She grabs me by the wrists, gently, and pulls me toward her, her lips softened by a lifetime of beeswax. I meet her with a matching sadness, slowness. The funeral kissing falls away quickly, and here is the heart of it. Her skin. My breath. She pulls me closer, sets her fingers lightly against my collarbone, delicate, because something’s about to break. I’m kissing her like she’s a boy I barely know. She’s kissing me like I’m a boy she’ll never get to love.

The door of cottage nine creaks wide.

I figure we’ll rip apart from each other. I’ve had enough scares, enough interrupted moments and close calls to know how this works. But Hawthorn keeps her hold on my wrist, she keeps her body close to mine, and I don’t let go.

“Danny,” Mom says, peeking around the edge of the cottage. “Are you out here?” She has a pencil shot through her dark-brown hair, but it’s falling everywhere. She gives us a very serious look, which summons the normal, confident Hawthorn up from the depths. Her scowl makes Mom smile. “I guess I should be happy that you’re bringing them home now.”

Them.

All the people I kiss.

Does she think I’m experimenting?

Starved for someone to be with?

A queer girl who has to kiss everyone she stumbles across, because that’s part of the deal?

I don’t want to ask, because the answer will probably break my heart. I don’t want to tell her the truth about the Grays, because she’ll never get her mind around it. She’s willing to accept that she’s got a messed-up teenage daughter. But would she believe that she has a magical one? There are parts of me — maybe the best parts — that she will never see, because they’re too strange.

If the word queer would make her cringe, witch would send her running.

I flare with a blush. She probably thinks I’m embarrassed at being caught, but the truth is that this redness goes deeper, thrusting angry roots. Mom is willing to see only part of my story. She wants this to be easier to understand — wants me to be easier to understand. She turns around and waits for me in the doorway, fingers tapping on the frame, eyebrows up.

The Students of Tempest High School: The Past Seven Years