I practice my dance moves in the backyard, having my eyes shut. I feel that if I can do this with my eyes closed, I'll be able to get a good grade on this. My Navajo playlist is playing all around me, mingling with the slight breeze blowing past. My hair tickles my face, and I'm at ease here. I feel calm.

I don't remember when I finished the routine. When I opened my eyes, there were no sounds apart from my music. The wind had stopped blowing. Then clapping broke through; my parents had seen me dancing. I faced them, surprised that they hadn't spoken.

Their smiles were easy to read: They loved the way I embraced my heritage. I headed up to my room to study for a test in Statistics. I don't want to say I'm a dunce at math, but I'm getting slightly better. By focusing more on the subject, I've started to get better grades. My mother told me that it's okay if I'm not good at something at first as long as I keep working at it.

Her advice worked well. My teacher had pointed out that my scores aren't as bad as they were before. She's proud of me. When I complete my work, I think while I read a beaten-up copy of Pride and Prejudice. Pretty soon, I'm stuck in my own little world.

Being an asexual lesbian helps me out in the future. I won't get diseases or infections. But then I may not be able to have kids. I don't mind that; there's adoption or a sperm donor. But I don't want my parents to be disappointed in me.

Whenever kids disappoint their parents, their worlds collapse. My parents have always told me that they'll be proud of me either way if I fail or pass a class or something. It's the effort that I put in it that matters the most. Wow, I'm getting philosophical. I often get that way whenever I'm thoughtful.

I snap back to attention once my book falls onto the floor. I pick it up, shaking my head at myself. They'll love me no matter what. If I was straight, my parents will support me. When I come out to them, they'll accept me.