Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Diego

ANYONE. I COULD be a TA for anyone except the person who just walked into this classroom. But of course I'm not. Of course the person staring at me wide-eyed is the same person who let me crash at their house after I broke down in front of it.

The start of my graduate career could not be going much worse.

Okay, wait, calm down. Just calm down. Nothing inappropriate happened. The school year hadn't started. I was a complete stranger who broke down in front of Avery's house and they were kind enough to help me out. That's all. Nothing about that story is some damning secret I need to wear like an albatross.

I try to smile and nod. There's no sense in pretending I don't recognize Avery, or that they don't recognize me in return. Their wide blue eyes calm; their face softens, and they smile back at me, but fortunately don't say or do more than that. I watch their black ponytail bobbing as they make for the back of the classroom, pretty much as far from where I'll be lecturing as possible.

Good. They get it. They understand that this is all a horrible mishap and we should forget about it and move on. It'll be awkward, but hopefully we can pretend we're strangers, as we should be.

Of course, that'll be tough in a class as small as this one. Queer and Trans History is a special class only for folks majoring in the niche subject of History of Race, Power and Gender. Even at a university as large as C U of M, it's a rare major. It doesn't surprise me when Avery greets their classmates. They've probably had a lot of other classes with the same mix of people all interested in this subject.

It's just my luck that this subject so happens to be my specialty.

Growing up where I did, I met so few other queer people that I knew nothing about queer history. That left me gobbling up any information on the subject as soon as I realized it was lacking from my everyday life. I was insatiable, and that voracious appetite led me to my undergraduate degree. Now, it's led me here, as well, where I'm helping teach a sizable chunk of a class on queer history .

In fact, the professor plans to leave most of the lectures to me. I'll more or less run this class, which sounded exciting in theory, before I knew Avery would be one of my students.

I need to pull myself together. Nothing happened. A friendly stranger offered me help when I was in a tough spot. This whole city – town, whatever – revolves around the university. It's probably more likely I'd run into someone connected to the school than not.

All of my rationalizations are absolutely true, but none of them help me when I look up from my notes and find Avery's bright blue eyes on me. Their voice rings in my head. I can smell that cup of tea they made for me, can feel the cozy quiet of their kitchen. Their words ring in my head, especially that little quip about getting "the full Boyfriend Café experience." Did they have to say it that way?

No, that's not their fault. They're what? Nineteen? Twenty? I'm their TA. I should be the one setting boundaries instead of blushing like a kid over the name of their café.

My lack of real life experience is catching up to me faster than I thought it would. I figured I could at least hide it at work, but Avery's cool eyes seem to see right through me as I fumble through the start of my lecture.

At least today is an easy one. It's the first class of the semester, so most of the class time is dedicated to describing the class itself and going through the syllabus. I throw myself into the task with far more enthusiasm than it warrants. After a brief introduction to the class itself, I pass out printed copies of the syllabus. Going through each item line by line is so dull that I notice some of my new students' eyes glazing over, but that seems an acceptable outcome when I'm so powerfully off-balance.

"That's about all there is to the syllabus," I say. "Are there any questions on any of that?"

Avery's hand goes up.

I consider ignoring them, but they're the only person in the class with a question, and it's not a huge class, so I'd only make things worse by pretending not to see them.

"Avery?" I say.

Then I realize my mistake. The students didn't introduce themselves. Even if they did, remembering twenty new names should have been a bit more of a struggle. It hasn't been an hour and I'm already messing this up. Avery doesn't say anything about it, and everyone else looks bored to tears, so I'll simply have to hope they didn't bother noticing.

"I was wondering about the research project," Avery says. "Is that the sort of thing where we can get feedback along the way? Or are we supposed to just turn in a final project at the end of the semester?"

It takes me a second longer than it should to realize that that's an entirely reasonable question and gather an answer .

"I'll be here to help throughout the semester when it comes to the research project," I say. "I know that's a big assignment, so if you have any questions along the way, feel free to ask after class or during office hours. My door will always be open to any of you if you want to talk about your ideas or get some guidance with where to look for sources."

And that is an entirely reasonable response. But saying it while looking at Avery stirs up something in my stomach that I'm trying very, very hard not to think about.

There are no further questions after that, and I move on to an introduction to the first reading assignment. They'll be doing a lot of reading and responding for this class as we work through historical documents together.

"One of the trickiest things with a field like this is that a lot of the documents we have are highly speculative," I say. "So a text might not seem queer on a first reading, but one of the things we'll be doing during class is trying to place them in the right historical context to see other interpretations beyond the words directly on the page. For a lot of history, queer people couldn't outright say they were queer, even in places like private letters, so our history can frequently be a matter of interpretation. But that's the work we're going to try to do here, culminating in your research project where you attempt to take on a related topic on your own."

It's easier to forget about Avery and do what I'm here to do when I get to the topic at hand. I truly do have a passion for this. That's why I left everything I know to pursue it. And the thought of helping folks younger than me pursue it as well only sweetened the deal for me. We have precious little in the way of research and documentation in this field. The more eager, bright minds we have researching the subject of queer history, the better, in my opinion.

I catch myself relaxing, perhaps even enjoying myself, and soon enough whatever strangeness I felt with Avery seems truly silly. I set it aside and get through class, and before I know it our time together has wound down. The students all gather up their stuff and make to leave, and I retreat to my lectern to get my notes and stow them away.

When I look up, I find Avery waiting on the other side of the lectern. That chunky plinth suddenly feels as insubstantial as gauze between us. I freeze, caught by Avery's bright, inquisitive eyes.

"Can I help you?" I say.

"I was just wondering how things went after you left my house the other day," Avery says with absolutely no hesitation or self-consciousness whatsoever. Well, sure. That's fine for them. They're the student and not the TA who will get fired and called a creep for sleeping in their student's house.

"Fine," I say. After lecturing for over an hour, all I can summon for a response is a single inadequate word .

"Good," Avery says. "You were already gone when I woke up or I would have made you more tea and breakfast. I was hoping it all got sorted out okay."

"It was fine," I say, as though "fine" is the only word I recall.

"Did they figure out what was wrong with it?" Avery says.

"Yeah. It was … um … some kind of belt, I think." I'm struggling to remember, and not simply because I've worked so hard to avoid thinking about the expensive car repair that set me back before I even had a chance to move into my damn apartment.

"Sounds rough," Avery says. "I‘m glad I could help out at least."

"Yes, it was … very kind of you."

"It wasn't a big deal. I'm glad I got to run into you again and make sure it all went well."

This is a little more than merely running into each other, and the thought that it's going to continue happening for the next several months leaves me both cold with fear and flushed with nerves. In contrast, Avery seems perfectly comfortable with all this. They even lean closer, a conspiratorial smile flitting across their mouth.

"Actually, I'm really excited about it," they say. My heart skips several beats. "I've been really excited to take this class. I know it's super nerdy, but I already know what I want to research for my final project. "

Language abruptly abandons my overheated brain. I have no idea how to respond, even though some piece of me realizes this should be exactly the type of thing a TA wants to hear from a student. Here's someone young and bright and enthusiastic about the topic, a model student in every possible way. But all I can focus on is how Avery's earnest excitement lights up their whole face. What kind of repressed creep have I become to latch onto the first queer person I met outside my little town, despite the fact that they're my student?

"Th-that's great," I say. "But you don't owe an outline or anything for a while."

"I know," Avery says. "I just like reading about this stuff. I saw the syllabus online before the semester started and I couldn't help it. A couple ideas came to mind right away."

"Well."

That's all I manage to say. Well. Barely the start of a thought. More a noise than a word. But the longer Avery looks at me like this, the more terrified I become that anything I say will be the wrong thing. My occasional trips to the gay bar a few towns over never prepared me for something like this, an encounter with a person unlike anyone I've ever met, someone I shouldn't want, can't want, but who draws me to them like the tides obeying the moon.

Avery leans away, their voice returning to its normal volume, which is still on the softer side.

"Anyway, I have another class," they say. "Good to see you again. Glad everything worked out. I guess I'll see you again soon, huh? And if you ever need a cup of tea, you know where to find me."

A cup of tea. No, what I need is several stiff drinks and a slap to the face to knock me back to my senses. My first week in Montridge and I'm apparently determined to become this city's – or town's – biggest pariah.

Maybe breaking out of my comfortable small town shell and connecting with my community in the real world wasn't such a great idea after all. Some things are meant to remain purely theoretical.