To Calvin Stowell for helping me get the Trevor Project scene right.

To the Trevor Project, for being such an important resource for queer teens. If you are a queer person struggling with suicidal thoughts or just want someone to talk to, please call the Trevor Lifeline at 1-866-488-7386.

To my readers: I feel honored and lucky to be able to write books for you. Stay different. Stay weird. And keep looking for your people—I promise it’s worth the wait.

To all the librarians, teachers, and booksellers for doing the real work.

Finally, to Maman, Baba, Neeki, Arman, and Nava for filling my well with a lifetime of memories, support, and love.

Turn the page for a peek at another original tale by Arvin Ahmadi

EIGHT MORNINGS BEFORE running away, I found myself at McDonald’s, wondering about the direction of my life. It was one of those moments that should have felt important. I should have said to myself: Hey, Self! You’re having a Pivotal Moment in a Sentimental Place. On a scale of 1 to Serious, I should have rated this occasion at least a 9. But I didn’t. My Serious Scale didn’t even register. Not a single cell in my brain cared to define that morning in the grand scheme of things. Or in any scheme of things, really.

That morning I wondered about dirty tables. The one in front of me had almost certainly just been wiped down, still freshly wet and slippery. I imagined the motions the McDonald’s employee made cleaning that surface: up, down, up, down. Left to right. Loop-de-flippin’-loop, like a drunk man on a Zamboni joyride. Still, the table reeked, so I knew they cleaned it with a dirty rag. This conundrum hijacked my focus. On one hand, sure, it was better for the environment to clean hard surfaces with a rag. But then, wasn’t the rag just transferring gunk from one surface to another?

“Pay attention,” he snapped. “I’m trying to understand what you want.”

Right. My dad. He clenched his hands tight, the skin bunching up around his knuckles. I felt guilty. Not for anything I had actually done, but for what I wasn’t doing.

We sat at our usual booth in the very back. It was like our boxing ring. In one corner: Me, Scott Ferdowsi, my lanky five-foot-ten frame slouched like a golden arch. Fighting to quit a summer internship that hadn’t even begun yet. In the other corner: My dad. Fighting to keep me on the right track, any track, because I’d been known to derail.

“I know what I don’t want,” I said, stabbing my plastic fork into a rubbery glob of eggs. “I don’t want to look at microscopic mouse poop for the rest of my life. Research is boring.”

My dad chuckled. “What could be more exciting than mouse poop?”

I glanced over at the table next to us. A girl in a sparkly Frozen costume was stomping her My Little Pony toy into her hash browns.