AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Growing up where I did, I met so few other queer people that I knew nothing about queer history. That left me gobbling up any information on the subject as soon as I realized it was lacking from my everyday life. I was insatiable, and that voracious appetite led me to my undergraduate degree. Now, it’s led me here, as well, where I’m helping teach a sizable chunk of a class on queer history.
In fact, the professor plans to leave most of the lectures to me. I’ll more or less run this class, which sounded exciting in theory, before I knew Avery would be one of my students.
I need to pull myself together. Nothing happened. A friendly stranger offered me help when I was in a tough spot. This whole city – town, whatever – revolves around the university. It’s probably more likely I’d run into someone connected to the school than not.
All of my rationalizations are absolutely true, but none of them help me when I look up from my notes and find Avery’s bright blue eyes on me. Their voice rings in my head. I can smell that cup of tea they made for me, can feel the cozy quiet of their kitchen. Their words ring in my head, especially that little quip about getting “the full Boyfriend Café experience.” Did they have to say it that way?
No, that’s not their fault. They’re what? Nineteen? Twenty? I’m their TA. I should be the one setting boundaries instead of blushing like a kid over the name of their café.
My lack of real life experience is catching up to me faster than I thought it would. I figured I could at least hide it at work, but Avery’s cool eyes seem to see right through me as I fumble through the start of my lecture.
At least today is an easy one. It’s the first class of the semester, so most of the class time is dedicated todescribing the class itself and going through the syllabus. I throw myself into the task with far more enthusiasm than it warrants. After a brief introduction to the class itself, I pass out printed copies of the syllabus. Going through each item line by line is so dull that I notice some of my new students’ eyes glazing over, but that seems an acceptable outcome when I’m so powerfully off-balance.
“That’s about all there is to the syllabus,” I say. “Are there any questions on any of that?”
Avery’s hand goes up.
I consider ignoring them, but they’re the only person in the class with a question, and it’s not a huge class, so I’d only make things worse by pretending not to see them.
“Avery?” I say.
Then I realize my mistake. The students didn’t introduce themselves. Even if they did, remembering twenty new names should have been a bit more of a struggle. It hasn’t been an hour and I’m already messing this up. Avery doesn’t say anything about it, and everyone else looks bored to tears, so I’ll simply have to hope they didn’t bother noticing.
“I was wondering about the research project,” Avery says. “Is that the sort of thing where we can get feedback along the way? Or are we supposed to just turn in a final project at the end of the semester?”
It takes me a second longer than it should to realize that that’s an entirely reasonable question and gather an answer.
“I’ll be here to help throughout the semester when it comes to the research project,” I say. “I know that’s a big assignment, so if you have any questions along the way, feel free to ask after class or during office hours. My door will always be open to any of you if you want to talk about your ideas or get some guidance with where to look for sources.”
And that is an entirely reasonable response. But saying it while looking at Avery stirs up something in my stomach that I’m trying very, very hard not to think about.
There are no further questions after that, and I move on to an introduction to the first reading assignment. They’ll be doing a lot of reading and responding for this class as we work through historical documents together.
“One of the trickiest things with a field like this is that a lot of the documents we have are highly speculative,” I say. “So a text might not seem queer on a first reading, but one of the things we’ll be doing during class is trying to place them in the right historical context to see other interpretations beyond the words directly on the page. For a lot of history, queer people couldn’t outright say they were queer, even in places like private letters, so our history can frequently be a matter of interpretation. But that’s the work we’re going to try to do here, culminating in your research project where you attempt to take on a related topic on your own.”
It’s easier to forget about Avery and do what I’m hereto do when I get to the topic at hand. I truly do have a passion for this. That’s why I left everything I know to pursue it. And the thought of helping folks younger than me pursue it as well only sweetened the deal for me. We have precious little in the way of research and documentation in this field. The more eager, bright minds we have researching the subject of queer history, the better, in my opinion.
I catch myself relaxing, perhaps even enjoying myself, and soon enough whatever strangeness I felt with Avery seems truly silly. I set it aside and get through class, and before I know it our time together has wound down. The students all gather up their stuff and make to leave, and I retreat to my lectern to get my notes and stow them away.
When I look up, I find Avery waiting on the other side of the lectern. That chunky plinth suddenly feels as insubstantial as gauze between us. I freeze, caught by Avery’s bright, inquisitive eyes.
“Can I help you?” I say.
“I was just wondering how things went after you left my house the other day,” Avery says with absolutely no hesitation or self-consciousness whatsoever. Well, sure. That’s fine for them. They’re the student and not the TA who will get fired and called a creep for sleeping in their student’s house.
“Fine,” I say. After lecturing for over an hour, all I can summon for a response is a single inadequate word.
“Good,” Avery says. “You were already gone when I woke up or I would have made you more tea and breakfast. I was hoping it all got sorted out okay.”
“It was fine,” I say, as though “fine” is the only word I recall.
“Did they figure out what was wrong with it?” Avery says.
“Yeah. It was … um … some kind of belt, I think.” I’m struggling to remember, and not simply because I’ve worked so hard to avoid thinking about the expensive car repair that set me back before I even had a chance to move into my damn apartment.
“Sounds rough,” Avery says. “I‘m glad I could help out at least.”
“Yes, it was … very kind of you.”
