The Queer Rebels

Chapter 12: Sparking

I pause for a second, watching Jenelle scurry down the hallway, head down and shoulders hunched. I wonder what squashed her earlier bravado.

A part of me is relieved that she looks deflated. But it's late. How long have she and Marcy been alone in our private room? And is there something going on between them I should know about before confessing how I feel to Marcy?

I walk through the door and into the room.

Marcy sits on the bed, slouched. When she hears me enter, she looks up. Her face transforms, her eyes expanding and mouth dropping. She stands.

"What was Jenelle doing here?" I ask.

"Oh. My. God," she says, punctuating each word, ignoring my question. "You–you look..." She lets her hands finish the sentence, waving them enthusiastically.

"I know," I say, my gaze falling to my feet. My ears burn and I rub at my shaved neck.

"Wow." Marcy steps forward, but even as she gets closer, somehow the space between us yawns.

There is a tension in the air that's never been there before. A barrier.

"Wow," she repeats. Her hand hovers forward but doesn't touch me.

Is it because of Jenelle? Or is it because of my new look?

I want to ask, but I don't know how. I don't have the words.

Harry was wrong to encourage me to finally make my move. If something is sparking between Marcy and Jenelle, maybe I'm too late. Maybe I shouldn't risk our friendship.

As usual, Marcy breaks the silence.

"How much of this is tech?" she asks, tilting her head, studying me.

"Some," I admit. "But the hair is all me. And, well"—I gesture down at the untucked collared shirt and dark jeans—"the clothes don't have any advanced technology."

I square my shoulders as Marcy's eyes scan my frame. The binder Harry gave me squeezes my ribs as the lycra smashes my breasts into some semblance of pecs. He told me that layers were my friend. And to always favor thicker fabrics and shirts with patterns. Following his advice, my chest looks flat even when I'm standing up straight, and none of that is biotech.

Straight-cut denim masculinizes my legs. Bulky sneakers give me an inch of height. Altogether, the outfit and the haircut have provided quite the transformation.

Marcy takes another step towards me and squints. She's close enough to me that I can feel her body heat.

"Your jaw looks different," she exhales the words, her breath on my neck.

"It's just a small tech enhancement. My jaw, hands, and a bit of thickness to my brows and sideburns." I tilt my head down and our eyes meet. I can't read the look she's giving me, and it makes my stomach twist. "What do you think?"

"It's amazing." Still looking in my eyes, she smiles. It's a relaxed and honest smile that shows off those teeth she's usually so self-conscious about. "You're amazing, Charlie. We've been here one day, and already... Just look at you."

After a beat, her gaze adverts. She tucks a strand of her loose, dark hair behind an ear and steps back, swiveling away from me.

"What's wrong?" I ask, wanting to move towards her but hesitating, feeling the barrier building between us.

Her smile folds away and I wish I could read her mind. Know what she's thinking.

Did something happen when Jenelle was in the room? Is that why she looked away from me? Is she feeling guilty? Is she torn? My mind spins.