Ninth grade was just as bad as eighth for Bridget. The girls in her grade continued to shun her and spread rumors about her, only now several of the older girls were starting to follow suit. It seemed as though Bridget’s reputation had a life of its own, even if she did absolutely nothing to encourage it—and she didn’t. She kept to herself at school, not talking to anyone and frequently skipping lunch to read or work on her homework in the library.

At first Bridget tried to befriend the occasional transfer student who entered the student body, but she quickly realized that her peers had more influence than she did, and worked to scare the new kids away from her. That hurt, at least for a little while, but Bridget did her best to just resign herself to what seemed like fate. The end of the school year found Bridget as friendless as she’d been on the first day of school, and nobody—not even Bridget herself—was particularly surprised.

Tenth grade was almost exactly the same, only even more humiliating. Kids a year younger than her—lowly freshmen, who were supposed to be at the bottom of the social food-chain—teased or ignored her, just like the upperclassmen. A few of the senior girls noticed, teased her even more, and the vicious cycle continued.

The school year was nearing its end when things finally changed for Bridget. It was Valentine’s day, a Friday, and Bridget was entering the school cafeteria with her bagged lunch clutched tightly in one hand. She automatically made a beeline to her usual empty table, but, as was sometimes the case, she was stopped on her way. The difference was that this time, she wasn’t stopped by a kick or an insult.

“Hey, you!” a girl’s voice called out. “Would you mind eating lunch with me? I’m new here, and I like your hair.”

Bridget turned her head slowly, certain that this was some cruel trick but hoping that it wasn’t. A girl with short, spiky chestnut-brown hair and thick black-framed glasses was looking at her expectantly.

“Are you talking to me?” Bridget asked softly, not quite daring to look the girl in the eyes. She looked at the girl’s shirt instead; it was black with large pink polka-dots, a scoop neck, and incredibly puffy short sleeves. It somehow matched well with her glasses.

“Yes, I am. Come on, sit with me.” She was insistent, and Bridget sat down as she was asked, telling herself that she was only trying to avoid causing a scene. Even with that thought, however, Bridget couldn’t help but hope that things would somehow go well for once.

“Thanks. My name’s Lonnie. What’s yours?”

“I’m Bridget.”

“Great. So, Bridget, mind sharing some of your lunch? I kinda forgot mine…”

------

For Tristan, high school was shaping up to be an even happier time than junior high had been. He and Jonathon had made it through eighth grade together, and each of the boys had a framed picture on his nightstand of the two of them at eighth grade graduation: arms slung around each other, graduation caps in their free hands, and huge grins on their faces. In Tristan’s wallet was a picture of them taken at the graduation dance that same night. Their clothes were semi-formal—a pale pink dress shirt for Tristan, pale yellow for Jonathon, and sharply creased khaki pants for both boys—but their pose left something to be desired for the sobriety indicated by their outfits. In this picture they were hugging each other tightly, their eyes closed and mouths pressed together so hard that their lips were already bruising red.

Jonathon’s eight-by-twelve copy of the same picture was taped to his wardrobe mirror, surrounded by little construction-paper lightning bolts covered with silver glitter. The blown-up size of the picture made it easy to notice the pink eye-shadow Tristan was wearing. Jonathon had helped him apply it in the bathroom at school after their parents had left. He’d also kicked two boys in the balls as hard as he could when they’d made the mistake of teasing his boyfriend.

The night had gone well after that, and it was thanks to that incident that Jonathon and Tristan had been able to get their pictures taken together. It had only taken a single glare and the beginning of an upraised knee from Jonathon for one of the two boys to volunteer his services as picture-taker. The bully knew that a few days of gossip and teasing from his friends would be nothing compared to another five minutes of laying on the ground in a fetal position, sobbing his eyes out and hoping that he’d still be able to have kids one day.

Ninth grade brought a new school building with it, and the mix of kids changed with the building. They knew some of their classmates, of course, but not all of them. Enough of the kids were from their junior high that word got around quickly about Jonathon and Tristan being gay, but it didn’t matter. They couldn’t get in trouble at school as long as they didn’t do anything “inappropriate”—or, more specifically, as long as they didn’t get caught (and they never did)—and their respective families didn’t pose any problems either.

Jonathon’s mom already knew that her son was gay, and she was okay with it—her younger sister had been living quite happily with a short-haired, plaid-shirt-wearing, parade-marching and rainbow-flag-waving woman for the past six years, so homosexuality wasn’t exactly a new issue in her life. She was still hoping that it was just a phase her son was going through, but she’d be okay if it wasn’t, too. Jonathon’s dad had died in a plane crash when Jonathon was five; his mother had never remarried; and he was an only child, so there was nobody else at home to take offense to his sexuality. Well, there was his dog, but Triton was absolutely crazy about his beloved master’s boyfriend.

Tristan didn’t have many close family members to worry about, either. His father was never around to attend parent-teacher meetings, let alone hear rumors about his son’s sexual orientation. Tristan’s mother remained as minor a factor in his personal life as she had been when he was a young child clinging to her skirt. If the topic of her son came up without the words “grades,” “discipline,” “trouble,” “hurt,” or “police,” she couldn’t really be bothered. Evelyn loved her son, of course, but she had so little time. She’d just opened up her second sewing supplies shop only a few short months ago, and she was still keeping a close eye on the first one until she could be sure that her newly-hired manager could be trusted to run things properly. As long as her son’s friends—or boyfriends—didn’t steal anything from the house or get Tristan hooked on drugs, they were beneath her notice.

Without the threat of parents angry over their sons’ homosexuality, Tristan and Jonathon were pretty happy. Jonathon’s mother drove them to their dates, which were mainly just trips to the mall to go shopping or watch a movie, or sometimes to fancy restaurants, where Tristan was always more than happy to cover the bill. She suspected that they probably snuck kisses when they were alone in Jonathon’s room, supposedly studying, but that was none of her business—the open-door policy for Jonathon’s room ensured that nothing inappropriate would occur, and knowing that was enough for her. The two boys winked at each other in the hallways, passed each other notes during their shared classes, ate lunch at a table by themselves, and that was it. Teenage hormones balanced teeteringly with young teen awkwardness and nerves, so that was enough.

-----

After a few weeks of knowing Lonnie, Bridget had to start dealing with teenage awkwardness and nerves, too. She hadn’t had a friend in a very long time, and wasn’t completely sure of how to handle herself around this potential new one. Fortunately for her, Lonnie had enough confidence for both of them, and no problems with using it.

“Stop being nervous,” she told Bridget at lunch one day. “I think you’re cool, so we’re going to be friends. It’s really as simple as that.” Her silver charm bracelet jingled as she pounded her fist against the tabletop.

“But the other kids,” Bridget began.

“Don’t matter,” Lonnie interrupted. “Look at me. I look happy, right?” Bridget nodded. She’d never met anyone who smiled and laughed so much without coming off as faking it. “Okay. So if not being friends with everyone else hasn’t bothered yet, why would it bother me now? It will be fine, I promise. Now pass me those cookies, and remember to tell your aunt that I’m madly in love with her baking.”

Bridget shook her head and handed her friend the plastic sandwich bag full of chocolate chip cookies. They’d had variations of this argument several times before, but this one felt final. Maybe it was time for her to stop protesting and worrying, and just accept the fact that she finally had a friend.