“And even though I had freckles and red hair and almost killed Grandma Bramhall, I danced like I didn’t.”

“You watch. Someday you’re going to love those freckles.” “No I’m not.” Mr. John leapt through the air after that, feet flailing and his back arched too far away from his knees: his worst one yet. After both of our ankles got splashed again, Grandma Bramhall picked up my chin and said, “You are as beautiful as your mom was,” and then kissed my cheek with hers. I looked down at the mirrors in her sarong again, tiny little pieces of blue sky in them. “Thanks,” I said quietly. “You’re welcome,” Grandma Bramhall said squeezing my hand. “How was that?” Mr. John yelled, popping up and dog paddling toward us. I snuck a look at Grandma Bramhall. “A ten,” I said. “Yes!” Mr. John yelled, raising both fists this time and sinking back into the water. Grandma Bramhall and I had to suck in our cheeks not to laugh. “See how beautiful you are, Apron?”

“What Love Means to Me,” Chad said, writing. “By Apron Bramhall, the loveliest noun I know. Get over here, noun.”

“I didn’t want them to be gay anymore. I didn’t want people like Mrs. Perry to make a face and step away from them; I didn’t want Mike to shuffle his feet and clear frogs out of his throat whenever he talked to my dad; and I didn’t want Chad to go around making fun of himself so nobody else could. And most of all, I didn’t want them to have AIDS.”

“At the door, I looked back at all those people I didn’t know and thought about how small your heart is but how big of a space it takes up. And how, even though you can’t see it, that heart space grows so quietly across a room or up some stairs into someone else’s living room, that even if you never step foot in it again, the air in there is changed forever.”

“I lifted my hand and pulled the blue paper cap back a little, until a piece of my red fell out, then I reached my hand back inside the case. I slid my finger under some tubes and into her tiny purple hand. And just like that, like she had known it was me all along, she squeezed it.”

“Without lifting her head, she said, “I want you to get out.” And right then I was sure: M had been born with the mean gene. It’s the way we come out, Toby said. Maybe M being mean wasn’t any different than Mike and Chad being gay, or me having freckles. Mean was just the way she came out. She hated me all right, but it was nothing personal.”