“Well anyway,” Shari says just as I reach the front of the line. “Ahem!”
Suddenly Shari’s voice is projecting past the table and out to the gathered crowd. The freshmen stop talking and push toward the front of the table to hear. A hush has fallen at the booths around us, too. I have to admit, Shari’s got some serious crowd-control prowess.
“You guys,” Shari says, beaming out at the rapt group, “I’m so excited to tell you what the UBA board’s decided to do this year! I know you’ll all want to be part of it. You all know that awesome new show The Flighted Ones?”
Lots of people nod. I’ve never watched The Flighted Ones, but my sister Audrey is obsessed with it. It’s about a group of twentysomethings who turn into winged superheroes at night and fly around fighting crime. Two of the characters are gay and are considered hot by the people who have opinions about such things.
“We’ve decided to have official UBA-sponsored Flighted parties every Tuesday night!” Shari says. “We’ll watch the show and have snacks! Everyone will want to come because everyone’s watching the show anyway!”
Next to me, the other freshmen murmur assent.
“Well, but that’s not all you’re doing this year, is it?” I ask.
The murmurs stop. I can feel the other freshmen looking at me. Shari and Derek are, too. Even Brad has lowered the tablet and is peering in my direction.
Crap. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Now, though, with all those eyes on me, I have no choice but to keep going.
“I mean, it’s not that I don’t like cupcakes and cheesy TV shows, because I do, sometimes,” I say. “But there’s also going to be advocacy work, right? We’re going to do stuff to address the key issues affecting the queer community?”
I stop talking when I realize Shari’s glaring at me. I shouldn’t have mentioned the cupcakes.
Great. I haven’t even joined yet and I’ve already pissed off the UBA’s queen bee. I should probably slink off and join the Queer Youth of America, Inc., Harvard-Radcliffe Chapter. I can see their table in the distance. A giant poster of Neil Patrick Harris is hanging from it.
“We need more members,” Shari says to me, not projecting anymore. “If you know a better way to recruit members than fun social gatherings then you can run for the board next year.”
“Now, Shari,” Brad says, chuckling, even though everyone else behind the table looks uncomfortable. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to imply that—”
Derek interrupts Brad in a voice loud enough to match Shari’s. “Hey, Toni has a point. We have a lot of other goals for this semester. Maybe the officers should each give our prospective new members some of the bullet points?”
Shari groans.
“Derek, that’s an excellent idea,” Brad says, turning back to the tablet screen. “Why don’t you kick us off?”
“Okay,” Derek says. “So, hi, everyone. I’m Derek Richmond, and I’m the cochair for transgender outreach. Now that we’ve got gender-neutral housing campus-wide, my fellow cochair and I thought this would be a good year to work on an official guide to transitioning at Harvard.”
Wow. I’d love to read that. I’ve seen stuff on the internet about transitioning, but it’s mostly about why binding your chest with ACE bandages is bad for you. It isn’t about the scary, big-picture stuff that keeps me up at night, like having to ask my professors to call me by some other name. Or having to tell my mother.
I catch Derek’s eye and nod. Derek smiles.
“So, I’m seeing a few confused faces,” Derek goes on, looking around the table at the other freshmen. “What that means is, we need a guide for transgender students who are transitioning. They could be starting to live openly as women, or as men, or as a nonbinary gender, or making some other change related to their gender presentation. The transition guide will have sections on how to tell your roommates and professors you’re transgender, how to get your name changed on your ID, where to find gender-neutral bathrooms, how to get legal hormone injections, safe places around town to shop for clothes and makeup, whatever. We’ll post the guide on the web and try to get some stories in the Crimson, too.”
The space around the table is getting even more crowded as the freshmen lean in to hear what Derek’s saying, but there are still a lot of blank expressions. I’m so busy watching the crowd I almost miss what Derek says next, but I snap back to attention when I hear my name.
“We could use some help writing the guide from someone who’s new to the Harvard community,” Derek says. “Toni, are you up for it?”
Now everyone’s staring at me again. The other freshmen in particular.
I shift from one foot to the other, but Derek looks perfectly at ease, waiting for me to answer.
It would be stupid to say no. This is as involved in the group as I can get freshman year unless I want to help with cupcake-baking duty. Besides, it sounds interesting.
I wish everyone would stop staring at me, though.
“Sure,” I say.
“Cool,” Derek says. “Why don’t you come back with me after the activities fair? You can meet Nance and we can brainstorm.”
“Excellent idea, Derek,” Brad says without looking up. “I’m sure he’ll have a lot to contribute. Kartik, your turn.”
Kartik, the treasurer, takes over and starts talking about fund-raisers, but half the people gathered on both sides of the table are still looking at me.
I push my way toward the sign-up form and write my name, fast, then back away.
As soon as I’m safely anonymous in the crowd again, my heart starts to slow down. That was terrifying.
Also...kind of awesome.
Now that I’m not nervous anymore, it’s easy to find the other clubs I liked and put my name down on their lists. I sign up for a couple of others, too. Why not? Maybe I should start being more spontaneous now that I’m in college. Maybe that’s how you meet the people who are actually worth meeting.
As the fair winds down, I make my way back to the UBA table. I dodge Shari, who’s sweeping the table clear of cupcake crumbs, just in time to see Derek look over and wave for me to follow.
Whew. I’d been half-worried Derek would forget about me.
We walk across the Yard onto a road I don’t recognize. I’ve never been to any of the houses where the upperclassmen live.
“Will Nance be home when we get there?” I ask as we climb the steps to Derek’s floor. “What about Frisbee?”
“Yeah, she’ll be there,” Derek says. “To be honest, Frisbee was an excuse. Nance hates hanging out with big groups at UBA events. She prefers to handle things behind the scenes.”
That seems odd for someone whose position title has the word outreach in it.
Derek’s house looks a lot like my freshman dorm—old and grand. Loud voices echo toward us as we climb the stairs to Derek’s room.
“Er,” Derek says before turning the key in the lock. “I should probably apologize in advance for anything my roommates might say over the course of the afternoon. Sometimes they get kind of...well. You’ll see.”
With that I’m nervous again.
Derek’s room has a huge common area that’s a lot nicer than mine. It has a bar on one side, a big-screen TV and two leather couches. As the door swings open, I see two people sitting hunched over on a couch in