Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Diego

I HAVE SURVIVED a whole week. I've seen Avery twice, but the second time I was prepared for them to stroll into the classroom. They didn't have anything to say after class, and I think I got through it without seeming like a nervous wreck or a creep.

Either way, this has been the most ridiculous week or so of my life. I moved out of my comfortable Midwest small town, broke down in a city that's actually a town, and experienced a whole mess of confusing emotions when the person who helped me out of the situation turned out to be a student. I would laugh at myself for the absurdity of it all, but the self-loathing cuts too deep for mirth. The first queer person I meet outside of my isolated neck of the woods, and I'm fixated on them like some kind of kid with their first crush.

I shake my head at myself in an attempt to dislodge that disastrous thought. How can I sit here thinking about Avery as a "crush" as though that's not wildly inappropriate? They're just … interesting. There is so much about them that is new to me, and I don't just mean the non-binary thing. I understand that there are people out there who feel less settled in their gender than me, but it's always been sort of theoretical, something that's part of my area of study rather than my real life. But it goes so far beyond that. Avery has an energy and intensity I didn't encounter too much where I grew up. It's like they're living life at twice the speed I am — and for some reason I want to try to catch up.

I physically pinch myself, trying to get out of my head. A stack of essays sits before me on my desk in the liberal arts department. They gave me my own office here so I could keep some office hours and do things like grade papers and prepare lessons. It's a lot nicer than trying to do this in my tiny new apartment, and I've ended up spending a lot of time here in the past week. It's also a good place for me to get my own classwork done, because yeah, I still have to focus on my own studies on top of all of this.

It adds up to a massive heap of work. I don't have time to worry about Avery and whatever I'm feeling or not feeling about them. It's probably just a consequence of stress and meeting them before I met anyone else here, anyway .

Determined, I set my mind to the essays before me. I asked the Queer and Trans History students to write a short, simple essay. It's not supposed to be extensive, just something to give me a benchmark of where they're at. This is a skill they'll need to hone over the semester, so it helps both me and them to see what they can do before we get into the weeds.

Everyone's essays are fine, if clumsy, I find as I work my way through them. The students submitted the assignment electronically, but I printed them out so I could leave comments along the margins, pointers to guide them next time. It's all what I expect — wordiness, unnecessarily long quotes, all the hallmarks of undergrads trying to hit a word count.

Then I get to an essay that freezes me in my tracks. My pen hangs over the paper, but I don't actually make any notes. I get all the way to the end of the short assignment without a single comment. It's not because the essay is perfect. It's because it's so far beyond every other one in this stack. There's a depth of thought and research here, a care that no one else bothered with for a short introductory assignment, a passion that pours off the page.

The name at the top of the essay is, of course, Avery Aaron.

My heart is beating faster than any essay warrants. Avery's work is brilliant, even in a brief test assignment. I can already imagine what they'll do with the research project at the end of the semester, and I'd be lying if I claimed it wasn't thrilling to me. This is my field. This is what I uprooted my whole life for. And Avery not only gets it — they love it. Perhaps as much as I do. Yes, their face is beautiful. But this. This is real beauty. This is a hook digging into my chest and pulling me toward them more forcefully than any physical feature ever could.

I'm a mad fool, but I make only one comment on Avery's essay: See me after class.

STUDENTS FILE OUT of the classroom. Except for Avery.

They approach the lectern from which I delivered the day's lesson, their essay clutched in their hands. Excitement and nerves flicker on their face.

"Um, you wanted to see me?" they say.

I brought this on myself, but it doesn't make the knot in my stomach any less nauseating. More than once, I've wondered what the hell I was thinking, but this is genuinely part of my job. Avery is a brilliant student. If I can help them direct and hone that brilliance, the whole field will be better off for it.

"Yes, it's about your first assignment," I say.

"Was it bad? There's no other notes on it. "

Now that they're closer, the dark shadows under their light eyes are more obvious. They're way too tired looking for someone who has barely cracked into their twenties.

"No, it was great," I say, quickly reassuring them. "I didn't have any other comments. That's why I wanted to talk to you about it. There was really nothing much I could correct or point out. You nailed this assignment."

Their thin, manicured eyebrows rise, surprise easing the tension in their face for a moment.

"Really?" they say. "I just assumed I got, like, half of it wrong."

I shake my head. "Not at all. You were far less verbose than a lot of your classmates, and your citations were perfect. You didn't need to go to that kind of depth for such a short assignment. I was only trying to get a feel for everyone's writing style, the things they might need to work on, but you stood out, Avery. This essay is really good."

They light up, and it's worth every anxious thought I've had since meeting them. They actually smile, and I can tell in that moment that it's the expression they are always meant to wear. It softens their whole face, banishing the shadows under their eyes and tension around their lips. I can't stop my stomach from fluttering, but I'm more grateful than ever that the lectern stands between us, that I have some sort of physical barrier to cling to. It was one thing to meet Avery and see them as the first queer person I've encountered outside of my secluded corner of the world; it's another to experience their smile, their mind, their infectious energy when they're passionate about something. And they're clearly deeply passionate about this.

But they're also a student. I grip the lectern harder, like I can also get a grip on my emotions that way. This person deserves a mentor who can actually guide them. They deserve a mentor who can give them the guidance and resources they need to reach their potential. I feel inadequate to the task, but I'm the person they have. I'm the one in their field. In the future, they could be doing exactly what I'm doing right now, which makes me their best point of contact. As unfortunate as that is.

I have to be professional. I have to be what they need. They deserve that. The whole field of gender studies deserves that.

"I'm so happy you think so," Avery says, a bit breathlessly. "This is what I've been thinking about for my research project. It's been a passion of mine for so long. There's so little out there about this, but people have been playing with gender forever. It's not some new phenomenon like people think it is. I want to bring that to light so badly."

"And I think you will," I say. "This is a great start. You could definitely use this as a jumping off point and build on your research here. You've already laid the groundwork for it. "

"I guess I'm just stuck on where to go next," Avery says. "I feel like I've found every book there is about it, at least every book in Montridge about it. This place isn't that big."

"To you," I say before I can catch myself.

Laughter lights their eyes. "Oh. Yeah. You called Montridge a city. I guess it's different from where you grew up?"

"Quite a bit," I say mildly.

"It's not that scary when you get used to it. There's even some queer bars and stuff in the area."

This is edging way too close to personal territory, way too close to a conversation I don't want to have with my eager young student. I desperately try to steer it back on track.

"Well, sometimes in a field like this, modern day expressions of community can be helpful," I say. "But you could also try looking in the back of any of the books you've already dug through. See what they're citing. See where those resources lead you."

"Oh, that's a great idea," Avery says. "Of course. Duh. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're still learning how to do this and I've been through it already."

"True. I guess that makes you my mentor or something."

They laugh, but I freeze up. It's what I've been thinking in my head, but the way they say it makes it sound so much more dangerous than my idle thoughts entertained alone in my office.

"I don't know if I'm your best option for a mentor," I say, despite spending the past week thinking the exact opposite.

"Why not?" Avery says. "You're smart. You're in the same field. And you're closer to my age than a professor or something."

"I'm almost thirty. You're barely twenty."

They roll their eyes and wave their hand like that's the most ridiculous thing I could have said. "But you're not thirty, you're not even close, and I am twenty. That's a lot closer than me and some professor who's had tenure for a decade. Do you think… Do you think we could talk more about this? I have to get to my next class, but I'd love to discuss this more. I know it's early to think about that research project, but I want to dig in as soon as I can. And when you mentioned community it gave me a few ideas too. There might be places around Montridge that are worth visiting if I can find the time to do it."

They're off to the races, their ideas spilling out almost as quickly as they can voice them. I can tell they're hatching these wild plans on the fly, but their enthusiasm is so infectious it's like being hit with a blast of laughing gas. I feel light and wild, swept along by Avery's intelligence, their passion .

Maybe that's why I open my dumb mouth and say the stupidest thing I possibly can: "Yes, we could arrange that."