Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Avery

I SWEAR I'M not here because I think my TA is hot. Okay, I'm not here just because I think my TA is hot. Diego was clearly as excited as me about my research project. He's the first person I've ever met who actually wants to listen to me ramble about historical documents on gender presentation. He might be the only person who wants to listen to me ramble about that. And he has suggestions and resources and thoughts of his own on top of that. I could spend the rest of the semester reading books about this and tossing ideas back and forth with him, but he seems terrified of doing that. I'm lucky he agreed to this meeting at all, and I swear to myself before I knock on the door of his office that I'll be on my best behavior.

Probably .

"Come in," Diego calls.

I enter his office like I expect to find a dragon inside. The nerves bubbling up inside me only intensify when I spot him sitting behind his desk with a stack of papers before him. I can't tell if it's his own coursework or something for our class, but either way he looks as tired as I feel. He plucks off his glasses to rub at his eyes before setting them back on his nose. His dark hair falls artfully across his forehead, but I'm sure that's accidental, which only makes it more charming than if he was all meticulously put together.

I sit across from him. The desk feels like a wall between us, something forcing us apart, something keeping us safe. Even with that in place, I know Diego feels some of what I feel. It's in the way his eyes never quite settle on me and his hands fiddle nervously with the papers before him.

"So, um," he says, then clears his throat. "So we were going to talk a bit about your research."

It's been a couple days since he pulled me aside after class, and I've been thinking about this meeting non-stop. We're in the liberal arts building, but his office is far more private than a classroom, and that lends every breath, every word a dangerous edge.

We are conspicuously alone, and I know he feels that as keenly as I do.

"I'm interested in getting started on collecting some citations, if I can," I say. "I think it's going to be hard finding material."

"It could," he agrees. "Gender expression is another one of those things that people had to talk about almost in code for a long time. References can be tenuous."

We dive into a discussion about gender performance and social and cultural restrictions. He asks me if I'm going to focus on a specific part of the world or time period, and I'm forced to narrow down my ideas. I've always known I wanted to study this, but I've never had to face such particular questions about it.

It's kind of thrilling.

I love this. I love talking about it, thinking about it, working through it with someone who's as passionate about it as I am. Before I know it, the nerves are gone. I forget whatever weird, unresolved attraction might linger between Diego and I and think only about the work itself, the thing we're both here for.

"Here," Diego says, "this is a really good example of a bibliography that would be worth digging into. I'm sure there's more there that you could look up."

Diego is pointing at a paragraph in my paper, but I can't actually see the words from where I'm sitting. I lean closer, but the desk is between us.

Fuck it. I want to see what he's talking about. I'm really excited about this whole project. So I hop up from my chair and head around his desk so I can stand next to him and lean down to get a look at exactly what he's pointing at. He's printed out another copy of my essay and written a ton of comments all over it. Here he's circled a whole paragraph and written out a rambling comment that spills over onto the back of the page. Diego has suggested a list of sources, but also written out tips for when I crawl through the bibliography of this particular source myself.

It's everything I'm looking for. I want to tear the paper out of his hands and sprint to the library right now. I resist, but mostly because after the wave of excitement recedes, I notice how deathly still Diego is next to me.

He hasn't moved a muscle since I swept around his desk to crouch next to him. With him sitting and me leaning over, I'm taller than him, almost hunched over him to get a closer look at the essay he holds. He's like a statue beside me, except his hands, which are clutching the essay way more tightly than necessary. I get the impression that that piece of paper is more vital to him than air.

Do I really freak him out this much?

I know we were a little flirty that night when he broke down in front of my house, but it's not like we've done anything since then. He's my TA. My hot TA, but it's not like I've said that out loud, not even to my brother or Mia. There's only one reason he'd still be reacting like this to me, and it's because he hasn't totally banished whatever he thought of me on the night we met .

I should back away. I should give him the space he clearly wants. But part of me yearns to push. Both Gabriel and Mia have told me I should be getting out and having fun while I'm in college. This isn't exactly what they meant, but I'm pretty confident Diego would be fun. A lot of fun.

I just have to convince him of that.

His office is strangely quiet. He's not making any attempt to fill the silence. He's locked up tighter than a bank vault, as though if he simply holds still I might disappear.

Instead, I plant my hands on his desk and hunch over even more so I can see his face and speak to him instead of addressing my essay.

"So, I was thinking," I say, "since my research is all about gender performance and how different social settings can inform that, I might want to include a section about drag."

"Oh," Diego says. He's staring down at his desk, refusing to look at me. "Well, drag has certainly been around in various forms for a long time. I'm sure there are plenty of good books about it you could find at the university library."

Unlike before, he isn't eager to rattle off lists of exactly which books I should be looking for. Me moving closer has taken the wind out of his sails, which is kind of a bummer. It was cute seeing him all excited and in his element. At the same time, I'm not eager to move away. This is the closest I've been allowed to get, and it is only improving my impression of his handsome face with its dark hair and rugged stubble.

"I wanted to do something more hands on," I say, deliberately letting my voice dip lower.

Diego flinches, a gesture I only notice because of my proximity. He definitely heard that change in my voice.

"I want to interview actual performers," I say. "I want to get some personal stories from real people."

"That … that sounds like a lot of work," Diego says. His voice is also quieter, but he's speaking at his desk instead of at me. "You shouldn't have to travel all the way to New York City for this assignment. Everything you need should be accessible online or on campus."

"I don't need to go to New York to see drag," I say. "There's plenty of places around here that host drag performances."

"Oh," Diego says. "I … didn't know that."

We're talking about the paper, but not really. The words are appropriate enough, but my tone, his shyness, my proximity — they make a farce of this sterile, appropriate teacher-student conference. I dare to lean in a little closer. Diego doesn't move away. His eyes finally shift toward me instead of continuing to bore holes through his desk.

"That's right," I say. "You're from some small town, huh? I think you mentioned that that night when you stayed at my place. "

The reminder rattles him. His jaw tightens, some little muscle jerking as he apparently clenches his teeth hard. His throat bobs. Diego stares at me with a mixture of desperation and pleading. Some piece of me wants to believe that's a plea for me to close the distance between us and finally put an end to the charade we're struggling to maintain, but that might be too bold to hope for. I wish he'd give me some sort of signal, but Diego just sits there and watches me like I'm a snake that might decide to bite him.

"What was it like back home?" I say. "Did you know any other queer people?"

Diego flinches, but it's a reasonable question. It's not like straight guys are out here teaching Queer and Trans History. But it's also the first time I've openly acknowledged that he's queer to his face.

"It was small," he says. "But yes. I met … a few people."

There's something more there, and I'd love to dig it out of him, but he genuinely looks like he might bolt.

Then again, what I say instead isn't all that much better.

"So you're not completely inexperienced," I say. His eyebrows shoot up, and I add, "With the community."

"I suppose not," he says carefully.

"That's good, but I somehow get the impression you should get out more."

"That's not really… I mean, I have to worry about my cl asses and things, so I don't really…"

I barely resist smiling to myself. His professional veneer is rapidly breaking down, and all I've done is stand close and ask a couple questions that aren't strictly about my research.

"Well, I'm going to find some drag performances to go to as part of my research," I say, "and I think you should come with me to one."

His eyebrows shoot up and stay up this time. I rush on before he can freak out too much.

"It's your field of study as much as mine," I say. "And you've never seen it for yourself. Isn't half the reason for leaving a small town to get out and see more of the world? I think this is good for both of us."

"I'm not sure," Diego dithers.

"It's just for research," I say, lower, silkier, infusing every word with added meaning.

"Research," he repeats quietly.

"Research. Exactly."

I reach past him for a cup of pens sitting on his desk. I didn't plan any of this. It's all just happening. I'm almost watching myself be this bold and brazen from afar. The pen cup is a nice touch, however. It forces me to lean over and past him, to get so close I can smell his aftershave, but in a motion that's completely innocuous on the surface.

Pen in hand, I find a spare piece of paper on his desk (it might be another essay or his own homework) and scribble out my phone number .

"How about this?" I say, staying closer than necessary. "I'm going to find some performances to check out. If you ever decide you want to see one, text me."

Diego stares down at the scrawled phone number. He brushes his fingers against it like the ink might burn him.

"For research," he says. A suggestion, a hope, a question.

"For research," I confirm.

There's nothing inappropriate about a little research.