Marcy's gaze turns me to stone. I can't move. Can't answer.

Alex looks between me and Marcy, and they open their mouth to speak, but no words come out.

"Well?" Marcy says when it's clear neither of us is going to respond. "What's going on?"

Alex gives me one last pitying look, then excuses themself, ducking around Marcy and scurrying back to their bunk.

"Can we go back to our room?" I ask, sheepishly. "I was going to tell you, I promise, but not in front of everyone."

Marcy steps out into the hallway. It's empty. Sequoia hasn't made any follow-up announcement, so everyone is staying put. But I guess we're rebels, because without talking, Marcy and I retrace our steps back to our room.

She doesn't even look at me until the door to our room closes. "So? What's really going on between you and Harry? What do you know that you're not telling me?"

"Well," I hedge. Then I unbutton my shirt with one hand and shrug out of it. I roll up the sleeve of my undershirt and show off the pink circle-shaped bandage that Amelia put over the injection site.

Marcy tilts her head, looking more confused than concerned. "Did you get hurt?"

"No." I shake my head. "Harry brought me to the clinic. He pulled some strings to get me an early appointment. Got my first dose of gene therapy."

Her eyebrows stay creased as she slowly nods. "What does that mean?"

"It means," I say, meeting her eyes, "that soon I will have a body that I will want to share with you."

But instead of taking the bait, she rolls her eyes. "And why is Harry pulling strings for you? What did you offer in return?"

"What?" I scoff. "Maybe he just wants to help a guy out."

With a shake of her head, Marcy sits down on the bed. "Come on, Charlie. You expect me to believe that? Tell me what else you know."

"It's not much," I say, regretting not being more honest earlier.

Above us, the speaker crackles to life. "All clear, everyone," Sequoia's voice announces. "Everyone can go back to their regular schedule. We thank you for your cooperation."

When the announcement ends, Marcy turns back to me. "So, if it's not much, then why haven't you told me, then?" She raises her eyebrows.

I hold out my palms. "We haven't exactly had much time to talk."

"Time to talk?" Her voice is even, which intimidates me more than if she was yelling.

Marcy always has this way of maintaining control. Taking on a businesslike demeanor when things get tough. Rational. Cool-headed.

"I just mean—" I try to soften the mood with my eyes. Let my voice harken back to the reason why we haven't been talking. Because we've been busy doing other things with our lips, instead of forming words with them. "You know, we didn't really talk last night, and then I left so early this morning."

She doesn't buy it.

Her mouth remains flat, expressionless, as she waits for my confession.

"There really isn't that much more to the story." I try to backpedal. My eyes scan the room and I wish there was somewhere to sit beside the bed. "I just didn't want to say anything else in front of everyone. You know?"

"No, not really. But go on." She crosses her arms in front of her chest. She's getting tired of waiting.

"Harry is planning something," I say, the words tumbling out quickly.

"What do you mean?" Her stance remains distant.

I shake my head. "I really don't know. I swear. But yesterday, he took me and Alex–you know Alex, right? Purple hair?"

"Yes. But don't change the subject."

"Well, Harry brought us somewhere private and told us he was angry about how secretive everything was, and he thought the Queer Rebels needed to be more public." I hold up my palms. "He didn't say how. I swear. That was the extent of what he shared."

I can tell from her expression that she doesn't buy it. She cocks her head. "So why pull you to a private location if that was all he had to say? Doesn't seem very top secret."

I cast my eyes down to the floor. "He wanted to know if we would help. If we were in."

"'In' what?" She uses air-quotes.

"I–I don't know. Really." I look up at her with innocent, puppy-dog eyes.

"And you said?"

I don't respond. I try to say something, but I'm frozen under her glare.

"Charlie?" My name comes out like an exasperated huff, and she plops down on the edge of the bed.

I want her to say my name in a moan.

Wrong timing, Charlie, I scold myself.

I bite my lower lip. "Please don't be mad."

"Charlie!"

"Okay, okay!" I throw up my arms and start pacing. "I said yes. But it was a tentative yes. I said I agreed that it would have been better if I had known. Known the word transgender. You know? Even Jenelle just said as much. It's true. We all would've had better adolescents, better childhoods, if we knew we weren't alone. But Marcy, how could I agree to a plan without knowing any details? I just said I agreed on principle."

When I stop talking, she's quiet for a moment.

Our eyes meet, and her expression has changed. More sad than angry.

"Charlie." It's a whisper this time. "We weren't alone. We had each other."

The way she says it stabs my heart. Because while it's true, it's also missing the point. For me, at least.

I knew I had her support. Her friendship. I had that. But I also didn't have myself.

Couldn't be myself.

And no amount of love–familial, platonic, romantic–could replace feeling whole.

But how could she get that? She was always able to be herself.

Harry gets it. He's like me.

Alex probably gets it on an even deeper level because they had absolutely no representation for who they were. I at least knew I was a man.

I don't know what to say to her. How to tell her that she wasn't enough without it sounding like an insult.

Her words dissipate around me, and I inhale their vapor.

"We did have each other," I finally say, looking at her, because that much is true. "But not everyone has that."

Another beat passes. I can see her thinking. The way her pupils dilate and contract. Subtle movements of the muscles around her eyes and lips.

Then she responds. "You're being reckless."

"Reckless?" I raise my hands in exasperation.

"Charlie, how can you just agree to something without knowing what it is?"

I want to scream. "I didn't! I just said that I agreed with what he said."

"You're trusting him too quickly. He's practically a stranger."

"What?" I scoff. "I–what?"

I spin around. I need a second of looking at a blank wall so I can gather my thoughts. Harry's the first person who I've ever met like me. He literally saved my life.

I trusted him with our escape. Why not trust him now?

"There is just too much we don't know." Marcy's voice remains annoyingly calm. Her soft footsteps approach behind me.

Her words sting, and I can feel a defensive wall building up inside me.

"It's not reckless. I trust Harry. Besides"—I spin back around—"it's not like you haven't been keeping things from me. What about all your secretive talks with Jenelle? When did you talk about that book? How did you know where her bunk was?"

The mention of Jenelle seems to hit a nerve, and Marcy's face hardens. "That's different, Charlie. I'm just trying to understand what's going on here. But you're diving headfirst into something dangerous without thinking it through."

I'm hit with a sense of déjà vu. We've had this fight before. Probably many times. Like when I missed class to go to the beach, and I got a demerit. Or the time I got drunk on a weeknight. I don't always weigh the consequences as carefully as Marcy does.

We balance each other out.

And maybe that means I should listen to her.

I need to calm down. Be rational. Be more like Marcy.

I walk over to the small table in the corner. There's a bottle of water, and I pick it up and take a long drink. The cool water slows my heart and tempers my mind.

"Okay," I agree, walking back to the cot and sitting down. "Maybe you're right."

"Usually am," she says, although with less satisfaction in her voice than when she normally says it.

"But Marcy," I say, turning around, stepping forward, and grabbing her hands. Pleading for her to listen. "If I can help other people like me... I can't just sit back and do nothing."

"And what about us?" Marcy counters, squeezing my hands in hers. "We've just started exploring what we could be, and now you're willing to risk it all for some vague cause?"

"Marcy, I... I don't want to lose what we have. But I can't ignore this part of me that needs to do this. I need to find out where I stand, what I'm capable of," I say, my voice softening.

Marcy looks away, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I'm scared, Charlie. Scared of losing you, scared of what this path might bring."

I reach out, taking her hands in mine. "I'm scared too. But I can't let that fear hold me back. I need to do this, not just for me, but for us. For a future where we can truly be ourselves."

We sit in silence, the weight of our conversation settling around us. It's a crossroads, a moment of truth where we confront the reality of our situation.

"I don't want to hold you back, Charlie. But you're going down the wrong path. And I just... I don't want to lose you," Marcy whispers, her voice breaking.

I pull her into a hug, holding her close. "You won't lose me, Marcy. No matter what happens, I'll always come back to you."

A knock on the door interrupts the moment.

She lets go of me, and I stand. When I open the door, Christopher is standing there.

My heart seizes. Has he found out about how Harry got me an early appointment at the clinic? Does he suspect a betrayal? My betrayal?

But before my thoughts can spiral out of control, Christopher smiles. "It's moving day."

"What?" Marcy stands and walks next to me.

"The shelter-in-place reminded us how important it is for people to be grouped together. Easier to make sure everyone is accounted for, you know?" Christopher answers, never breaking his smile.

"Is everything okay?" Marcy asks, never shy to ask the hard questions.

"Yes, yes," Christopher says with a vigorous nod. "A simple misunderstanding. Unlikely to happen again, but, lessons learned, you know?"

He gives us a few minutes to gather our belongings. Marcy and I pack in silence. And then, with our bags zipped up, we follow Christopher down the hall and towards the common bunk room.

"Here's your new bunk," Christopher says, pointing to a bottom-level bed in one corner. "There is plenty of space under for your bag, and feel free to grab a cubby in the bathroom, too."

I nod. "Thanks."

"And your bed is over here," Christopher says, pointing to the opposite side of the room.

I lay down on my new bed, careful not to hit my head on the top bunk.

Marcy barely gives me another look before she walks away.