A 21st Century Whore (Yuuto)

Four cups of tea later, my music theory homework wasn't getting any more done. I guess that meant it was time to do some introspection. After replacing my tea with some hot amazake, I went outside to my garden where a cool, crisp breeze blew across my face. It was a nice change from Mark bombarding me with weird memes.

When I met him, I knew he was familiar, but I didn't know quite why. Was he the guy who stood me up during the summer? No, it couldn't be. Mark had a better personality. He knew how to build morale among everyone who met, kind of like this girl I met at another high school's prom. She was well-spoken, reasonably attractive, and didn't seem to belong at a high school dance. Two hours into the dance, we hooked up in a supply closet. Though I wasn't genuinely attracted to her and she acted like she was reading a script the whole time, it felt good for both of us.

That wasn't my first time. During high school, I went from girl to girl, breaking hearts and getting my heart broken. Though I tried to justify it by saying that everyone was doing it and that I was depressed and trying to alleviate the agitation I felt, I knew better. Being young, gay, and growing up during the local HIV panic prevented me from acknowledging my feelings towards other guys; my guess was that I used mindless promiscuity with girls to suppress it. Granted, I did use prophylactics most of the time, but I was surprised that I didn't transmit or contract an STD.

I thought I had forgotten all of that when I saw Mark, but, during a meal, he said that I looked familiar. A conversation about our high school lives came up and I revealed why we knew each other. It turned out, after we met again, that the girl I met was attending prom this year because she couldn't go last year, but neither of us cared at the time. Both of us were numb, confused, and looking to feel something.

If I could redo my life, I wouldn't have hooked up with that girl because neither of us really wanted sex. We wanted something different: for me, purpose and for her, now him, satisfaction. I want to blot out this stain my past as it ended in me crying in a hospital room. I didn't cry because I was relieved, but because I was disappointed that I woke up. Now that I'm more or less glad to be alive, a better person, and with someone I truly love, I found that I have died only to find I've come alive.

Savages (Landon)

"Only certain people can commit atrocities, right?" I posed this question in front of a crowd of high school students. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Others looked at each other. "Think again. That was me as a kid. Do you think he looks like a mass murderer? Do I look like that you now? Well, this was me." I played footage of the shooting. My stomach turned as it played, but I knew it was necessary. I don't know exactly what went wrong, whether it was genetic or environmental or both, but I know that it was something. If every depressed, overwhelmed high schooler went on a killing spree, we'd all be dead.

Of course, combat programs haven't been the same since then. Some students have to store their weapons in lockers. Others need to be screened to enter their schools' combat programs. Some schools ban enchanted weapons specifically while others did away with their combat programs entirely. On the other side of the coin, some schools became increasingly combat-oriented at the expense of core subjects. If I learned anything, I learned that violence clouds the mind, but not in the way that some people think it does.

The reason that Havencraft High School no longer reads or shows Macbeth is that I had the lead role shortly before the shooting. It's a good play, one that can work with a variety of stagings and interpretations, but the question now is: Could people see the dagger before my eyes or could they not? In other words, did people really try to understand me or am I just another prop that is used to generate sensationalism?

The Mindcrack suicide crisis didn't get nearly as much attention as any mass killing even though, in my mind, it was just as horrific. Why? People can't politicize suicide the way they can politicize a shooting, stabbing, or bombing. Our inclination to point fingers and take sides is a vestige one of the most basic instincts: to assemble in herds as a means of survival. Though most of us try to be "civilized" by wearing shirts and going along with various social norms, we will always have those remnants of those raw, untamed animal instincts.

A part of me thinks that we would be better able to empathize with each other if we stopped thinking of every little thing as "good" or "evil" and recognize that, underneath it all, we're all scared and trying to survive. We're just savages, but we don't admit it. It's not that we stopped killing or hurting others for its own sake, just that we developed more efficient and sneaky ways to do it. High school is generally when we realize this and, thus, I find it important to tell my story to high schoolers.

Even though they had just eaten lunch, they listened attentively, taking everything in like sponges. It is my hope that they walk out as better people, but a simple presentation can't do that. Inherently, people have the capacity for both good and evil, but most of the time we don't know which is which.

Plug it Up (Steve)

Surprisingly, showering in the facility was the least of my worries. I had more concerns about how to force myself to eat one more forkful of food or try to get the other patients to see me as human. One guy, Ryan, admitted to using me as "inspiration" for his ideal body. But who would want to look like me? Who would want to look like a soft, flabby sack of--

That's fat talk. No fat talk. My body is fine. My body is fine. I am fine. I let the water roll off my body and take the fat talk with it. Being away from the cameras and the questions was nice, but I missed the outside world. I missed my students, my boyfriend, Mark, and the sensation of diamond hitting diamond. Though I'll recover, it won't change the fact that this eating disorder stole my band's first season away from me.

At first, I seemed to miss my eating disorder. I knew it was destructive, but it was still a part of me. If I felt overwhelmed, I just threw up. Now that I can't do that, I am truly left to my own devices. However, like playing the violin, learning healthier coping mechanisms is something that comes with practice and it's never pretty in the beginning. My latest one-on-one session left my full-on ugly crying and cursing myself for even developing this thing in the first place.

But now, I couldn't cry. I just about finished washing when I felt something moist running down my leg, but the thickness told me it wasn't water. Looking down, I saw red mingling with the water. I managed to keep my meal down even as it tried to climb up my throat, but all I could do was stand and stare. I tried to get rid of this thing by purging. I stared in shock at the red streaks between my legs. This was perfectly normal, I tried to remind myself. Except it wasn't. Men don't bleed.

I needed help. It had been a long time since this happened. Why had I decided to recover, if it meant I would bleed in the process? Overcome with anxiety, I screamed "I'm bleeding! I'm bleeding!" like some kind of broken record. I left a trail of blood as I ran and left a handprint on a nearby towel. I didn't know who would help me or if anyone would help me. They would probably think I was crazy or screaming for attention, but attention was the last thing I wanted. I wanted to disappear.
        "Plug it up, Carrie!" A voice came from the shower next to me. Others joined in and seemed to corner me. Others laughed and others stayed silent.

The nurse supervising us demanded to know what was going on. My fellow patients fell silent and all left to change except for Ryan. A cramp tore through my body like lightning.
        "I think Steve is either trans or intersex."
        "You're not helping." The nurse shooed him away as well. "You're okay." Easy to say when the showers look like a crime scene. My breathing began to slow, but I was still feeling quite shaky. As I rose to my feet, the nurse helped me.
        "Is this the first time you had your cycle?" Talk about pinpointing the problem.
        "No."
        "So you know what's going on?"
        "Yes. It's my period. But it's a shameful thing."
        "It's not shameful. It's something natural."
        "Not for a guy, though. And I was born male too."
        "I see. Let's get you to bed. You can talk to me if you need anything."
       

Bang Bang You're Dead (Landon)

Bless this kid for putting up with the difficult vocal part I wrote for Josh. I may or may not have unintentionally modeled the character after myself which led to high belting, compressed lyrics, and other things that would fray an ordinary theater kid's vocal cords, but that's not the case with Kyle Palacios. He simply nodded, acted, and killed it.
         "That was great, everyone. Take five." The students rushed for the onigiri and teriyaki meats. While a high school student has surprising endurance, I know better than to drive them to that point. Kyle watched my presentations and other content to do character research and for vocal inspiration. He called some of my more impressive covers "inhuman".

I've been wanting to write a musical adaptation of something for so long and now my dream was being realized. I created the noise and now I must cut through it. Trashing armories and promoting extreme binaries in going about a certain issue won't doing anything, but getting inside of someone's head will. Both sides love hijacking tragedies to further their platforms, which is something that undermines the nature of the situation and exploits survivors in the name of politics.

After some consideration, I decided to see a psychologist because I get very strong urges to chew or even eat non-edible things. It's been a problem for much of my life. As a kid, I got bored and ate a pencil. Nowadays, it's paper and it happens mostly when I'm hungry. Psychologists liked to probe me in an interrogation-style setting, but now things might be different. I wasn't the same person I was in high school.

Irina (Steve)

This clinic has weird ideas about helping people with eating disorders. Obviously, the bathroom restrictions and blind weigh-ins make sense, but why can't I get a hug from the therapist or at least not be punished for wetting the bed? Am I that bad? Will this make me better? Why did Mark want to dump me at this hellscape of a clinic? Is that what he wants? I can see why he would leave me to die in an institution.

For more reasons than bulimia, I want to throw up. But if I have any hope of escape, I can't. Disapproving stares attacked me from every angle. It seemed strange that we all got diet soda with our seemingly insubstantial dinners...and that the therapists would avoid me. Even the patients would give me weird looks or even comment on my appearance saying that I looked fatter than I did on TV. They probably don't realize that I'm covered in makeup with all my flaws edited out half the time.

I've been in the mental healthcare system before and let me say this: It sucks. We're supposed to be naming things we like about ourselves that don't have to do with appearance. I guess I'm an okay public figure and teacher. It's not like most people can do either of those things, let alone both. People say I'm nice, but most of the time it's an automated smile and a pre-programmed "hello". My throat felt sore. It was a constant reminder of the illness that I suffered from, something I brought on myself.

Celebrities are expected to have problems, but these problems are usually part of clickbaity headlines that are more about generating seemingly outrageous content rather than about helping regular people with similar problems. Some of them are even touted as quick fixes for body flaws. Every time a supermodel goes on some cayenne pepper ice cube diet or a rapper overdoses on cough syrup, it's either in some magazine for all to see and emulate or used as a justification to shame the pursuit of health and fitness. Can't anyone see that the people on TV are human too? Despite all the makeup, scripts, and camera flashes, we're not props.

Patients were led into a large room reminiscent of a cafeteria, but with no food. I knew that the air freshener was supposed to smell like flowers, but it was just a cheap imitation that reeked of despair. Patients sat with a therapist. I towered over everyone else, but I felt so small that I could go unseen.
      "...I know." Mark's body language radiated composure and a sense of detachment, but his eyes said otherwise. He met me with a warm embrace and a few jokes about the horrible air freshener and thirsty middle-aged moms. For once, we were a normal couple with normal lives. Other than the therapist supervising the visit, we didn't have to deal with anyone else.

I don't know how, but Mark always knew how to meet me where I am. He listened as I told him about everything from the way everyone was avoiding me to how I felt with him here. I'm getting pretty suspicious of the facility owner, Irina Helpmann. She seemed to play favorites with a few of the patients and would whisk them away to some secret room before the rest of us went to bed.

Ninja Girls and Stupid Rules (Jordan)

Alex wanted to perform "A Female Ninja, but I Want to Love" as a duet with Hanako. and one of her practices made its way to YouTube. The modulations and fast pace made the song particularly difficult, especially for a girl Alex's age. She managed to keep up, though. However, I didn't quite expect the responses to the video. One called the performance inappropriate, not because of the lyrics, but because of Alex's take on the song.

The staging highlighted a subplot where the yellow and blue ninja girls slowly fell in love with each other. The suggestion is that the main ninja girl ended up with the boy she saw at the festival, but the PV and lyrics have lent themselves to a variety of interpretations. I don't understand why people hate this one so much. Obviously, most of the people were trolls, but some of them were honestly concerned about things that seemed pretty trivial to me.

Society, family, etc. getting in the way of true love is a plot device as old as storytelling itself. The fact that people are offended by a 12-year-old girl singing about falling in love speaks volumes about the state of the world. I used to think love stories were stupid and endured reading them ad nauseam for Alex, but then I saw her face performing and acting out her love. Love in a romantic context is not important to me, but I'm not offended every time I see such affection referenced in a work of fiction.

Me Too (Mark)

After finishing a delicious meal at my house, Steve excused himself to go to the restroom. Without a second thought, I let him. I noted that he poked and prodded the food quite anxiously and then wolfed it down like he didn't need to chew. Maybe something was on his mind. He tends to miss high notes when something's on his mind, which is why he wasn't doing as well in rehearsals and gigs.

Then I heard an unearthly squelching noise that I knew all too well.

Had I made him sick? Was it something else? I made a beeline to the restroom and found Steve hunched over the toilet. 

       "Are you okay?" Stupid question, I know. But it generally works. Steve nods, flushed everything down the toilet and rinsed his mouth out. "Do you think you're sick?"

       "No...I just need to do this."

       "Why?" 

       "Because I'm disgusting." 

I could have sworn that my heart fell out of my body at that moment. As he was sitting on the bathroom floor, Steve looked small and helpless, like the weight of a feather could shatter him. I tried to put an arm around him, but he pushed it away, saying that I could never understand what it was like to be under constant scrutiny by the public. Well, I did. One of the things a pageant girl learns is how to smile when she feels nothing. Not sad. Not disappointed. Just nothing. One wrong facial expression or pose can cost you the crown.

I can't count how many boys who want to be just like Steve. They run around in leather armor clanking wooden swords and defeating imaginary dragons. Some of them are my trumpet freshmen. They practice faithfully every day hoping to be able to play the way Steve does. My stomach churned at the thought of one of them making a beeline to the bathroom to throw up their lunch. What was I feeling? Shocked? Angry? Both. I took a deep breath. Neither of us would benefit from me snapping.
       "Why do you think you're disgusting?"
       "Because everyone thinks something wrong with my face or my body."
       "Steve! There's nothing wrong with you. Never mind what other people think."
       "What about what I think? I can't show people something I'm disappointed in." I opened my eyes to the guy on the bathroom floor. He needs compassion, not a simple push on the back.
       "I want you to be around for your fans and, if not for their sake, for mine." He seemed to be opening up. "Hearing you throwing up scared me and I don't know how long it's been going on."
       "It started in high school, then it kind of died down when I met Caitlin, started again when I was dating Landon because I wanted to be as thin as he was." We love our angry beanpole, but emulating him is generally ill-advised. "Then I started focusing on loving myself and got better, but now, it seems that no one likes me the way I am."
        "I do--and that's why I hate seeing you destroying yourself. I'm calling an eating disorder clinic so you can get the help you need." Steve leaned against me as I punched the number in. I told the lady on the other end about our situation and held back my tears as I answered the series of questions.

The next day, we went to the clinic and were met with the shuffling around of anxious parents, furtive teenage girls, and women who looked around as if comparing themselves to those around them. Some of them gave Steve dirty looks and exchanged whispers about the Me Too movement. Usually, a guy has to literally almost die in order to receive treatment for an eating disorder, but this clinic knows that eating disorders don't discriminate.

Words drifted through my head as I took everything in. Why would the facility prohibit calculators, especially for a high school student who has to do math homework? And what's with the restrictions on clothing? I had body image issues both before and after my transition, but nothing clinical. I read through their visitation policies, but a wave of anxiety interrupted my thoughts. My heart started racing and I thought I would faint. Is this what Steve felt for no apparent reason? How did he live like this?
 

     

The Tall Girl (Alex)

I got promoted to the advanced class to work even more on pointe. I've never been more tired or more excited. Some people didn't like me as a tall Clara, saying that my height made me look too old for the role. Being taller than most of the girls my age, I've always been known as "the tall girl". None of the boys want to partner with me because I'm taller than a lot of them are and, because of the shortage of boys, I might have to partner with a girl.

My heart fluttered at the thought of being so close to another girl. I didn't understand my boy-crazy friends and just thought that Mindcrack had a shortage of cute boys and too many cute girls. I don't understand why some people think it's bad for girls to like girls. Why do people think it's okay to say it's bad to love someone when those same people are too busy driving others into suicide and filling the world with hate?

Though I try not to notice, it gets to me when I see how other girls are so thin and beautiful. Do I want to be with them or do I want to be them? Another girl did effortless echapées in her pointe shoes. How did she do that? I've heard that tall dancers have difficulties with moving quickly and, being the tall girl, such is my reality. That and being taller makes me look older despite being the youngest girl in the class.

Our exam will be a solo from Act 1 of Giselle. Every girl wants to be Giselle, which makes it the competition that much tenser. Naturally, I'm working on my positions and looking like I'm gliding across the stage. I've heard it said that my strength is making music with my body rather than just moving to it. It helps that I sing, play the trumpet, and have just begun to learn full kit drumming. The more music I can make, the more I can see myself as someone more than the tall girl.

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What's Wrong With Me? (Steve)

(A/N: It's revenge time.)

I wish I saw in the mirror whatever made the public think I was worthy of their constant adoration, but all I see is something that I want to kill. How could anyone stand looking in my direction? It makes me sick--so sick that I had my head in the toilet after eating the homemade food Everan made for me. Going down, it was delicious, but I couldn't let it settle anywhere on my body. I had already lost muscle. I didn't need to be fat too.

Nothing slips past the eyes of the public--at least nothing that they want to see. They turn a blind eye to all the shapewear, extensions, makeup, extreme diets, and overall discontentment of the famous while there's always someone willing to make a conspiracy theory about lipstick on a model's teeth or using my suicide attempt to justify some crackpot theory about Big Pharma. I thought about the night I had with Mark. What did he find tolerable, much less attractive, about me?

People think I don't--or even can't--notice or care about the covert whispers exchanged among female teachers and prominent Twitter activists. The thing is, I do notice. I have no choice but to notice--and noticing means I need to fix the problems I see. That started with speaking normally and then doing my hair differently. Now, I need to fix my body. If that means I have to throw up every time I eat, so be it. People are free until they are needed--and now I was needed more than ever.

Amid all the politics and the fighting, people needed me to be this face, this image of something that was okay no matter what. But I'm not okay and I'm not as strong as everyone says I am. I'm like a piece of gold armor: cool and shiny, but so flimsy that any real use will cause it to bend out of shape. One of my students had a phone case that said: "If you can't be useful, be pretty." Did people only "listen" to me because I was just another piece of eye candy in the dish?

Just yesterday, a little boy stopped me in the street the other day and told me that he wanted to be just like me. I smiled and ruffled his hair as my stomach churned thinking about him willing himself to throw up. But I still couldn't stop. I rinsed my mouth out and fought myself as I tried to avoid the mirror. I knew I would see the visage of a bloated corpse, but I also knew that the camera was a brutally honest friend.

Tied Up (Yuuto)

A/N: This is pretty explicit. Make sure your parents aren't looking over your shoulder.
Wait...how do I do this again?

I found a shibari tutorial online because I was bored and Landon brought it up in a conversation of ours. He said he'd always wanted to try it along with some other standard kink fare, but Steve never really tended to well to their...well...needs in that respect. Naturally, I collected the ropes and everything else I needed. How many knots are in shibari? It's a good thing I practiced scales on French horn. Otherwise, my fingers would never be nimble enough to do it.

When I transferred high schools, I had low self-esteem at the time and was painfully aware of people calling me gay (which is true) or a girl, so I compensated by sleeping with as many girls as I could. Neither of us was happy. The acts were so clumsy and furtive that I would have been better off reading discount yaoi from the local bookstore. I felt a tingling sensation between my legs as I heard footsteps coming towards the door.

I brought Landon's wrists together in one swift motion and tied the first knot after removing his clothes. Being the talented actor he is, he looked genuinely surprised despite us having planned this. I tied more and more knots and prepared myself. Landon's yelp had indicated that I was doing something right, so I bound him to my bed for good measure.

When I got to the final knot, I decided to have a bit of fun. I found the paddle on my dresser, a rather flexible one that resembled a flyswatter, and spanked him with it.
         "Stop."
         "Beg for it." The power rushed through me as if I've had four cups of coffee.
         "Please." Tears built in his eyes. "Please stop."As he fought the ropes, I tossed the paddle aside and used my hands. His skin was already visibly red. He had told me in his contract that tears meant I should keep going, but unresponsiveness meant I should stop. How much of a pain kink does this guy have? If it were anyone else, I would have stopped at this point. However, I knew what Landon liked, so I progressed into preparing us for the final act.

Both of us felt energy coursing through our bodies, aching for release. However, both of us held back knowing that would make it that much sweeter. Taking turns gasping with pleasure, the relief washed over both of us and left us breathless and daze. After offering Landon a tissue and a spot in the shower, I got dressed and went to the kitchen to get tea and snacks for both of us. 

Cool For the Summer (Steve)

Mark and I met for lunch and, though the food was good, I hardly remembered it. He made me laugh and unwind in a way that I didn't think was possible. We headed to the mines, pickaxes in tow. The cold air of a cave makes me feel at home. I still miss Caitlin--I always will--but the way Mark talked to me made me realize that I like him in a way I never thought I would. I don't know if fate is actually something, but it must have been fate that we were friends. Can we be more than that? It seems that the answer is not if, but when and when is this moment and onward.

Mark and Caitlin were polar opposites in more ways than one, but similar in many others. Mark had the same inviting smile, genuineness, and warmth about him. However, he wasn't bashful about it. He walked like he owned the world. I don't know why he was nervous about me telling me that he liked me. If anything, I should be the nervous one. I shake before I face the camera or step on the podium. I stay up all night worrying about how I come off to others. Mark isn't like that, partially because he's not the face of the world, but something tells me that he would be better at it than I am.

I found a few diamonds, but they didn't shine as bright as Mark's eyes when he comes up with a bad pun. I need to get my sword repaired soon. A zombie groaned behind me, but a groan had alerted me that Mark defeated it with his two katanas. I returned the favor by charging a couple of skeletons and collecting their armor. The combat program at Mark's school can use some armor, especially since the seniors trashed the armory in support of banning compound bows and bows with automatic nocking functions on school campuses.

Since it was getting late and that meant having to fight even more zombies, I suggested that we stay at my place. Mark agreed and followed me. We removed our helmets and found an overhang to rest under and, as I started to breathe, I felt a hand making its way around my waist and a tugging sensation as I was tugged into a kiss. I tried matching the movements of Mark's lips the best I could and having played the lead part in Bugler's Holiday in the morning my embouchure had its warm-up for the day.

          "You're a good kisser." Mark was now on top of me. Blushing fiercely, I furtively agreed and we continued on.

When we got back, I waited to shower. Both of us have marching seasons to prepare for and that means not writing drill while sleep-deprived. I got both of us glasses of water, but, when I turned around, Mark wasn't there. After looking around, I caught a whiff of something that smelled like roses, strawberries, cinnamon, smoke, and many other things that shouldn't go well together, but did. What was going on?

I followed my nose to my room. I wanted to sleep, but, judging by the way Mark positioned himself on my bed amid some random rose petals, he had other ideas. The burning incense wasn't overpowering, but distinct enough to clue me into what Mark had in mind. His clothes were in a pile at the foot of the bed, so I followed suit and joined him.

          "How was that?" Mark was on top of me once again. He put his clothes back on and sat next to me. I would have said he did excellently, but I couldn't. Every part of my body trembled with a pleasure that I've never felt before. Before, I wouldn't have said that soulmates exist, but Mark had proven me wrong. When the shaking died down, I took my shower, put on my pajamas, and curled up in his arms feeling safer than ever.

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Lovely Laura (Landon)

My score is coming together quite nicely, but will I get the production rights? In this era, it seems unlikely, but I've never been one to avoid risks. I tried all sorts of directions to go with the lead, Josh. I tried the sociopathic edgelord, but that didn't fit. I tried directionless anger and that failed too. I tried the victim angle too, but that just made me shatter a glass in frustration. It was when I found another article on Masumi Shoji that I decided which direction to go: desperate and defensive.

It made me sick that the Havencraft High School shooting inspired what happened to the talented musicians at the Desert Violin Convention. However, the reporters made me even sicker than I already was. I had thought of killing my parents at times, but can anyone really blame me? All they cared about was lovely Laura. They shoved pills and lectures down my throat instead of listening to me. They kicked my brother out of the house for being trans and losing his hearing. Speaking of that, I'm picking up ASL pretty well and even wrote optional ASL lines into my musical. If I'm getting a message out, I might as well make sure everyone can get it.

Speaking of Lysander, he helped himself to the cookies I had made and then crashed on the couch. It was as if he had always been a boy and Laura hadn't made us feel disappointed in ourselves by subtly rubbing our failures in our faces. Sometimes, I still wish I wasn't gay. I still love my new boyfriend, Yuuto, more than ever, but I just wanted to be accepted like everyone else I knew. If not for that, I wouldn't need to have Laura's ghost hanging over my shoulder.

Wandering Son (Yuuto)

Landon did his presentation at DesiredCraft High School and, to be honest, I didn't think he had any reason to be nervous. He spoke with authority and passion that could only come from the heart. I heard Landon working on his musical adaptation of "Bang Bang You're Dead". I help by fetching props, adjusting mics, and giving feedback.
         "Hey, let's work on the promotional singles." I sipped my tea.
         "Sure." Both of us got to work. Landon's voice swelled into a soul-piercing scream and I loved it. The sound, both awful and awe-inspiring at the same time, diminished into a whimper. I interjected with jabs of my own from time to time making sure to sound as angry and hurt as possible.
         "That was good. Let's get some food." Both of us had drained several mugs of honey lemon tea in an effort to maintain our vocal health, but neither of us had eaten anything besides some chocolate pudding. We made a sukiyaki pot of sorts using strawberry jelly instead of white sugar in the teriyaki sauce. Landon is so creative and can find solutions to any problem. I cooked the homemade tofu I had brought and we ate. He bit into the tomato like an orange wedge and sprang back to work again, but I had another idea.

I suggested that we take a break and binge watch Hourou Musuko in an attempt to really understand his (now) brother, Lysander. Landon agreed, which surprised me as this anime is the opposite of his normal genre. However, I did not expect what came next. He fell asleep about halfway through the third episode, probably because of the soundtrack, so I turned it off and watched him sleep. He looked peaceful and breathed evenly as I ran my hands through his hair. Why was I doing that? I couldn't help myself.

A Midsummer Night's Dream (Landon)

Mark did great skating to Eros and donated the prize money to his band program. I'm doing a review of the original Havencraft RPG with both actual gameplay and commentary. Most of the bootlegs (I wouldn't even call them bootlegs.) are from people trying to be edgy and offensive, but, even without taking accuracy into account, the games fall flat in every sense. One was a generic shooter game that pretends to have a story. Am I supposed to care about this caricature of myself? No. He's an annoying sociopathic edgelord with no interest or purpose besides killing. If I could blow his brains out, I would.

I'm in the research stage and, so far, the direction that the creator went with was totally different from everything else I've seen. The creator's humor interspersed with his take on me were interwoven brilliantly. Lisette even made a few appearances and had some influence on the gameplay. Speaking of Lisette, she DM-ed me on a private Twitter account.

Hey.

Hey.

What's up?

I feel like crying.

Why?

Well, long story short, I got kicked out of the house. I'm losing my hearing. My parents said they could put up with cerebral palsy any day of the week, but couldn't take me having hearing loss.

Oh no!

Yeah. It sucks 'cause I can't hear my music, I moved down a few chair positions, and now I can't even hear the teachers in my classes. I have to lip-read.

That's terrible. They kicked you out for something you can't control.

Well...that's not why they kicked me out. I said I've felt "off" for a while about a year ago and I couldn't figure out why. I started getting interested in binding, but I just wear oversized shirts. 

Are you... I didn't want to finish the sentence at first. Are you transgender?

Yes. I can't take it anymore. 

I can't just call you Lisette anymore. You need a new name. 

I want to stick with the L theme, but I don't really like Liam, Lance, or Luke.

Lysander?

What?

Lysander. From A Midsummer Night's Dream.

Great, now all I need is a Demetrius. 

At least you didn't want to change your name to Hermia. 

Idk what to title this (Steve)

Let's face it. Meetings suck, especially when they have to do with a student doing poorly. That happened to be the case with Lisette. Her grades were falling fast in some classes and holding up pretty well in others.

Nothing really seemed to add up, so I asked questions about mood, what the classrooms were like, and where she sat. I noted that she did worse in classes where she sat in the back and where there were fewer visual aids and seemed to be a bit depressed, but nothing that would be alarming if not for the academic decline. Seeing that she survived a mass shooting, getting doxxed, and her first year of high school, I think her mental state is no surprise.

I noticed that she haphazardly off all of her hair in a bathroom, started wearing really baggy clothes, and wasn't as active on social media (although that could be attributed to the doxxing). Mark asked me to meet him in person for his help where he would normally text. I had already said that I suspected some form of hearing loss, but my suggestions were brushed off as usual. Her intonation got markedly worse, but she always managed to adjust and recover. I tried talking to her, but she would always storm out of the room crying. Needless to say, I need Mark's help with this one.

We met at Mark's place, which was covered in vines and even had some cocoa and coffee pods growing in the trees. He poured me a cup of coffee to make sure I would stay awake.
         "How have you not noticed?"
         "Not noticed what?" Lisette's brain is a melting pot. Hearing loss, PTSD, and other factors may be at play, but I'm not sure what. I attributed the hair thing to a case of disinhibition.
         "I don't think Lisette is Lisette."
         "What do you mean?"
         "Well...this is going to require me to share something very personal that I should have told you before. My students already know, but I was more nervous about telling you." Mark took a shaky deep breath. "I'm transgender." Well, I wasn't expecting that. I took a long sip of my coffee and made sure I heard that correctly.
          "So...how long have you wanted to be a woman?" I didn't expect Mark to want to become a woman, but I'd do anything to help. I even know a thing or two about makeup.
          "What? No! Been there, done that." Leave it to Mark to make some clever quip...and cause even more confusion.
          "So...you were born a girl, but then became a man." Excuse the political incorrectness, but I just learned some groundbreaking information.
          "Right on. Anyway, I think she might be a he."
          "That's...fairly outlandish." Lisette seemed fairly comfortable as a girl, but appearances are just that: appearances. Maybe Mark was right. I'm just even more lost than I was before.

All I Can (Jordan)

Thanks to the help of the nutritionist, Alex is already taller than I am. She's been growing like a jungle vine and, because of it, she needs lots of food...that she still refuses to eat. We're making progress, though. Alex ate a fruit and yogurt bowl with chocolate granola for breakfast and, hopefully, she'll eat this sandwich. Luckily, I caught onto the signs before Alex had a risk of re-feeding syndrome. Her personality and energy are coming back and new positive characteristics are emerging as well.

She is coping with disappointment way better than she used to. She actually came home crying when the ballet master told her she couldn't audition for the role of Clara in The Nutcracker. The tears are a sign that Alex is more open to expressing negative emotions rather than burying them deep within herself. Although most people are nice, I've had to stop using Facebook because of the influx of negative comments.

Most of them, thankfully, are not directed towards Alex, but towards me. They come mainly from other Mindcrack parents who didn't support me pulling Alex out of the school for good. They act like college is everything when it's simply not. I don't know how they were raised or what their stance is on this particular issue, but I knew early on that college wasn't for everyone. Moreover, it certainly wasn't for me.

College just didn't make sense to me. I could make more money as a blacksmith without subjecting myself to all sorts of academic nonsense. Not only that, I'd probably receive death threats for bringing Alex to my classes. Speaking of Alex, she's resorted to curling up in a ball in bed and refusing to do anything. I took the sandwich up to her room and told her to eat. She refused. Naturally, I asked what was wrong as she's been acting kind of odd lately.
         "My stomach hurts."
         "You seemed fine this morning."
         "I'm getting cramps." That could only mean one thing: Alex was about to get her first period. It's one thing to read on the Internet and another to see the changes happen with your own eyes. I obviously can't give any firsthand accounts, but I'm still determined to help in any way I can. She still had a mysterious rash from one of the dance costumes too. When I read the tag, I found that there was latex in the product. I didn't know that Alex was allergic to latex, but I'm just glad her life wasn't endangered again.