“ ‘If you packed neater, you wouldn’t have this problem.’ ” I mock the drawl of his accent. “I don’t need your help.”

“Clearly.”

I pull the suitcase onto the floor, sitting on top of it with all two hundred and twenty pounds of myself on top, pulling at it.

I pull, and I pull, and I pull, and suddenly I’m falling back toward my bed. My head hits the side of my mattress as I stumble, feeling the hardwood floor underneath my butt.

The reality of what happened only occurs to me when I’m sitting there, staring at the torn zipper, part still attached to the frayed teeth of the track and part in my hand.

“Fuck me.”

“I told you.”

“Just stop,” I tell him. “Please, for the love of God, just stop.”

I throw the zipper head down on the floor and pull my knees to my chest, hiding my face. Why won’t this day just end? Why? It started off so well too: I got my iced coffee, the weather was nice, I took the long way to chemistry, Samuel wasn’t a complete idiot and actually made me laugh a few times, and Hoon and I got some work on our Classic Lit project done.

Then Josh had to go and ruin it with three little words.

This is all his fault.

Everything.

“Don’t worry, you can fix this easy,” Wyatt says, picking up the broken-off part of the zipper.

“Leave it.”

“I’ve got my sewing kit—”

“I said leave it!” I shout, cutting him off. Then I stand up, making the split-second decision to grab my phone and slip my shoes back on.

“Where are you going?” Wyatt asks.

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Out,” I say, pulling the door loudly shut. I walk past my classmates, taking out my phone and dialing Samuel back.

“Hey—”

“I’ll meet you at the bridge,” I say before he can get another word out. And then I end the call.

*  *  *

I promise I don’t make it a habit of hanging out underneath old bridges that no one uses.

I swear.

Hoon found this place first, near the south side of campus where no one really goes because it’s so out of the way. Mark bought a couch from a thrift store and dragged it down here with Samuel, and Julien was always ready to provide something new to drink, typically stolen from his father’s liquor cabinet.

Just like that, we had our own little clubhouse, perfect for two white gay trans boys (Samuel and myself), a bisexual Korean boy (Hoon), a Black bi boy (Julien), a Black kid who was supposed to be our token straight but is now going through his own adventure with his sexuality and gender (Mark), and a cis gay white boy (Joshua).

We’re like our own gay Power Rangers, minus the color-coordinated rainbow suits.