The Queer Rebels

Chapter 31: Choosing

Choice is an illusion.

The city offered us a Choosing Day, made us feel like we controlled our own destiny, but it was just a trick to allow them to manipulate our minds. Make us conform.

When I escaped to the Queer Rebels, I thought things would be different. But are they?

Sure, I get to be myself. But I can't control the rest. Can't control anyone else.

Now, standing here in the lobby of our new home, with Christopher's eyes boring into me and Harry's words hanging in the air, floating on the static waves they were carried on–It's worse than we knew–all I can think is, how can things be worse?

His call for help feels like a trap.

But Christopher's eyes–red and teary and magnified by his glasses–tell me I'm not going to have a choice.

"We have to get him back," Christopher says, his voice breaking.

I shift uncomfortably, not knowing what to say. Harry was in distress when he called. The sickening thud that ended his communication could only mean one thing. And it isn't good. But I'm not ready to rush back into the city to save him.

For one thing, my wrist is broken. After the march earlier today, I'm in no shape for a new mission.

And the group of newcomers watching this all unfold have already told us that the city has upped the patrols in response to our earlier demonstration.

Sequoia's tall, thin frame shifts. "Of course, Christopher. But not this instant." Her voice is soft but firm. "There is nothing we can do now. All our contacts in the city are sleeping, and we should be, too."

Then, she turns her attention to the newcomers, the half dozen kids whose eyes are darting between us, unsure.

The boy with the light-brown faux-hawk has his lips puckered in thought, observing everything unfold. Behind him, two girls, both with dark black hair—one in tight curls and the other pin-straight—seem to lean on each other for support. There's a mousy boy wearing a shy, nervous smile. And a girl with a shaved head and large blue eyes.

Or I assume they're a girl.

I assume all their genders the way people always assumed mine. Is that a habit I'll ever break?

"Let's get you guys settled for the night," Sequoia says to them. "We'll all have proper introductions in the morning."

But before my shoulders can relax, Christopher shakes his head. "No."

I turn to him. His neck is red. Bright streaks of anger are spreading up to his pale cheeks. "If this was anyone else, you'd be arming yourself and breaking into the city tonight. Not in the morning. Tonight." His volume raises on the last word.

"Christopher." Sequoia's voice is a warning.

"I–I know you don't approve of him and me but come on." Christopher throws his hands in the air. "This is larger than some petty jealousy. His life is at stake." His tone fluctuates between pleading and demanding.

I hear stirring behind me. Others are waking up, getting out of their cots, peeking over the half wall that surrounds the sleeping area to watch the commotion. I've never seen Christopher this animated. This impassioned. And I doubt many of the others have, either. He usually seems so stolid. So reserved.

But the newcomers don't know that. Their eyes shift. With such a shitty first impression, they must regret risking so much to join us.

Sequoia takes a graceful step forward, her face placid, red lips pressed into a straight line. "This is not the time nor the place for this conversation," she says coolly.