There’s a collective gasp, and hands go up almost instantly.

This would be more than a dream come true. Which, obviously, scares me. As much as I buy into “happily ever after” as a fantastical concept, something to admire and aspire to as a Disnerd, in practicality, I’ve learned not to get my hopes up.

People like me rarely get the storybook ending.

Professor McPherson motions for everyone to relax and continues, “Your goal this semester is to take a well-known trope and turn it upside down. No subject matter is off-limits. Your animation does not have to be family-friendly. Lucifer knows Crumbs wasn’t. Disney turned it down because the—cough—queer—cough—excuse me—thematic elements weren’t family-friendly.” She rolls her eyes. “Fuck that. Your short just has to have heart.

“For next Monday, I want you to create a quick hand-drawn flip animation that you will present to the class. These flip-books will serve as a teaser to your story. They must be sketched and then filmed. You can use the cameras on your phones, as long as we can project your film to the class. You should also have a workable story. The ending doesn’t have to be set in stone, as endings never are at the beginning,” she riddles. “The junior animation majors will choose who they want to work with based on your teasers. So, whatever you do”—she looks directly at me—“make sure to wow us.”

No presh.

Leila turns to the girl next to her and says, “That mentorship is mine.” Then the volume ratchets up to make sure I can hear her. “I got this in the bag.”

Cue internal screaming.

5

“Chase,” Professor McPherson calls out to me after class.

I stop and pivot on my heels.

Leila’s eyes narrow at me, curiosity piquing her interest. Her smugness is so big, it might as well be an entirely separate person she tows behind her, the way she used to lead groupies of underclassmen around in high school like ducklings.

“Ms. Casablanca, can you close the door on your way out? Thanks, dear,” Professor McPherson says.

“Absolutely,” Leila says with a flourish to mask her annoyance at not being asked to stay.

When the door clicks shut, Professor McPherson motions for me to take a seat. “I spent the weekend reviewing the portfolios of all the students in this seminar.”

My heart drops.

I hold my breath.

This was all a mistake, wasn’t it? I’m not supposed to be here, and she’s about to tell me that I have to drop the class, or maybe she already removed me from the roster, and this is just her way of breaking it to me gently. If Leila were still here, she’d be smizing all the way to that mentorship.

The professor pulls up a chair and sits back, her arms on each of the rests like she’s some cool jock in a ’90s teen movie. “There’s so much promise in your art. It moved me in a way I haven’t been moved before. Sure, it’s rough, and it needs refinement of skill, but that comes with experience and dedication. It’s so rare that I see myself in someone else’s work. Maybe that’s because there are so few nonbinary animators out there. Or, rather, so few who are out and make art that reflects that.” She clears her throat and fills the blanks when she says, “I watched the interview you did with The BuzzWord.”