Sunset Strokes

The orange hair dye cost me seventeen dollars at CVS, but the look on my dad's face when he saw it? That was free.

"You're trying out for the baseball team tomorrow, James," he'd said, voice weirdly controlled. "You think they're gonna want some punk with hair like a traffic cone?"

I'd just shrugged, hoodie up, because explaining that I didn't want to be James anymore—that I barely even knew who I was becoming—felt like too much for a Tuesday night dinner.

Now it's Friday and I'm at Maya's pool party, which is exactly as overwhelming as I expected. The actual pool is crowded with people who look like they belong in commercials, all bronzed skin and easy confidence. I'm fully clothed on a patio chair, clutching a warm soda, feeling like I'm underwater even though I'm nowhere near the water.

"You gonna join the living, James?" someone yells. God, I hate that name.

I duck inside the house, following the sound of clacking balls. The basement's got a pool table shoved between boxes of Christmas decorations and a drum kit nobody's touched since seventh grade. Someone's already down there—Maya's cousin from Seattle, I think. Kai. They're lining up a shot in clothes that definitely aren't swimwear: black cargo pants and a long-sleeved shirt despite the July heat.

They don't look up. "You here for the baseball stories too? Everyone keeps asking me about my batting average like I'm some kind of sports savant just because I played varsity up north."

"I'm here to hide," I say, and Kai actually laughs, this quiet surprised sound.

"Same." They gesture at the table with their cue. "You play?"

"Terribly."

"Perfect. Me too." They toss me a cue. "Wanna be terrible together?"

So we play, making up rules because neither of us actually knows the real ones. We talk about things I don't talk about with anyone—how it feels to not fit the boxes everyone has ready for you, how exhausting it is to perform versions of yourself that don't fit anymore. I tell them about the baseball pressure, about the hair dye being less about rebellion and more about finally feeling like the person in the mirror is someone I recognize.

Kai nods like they get it completely. "My dad still calls me by my deadname sometimes. Not on purpose, but..."

We don't say anything else for a minute, just the soft rhythm of the balls and the distant laughter from outside. Through the basement window, the sun's going down, painting everything orange and gold, and for the first time in forever, I don't feel like hiding.

"Hey," they say, chalking their cue. "You doing anything tomorrow? After the baseball thing, I mean."

"Unless I die of embarrassment? Nothing."

"Cool." They sink the eight ball completely by accident. "We could be terrible at pool again. On purpose this time."

I'm still smiling when we walk back upstairs to the party, and I don't even pull my hood up.