Chapter Nineteen: What They Call It Doesn't Matter
It happened on a Wednesday.
Rain had started early — soft, persistent, the kind that lingered in your clothes.
Most students huddled in the atrium during lunch, a glossy maze of benches and lockers and half-hearted conversations.
Kira sat beside Mina on the floor, backs against a vending machine, sharing a granola bar and sketching lines into the margin of her science notes.
They were quiet.
Comfortably so.
Until the hallway broke open.
"Hey," a voice called out. Too loud to be casual. Too sharp to ignore.
Kira looked up.
A boy — football jacket, smug grin — stood a few feet away, flanked by two others. He held up his phone like a shield.
"I saw your little stage moment," he said to Mina. "Real poetic."
Mina didn't flinch. "Thanks."
"Didn't know drama class was where people confessed their gay little diaries."
Laughter. A punch to the shoulder from one of the other boys.
Kira closed her notebook.
Mina's voice was calm. "You done?"
"Just wondering," the boy said. "Like, do you take turns being the guy? Or is one of you always the—"
"Stop."
Kira said it.
Quiet, but clear.
The boy blinked, surprised. "Oh? You talk now?"
"She's talked this whole time," Mina said. "You just weren't listening."
He scoffed. "Don't get all high and mighty. Just saying what everyone's thinking. You two want attention. It's performative."
Kira stood.
Not all the way.
Just enough.
Her eyes met his.
"You think it's a performance because you don't know what real looks like."
The words settled.
Sharp.
Deliberate.
For a beat, no one spoke.
Then Mina rose too.
Not angry.
Just present.
"Call it whatever you want," she said. "We're still here tomorrow."
The boy shrugged. "Yeah, well. Enjoy your little phase while it lasts."
And walked off.
Mina didn't move.
Kira sat back down slowly, her pulse louder than it should've been.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I should've said something sooner."
"You did," Mina replied. "You said enough."
That afternoon, the note appeared on the bathroom mirror.
Scrawled in sharpie.
"Attention-seeking dykes. Not brave. Just loud."
Kira stood in front of it.
Read it twice.
Then reached into her bag and pulled out a black pen.
Below the message, she wrote:
"You don't scare us."
Underneath that:
"Signed, Still Here."
The principal made a statement over the loudspeaker the next day.
Something about respect.
Inclusivity.
Consequences.
It was generic. Coated in PR language. Avoidant.
But it was something.
And for some students — maybe for some teachers too — it cracked the door open.
A girl in math class asked Kira if she wanted to sit with her and her girlfriend sometime.
A boy from last year's yearbook team left a sticky note on Mina's locker that said, "Wish I had your courage when I was your age."
Ms. Rowe brought in a poem by Audre Lorde and read it out loud like it was a prayer.
Small things.
Real things.
Still, it got harder before it got easier.
A few students stopped talking to them altogether.
One of Mina's former friends called her a "distraction" in class.
Someone left a Bible verse in Kira's sketchbook. No note. Just the verse, underlined.
She showed it to Mina later.
"Do you think it's a threat?" she asked.
Mina read it.
"If anyone causes one of these little ones to stumble…"
She frowned.
"Maybe. Maybe it's fear."
"Of us?"
"Of what we make them question."
Kira folded the paper and threw it in the trash.
On Friday, they sat in the courtyard again.
Clouds low.
Air thick.
No audience.
No art on the walls.
Just them.
Mina stared at the sky.
"I used to think bravery was shouting."
"It isn't?" Kira asked.
"It can be. But I think sometimes… it's just not changing for someone else's comfort."
Kira drew two figures in her notebook — not Mina and herself this time.
Just shadows.
One holding up a mirror.
The other reaching for it.
That night, they walked to the corner diner.
Shared fries. Split a milkshake. Listened to '90s songs no one had requested.
A group of girls from their school passed them on the sidewalk.
One smiled. One looked away. One whispered something they didn't hear.
Kira looked at Mina.
Mina looked at Kira.
And neither of them flinched.
When they got back to Kira's house, the porch light was on.
Kira's mom met them at the door.
She didn't ask questions.
Just said, "You hungry?"
Mina shook her head.
Kira nodded.
Her mom turned and said over her shoulder, "You can be both."
Later, in Kira's room, the light low and the window cracked, Mina sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through Kira's sketchbook.
She paused on a page.
"You drew me like I was strong before I felt that way."
"I saw it first," Kira said.
"You always do."
Mina turned to her.
"What if this gets worse?"
Kira's voice didn't shake.
"Then we hold tighter."
Mina leaned in.
"I'm not scared of the names anymore."
"Because they don't know you."
"Because they don't matter."
Kira kissed her.
Soft.
Certain.
Not a question.
And in that moment, Kira knew:
They couldn't control the world.
But they could choose each other.