cheerleaders can spell out the word TOLERANCE with their skinny bronze bodies. Who knew?

Ross Bentley and his friend refused to sit, and now they stand to the right of Mr. Thomson at center court because “they have rights, too.” That’s a direct quote from Ross’s dad, who has come to stand next to them. His shirt says STRAIGHT PRIDE. He says, “The First Amendment protects our right to free speech as much as it protects yours.”

I’m incensed. I never really felt like this before. Maybe because I haven’t told anyone yet, and I know that means I can’t complain yet, either. I don’t know. I just want to freak out on these hater people and tell them that they’re bigoted ass**les. And then I remember that Ross and his dad don’t even believe in the Holocaust. I don’t care how many babies we could put on a stage—there is nothing that will change people like this. I’m still incensed, though. Because five hundred people here want to have a tolerance rally. And three people don’t.

The cheerleaders do another hate-free cheer while Mr. Thomson asks Mr. Bentley to go to the office and sign in as required by the school rules. We hear this conversation because Mr. Thomson doesn’t turn off the mic and because Mr. Bentley is particularly loud. Mr. Bentley doesn’t move.

Kristina looks to me, and there’s just enough chaos for us to make our way out the side gym door, and we start heading that direction when Mr. Trig, who’s standing by the gym doors, says, “Ladies! Where do you think you’re going? We’re not done yet!”

We don’t stop.

I hear one of the teachers say, as we walk out into the hallway, “Some thanks we get for throwing them a pep rally.”

That line just eats at me. It makes me sick. I am sick of living around people who want to put me in a box. I am sick of people poking their noses in my business. I am so sick of everything to do with Unity Valley that when we get into the main hallway and Kristina turns around and says, “So, did you tell Claire and Gerry last night?” I just explode.

The explosion is internal at first. And then it forms this sentence, which blurts out of my mouth about three times too loudly and right into Kristina’s face.

“Will you PLEASE just let me do this my own way?”

“Dude,” she says. “I was just asking. I thought we were cool.”

“Nothing is cool! Everything is f**ked now! EVERYTHING!” I say.

“Uh, wow.”

“I don’t give a FUCK about anything anyone in this town thinks anymore! I’m f**king so sick of the gossip and the bullshit and the stupid secret code of Unity Valley, where no one ever wins unless they’re the same five people who always win because they lie to the most people! I’m done! Okay? I don’t care who knows I’m g*y!” I say. “I’M GAY! Okay? I’m f**king GAY!”

I stand there in the long hall and hear it echo back at me. She’s f**king g*y. Okay?

Frank Socrates, who is stationed at the water fountain, echoes, too. “She’s f**king g*y, okay?”

I smile at him. He smiles at me.

“Miss Jones, would you like to take a walk with me?” The voice comes at the same time the vice principal grabs my elbow. I walk with him and leave Kristina standing there looking angry and completely confused. Frank S. takes a drink from the water fountain, readjusts his toga, and walks out the front doors.

I’m suspended. Just the rest of today and then all of tomorrow. Unity Valley High School doesn’t tolerate lesbian freak-outs that include the F-word.

Oops.

I guess when I finally lose it, I lose it.

Dad has to pick me up.

It’s like a tradition.

40

I CAN’T DECIDE IF I WANT HIM TO DRIVE SLOWER OR FASTER.

I SIT IN THE FRONT SEAT.

He says, “I have to go across town for something Mom needs.”

“Okay.”

For the first ten minutes of the drive, I take to ripping my suspension notice into pieces. When I get each tidbit so small I can’t rip it in half again, I add it to the pile in my lap. My goal: confetti. Celebration. A bon voyage.

He doesn’t say anything until we get on the big road. Then he does an awkward half cough to clear his pot-smoky throat and says, “I assume that sucked?”

“It sucked the suck off of suck.”

I look at him as he drives on the big highway, keeping his half-cocked eyes on the road. He glances over at me and smiles a little.

I am not in the mood to smile. “Does Mom know you’re stoned all the time? Because it’s really obvious. I think if you’re going to do it, you should be more discreet,” I say. “You need to either stop smoking pot or buy some cologne or something. And breath mints. The fact that Claire doesn’t know yet is insane. She must be in some sort of denial.”

He makes a face like he never thought of this before. Make no mistake—weed kills vital brain cells, dulls critical-thinking skills and reaction time. “Wow. What brought this on?”

“You asked me to stop lying, so I’ve stopped lying. Watch and be amazed,” I say.

He glances at me again, no smile this time. He almost looks scared, except he’s too stoned to be scared.

“Furthermore, Mom dislikes me. Don’t argue or talk me out of it. And don’t make excuses for her. She’s never liked me, and that’s her problem. Eventually, she’ll be sorry she was such a bitch.”

He doesn’t answer for a minute, then says, “So far, I get that you think I smoke too much weed and that Mom is a bitch who doesn’t love you. Is that right?”

“I don’t think you smoke too much weed and Mom doesn’t love me. I know it,” I correct. “If you guys are so cool about diversity, then why don’t you act it?”

He nods and says, “I know it’s hard to believe, but your mother is a really hip lady. Or—she was. Once.”

I go back to ripping the suspension notice into tinier and tinier pieces. “I remember when she was still nice to me, you know. I remember those walks we used to take around the block when I was little.”