I don’t have an answer to that because it’s the fear in the back of my mind that I haven’t allowed myself to voice. But I’m not sure that’s a good enough reason to stay away anymore. If I let all my fears become locked doors, then it will be exactly as Silas said. My life will get smaller and smaller until nothing else fits except me and the empty space from all the things I’ve let pass me by.
I’m figuring out what I want by trial and error, and maybe that’s not the best way, but it’s all I’ve got. All I know is that I need to be my own person, someone shaped by my desire, not fear of disappointing the people who are supposed to love me.
I just have to stay realistic, and I won’t get hurt. From the very beginning, Silas has told me to keep things simple. That’s the only reason I can do any of this. Because as long as we’re just having fun, I’ve not made any irreversible decisions.
I’m just . . . exploring. Whatever is happening between Silas and me is a stepping-stone between the old me and the new me I’m working to find. It’s meant to be temporary. As long as I remember that, we’ll be fine.
I’ll be fine.
I say goodbye to Torres and Brookes, and then make my way home still thinking about the things that Silas and I talked about. He’s different than I expected him to be. So different. His tidy room. The gentle way he touched my hair. The hurt and the hope in his voice as he talked about football.
Silas might be less refined than Henry. Less traditional. Less open.
But even so . . . he feels like more.
And that’s how I know I’m on the right path. It’s not what’s on the surface that matters—not in other people or myself.
Chapter 17
Dylan
Maybe we could do a letter-writing campaign?” I ask.
Javier steeples his fingers down at the head of the table and looks at me. His accented voice is soft when he replies, “They didn’t listen to the petition, so I doubt they’ll listen to letters.”
“So we just do nothing?” I look around at the rest of our student activism group, and I can tell I’m the only one who wants to keep pushing the subject, and it makes me angry. “These are people’s lives at stake. If this shelter closes, the one at St. Mary’s only has thirty beds a night available. What about all the other people who don’t fit? What about them?”
“Dylan.” I can see Javier is trying to be kind, but he’s done with this conversation. Matt places a hand on my knee beneath the table, but I keep going.
“There are whole families that need help. Children who do poorly in school because they didn’t get a good night’s sleep or any food the night before.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, kid,” Matt murmurs to me.
“No, I’m preaching to a group that’s given up.”
“We do not give up,” Javier answers sharply. I forget sometimes that he’s been doing this a lot longer than any of the rest of us. He and his parents immigrated to the United States from Argentina when he was twelve after his brother was killed during a political riot. He’s a quiet, thoughtful kind of guy, but he can be pretty damn serious when he wants to. “We stop, rethink, reevaluate. And we face facts. Nothing will change if we are the only ones fighting. So we find support from more prominent members of the community. We wait for classes to start back in two weeks and come back at it then.”
“But the shelter is closed now. What do those people do in the meantime? While we’re waiting?”
“I don’t have that answer. But we must be smart about this. We cannot effect change with sheer force of will.”
He’s right. I know he is, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. We could spend every day protesting outside that shelter or City Hall or wherever, and it wouldn’t change a thing.
Because the world isn’t fair. It just f**king isn’t.
So I stay silent when Javier asks, “Any other business before we adjourn?”
A senior named Alana passes out stacks of flyers for a lecture at one of the local libraries about religious awareness and tolerance. I take a handful and promise to drop them off at a few businesses around my apartment and my parents’ house. Javier lets us know that at the next meeting, we’ll begin talking about state legislature elections, and what kind of stuff we can do on campus to get more students to vote. Then he calls the meeting to a close.
While the others say their goodbyes, I take off. Matt is hot on my heels.
“Hold up there, spicy pickle.”
“Don’t start, Matt, not if you want your organs to remain in their correct locations.”
“Jeez. I think hanging out with a certain sexy football player has made you more violent.”
I really wish I were the kind of person who could follow through on my violent threats.
“I’m not more violent. I’m just tired of staying quiet.”
“Riiight. Where are you off to?”
“Home.”
“You mind if I come with you? I wanted to ask Nell a question about one of the classes I’m taking. The professor I signed up for is out on maternity leave, and now I’m stuck with some dude that is apparently the biggest jackass this side of wherever Shia LaBeouf is currently standing. Someone said they thought Nell had him last year.”
I shrug. “Sure. I’m not sticking around, though, and you know you’ll annoy Nell if you distract her too much.”
“That girl needs some distraction like whoa. If she doesn’t spend some time out in the sunlight soon, she’ll end up all pasty white like me. You won’t even be able to tell she’s Italian anymore.”
“Please tell her that. I’d like to see her hand you your ass in the argument that follows.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t care what you say, Silas is rubbing off on you.”
“Yes, well, you’ve rubbed off on me, too. Ooo! That’s it! I’ve finally thought of an appropriately awful nickname for you. Rash. What with your red hair and persistent personality, I think it’s a good fit.”
“If you call me Rash, I will call you Pickle every chance I get.”
“You already call me Pickle every chance you get.”
“Hmm. Good point. But have some pity . . . how am I ever going to land a hot guy or girl of my own with the nickname Rash?”
“Think of it this way, Rash . . . when you do land that lucky person, you’ll know it’s for real if they stick around.”