“But why isn’t it a queer feminist text?” Asher asked, though Dilly would shoot down every option. She’d been determined to end the group ever since Rachel, Asher’s ex, had moved to Olympia. Perhaps the group was too small to excite Dilly now, or perhaps, without the fun of flirting with Rachel, she no longer cared if they met.

Dilly closed her eyes. “Because it doesn’t actively queer anything.”

“How can it not?” Hera was flustered. She was the newest member of the group. Dilly and Ivan had run it alone during their undergrad at Brown and their first years at Emory, reading through the canonical works before they recruited Hera, Asher, and Rachel from the Queerlanta subreddit last winter.

“Lesbian giantesses,” Ivan said. “Come on. One of them has, like, sex with a tree. Such an epic scene.”

Asher snuck him a smile, pushing his jaw out to look manly. Asher wasn’t on T. He didn’t want to go bald or get cancer and he didn’t appreciate facial hair or rough skin. Without it, he rarely passed, even after he’d trained his voice down an octave. Asher’s ideal boy-self was sixteen. That was why he kept his hair so shaggy. Ivan requested updates through Asher’s transition, which filled Asher with fuzzy warmth. Ever since top surgery two months ago, he was receptive to the excitement, unlike before, when every good thing had been cursed.

“Fantasy can’t be queered because it is queer, by nature,” said Dilly. “All fantasy lit is, like, pre-queered.”

Hera bowed her head in defeat. No one knew her well enough to comfort her. If Asher hadn’t also been new to the group, he’d have told her not to take Dilly seriously.

“Then I guess this is our last meeting,” said Ivan.

“See you shits over the rainbow,” said Dilly.

That was exactly what Asher had expected Dilly to say. He’d anticipated this entire evening—Dilly’s announcement, the book suggestions. And he was ready with a plan. “Wait,” he said as Dilly reached for her keys.

“What?” asked Ivan.

Asher gulped a steadying breath. He was doing this. “There’s one last queer feminist text.”

“Yeah, right,” said Dilly.

“Really. It’s called Cheerful Until Next Time.” The members consulted their phones.

“There’s nothing under that title.” Ivan shook his phone in a dusty ray of sun. “Besides some like cult band from the eighties.”

“I know.” Asher pulled a stack of four booklets, rubber-banded together, from his horse-print backpack. “Here are the only copies.” He pressed them to his chest, still tender from surgery. He’d been provided antiscarring gel but had only used it once. He cherished the reminder that this body wasn’t his birthright.