Sal frowned. “Sort of. I think it’s a little different for me. I confuse people. Some days, the kids have fun just trying to guess what I am, like it’s some sort of game.” They sighed. “I started dressing different, too. Just to protect myself.”

“I did, too!” Héctor said. “I mean, not for the same reason. I just didn’t want to draw attention to myself.” He gestured at himself, at the plain T-shirt and jeans he had on. “I don’t normally wear stuff like this.”

Sal lit up. “Exactly! I wanna wear different things, but I get . . . worried. Worried what people are gonna do if they see me wearing a blouse or a dress one day. . . .”

“Because they don’t know what to think of you,” said Héctor, nodding his head. “And they take it out on you.”

“Yeah, that!” said Sal. “And some people just call me names. They use ‘it’ a lot to describe me, which feels . . . bad. Like I’m a thing.”

“That’s so gross,” said Héctor. “Why do people try to make us fit their labels?”

Sal shrugged. “At least my parents support me. They’re really good about pronouns, and my dad is always ready to fight someone on my behalf.”

“But at school?”

“It’s hard because . . . well, no one knows what to do with me.” They stood up. “That’s why I keep finding myself here. Where I don’t feel judged. Or trapped.”

“I’m sorry you’re going through this alone,” said Héctor. “I know it’s not the same as my situation, but it’s got to suck.”

“Well, I’m not really alone anymore.”

A fondness spread in Héctor’s chest. He was having the same epiphany.

“I just wish there was something we could do,” they said. They helped Héctor to his feet. “Something to change the places we live in.”

“Let me know if you figure that out,” he said.

Then Sal pulled him into a hug.

The two of them stood there for a moment, and Héctor felt . . .

Safe.

When Héctor left the Room, he turned back to see that it had once again disguised itself as the boys’ bathroom. The bell announcing the end of lunch must have recently rung, as students were pouring through the hallways. Héctor watched as a kid rushed into the bathroom, and inside, he could see the sinks and stalls.

Back to normal.

He walked the few feet to Mrs. Caroline’s classroom, and it was only once he entered it that he remembered that his art teacher had seen him crying.

Mrs. Caroline rushed up to him. “Héctor, is everything okay?”

Heat rose to his cheeks. “Sorry, Mrs. Caroline,” he said. “Just having a bad day.”