I forced a laugh so hard I forgot what the joke was.

“Hey uh, hi, I’m Rachel, I’m not sure if I said my name or not…” I said. First week of college meant lots of introduction. Yay.

The joke-teller next to me had feigned sleep for the first half hour of art history, and up until a few seconds ago hadn’t moved. They were feminine and bald, but I didn’t want to assume pronouns. Somehow that only made them hotter and more mysterious. Plus, they’d just said something funny under their breath. To me.

“Also, I forgot yours. Your name. If you said it. I also don’t remember if you said your name.” I stuttered, shifting in my seat.

“I’m Harmony, hi.” They answered calmly, unfazed by my stumbling, but without making eye-contact. I tried not to internalize it; some people were just like that.

“Harmony, cool.”

They didn’t follow up.

“Uhm. Do you… like art history?” I tried, forcing small talk.

“I failed it last year. Have you ever noticed that Professor Wilson’s arms move up and then out like she’s conducting a symphony?”

“What?” I said, suddenly watching the professor intently. Sure enough, along with the rhythm of her speech, she gently flicked her wrists back and forth in front of us. The class was in a big auditorium which made the movements feel almost intentional.

“Now trumpets come in. Good. Softer. Excellent. Trombones now, punch it for me, perfect. Percussion I can’t hear you, give me some life back there, I know you’re not dead yet.” Harmony joked in a whisper, pointing to different parts of the room. I laughed again and they grinned.

“Wait, uh, what section are we?” I asked.

“You’re telling me you forgot your oboe? Disgraceful.”

“I don’t see your oboe, Harmony.” I said, emphasizing their name for the music-related joke.

“It’s right here.” They answered proudly, rolling their notebook into a tube, and pursing their lips against it. They inhaled deeply as if they were about to blow through it.

“Don’t do that!” I squeaked, quickly trying to bat away the makeshift instrument.

“Somebody has to cover our section, or the professor will notice!” They whispered loudly. I glared at them, holding back a giggle.

Someone a few rows up shushed us. Harmony smirked ever-so-slightly and unfurled their notebook. They had a serious face that walked the tightrope of androgyny in an enviable way.

I already liked Harmony. I knew it shouldn’t matter, but I wanted to crush on someone in college. I made better art when I could daydream about impossible romances. And if my crush wasn’t a straight guy, I usually ended up just befriending them platonically out of an inability to flirt with women.

“Do you, like, want to get dinner with my roommate and I? I don’t really know anyone else, but I can swipe you into the dining hall if you want?” Realizing I might have just invited a complete stranger to dinner, I sabotaged myself by throwing in finger guns for punctuation.

“Thanks, Ray…” They said genuinely, pausing.

A shadow fell over their face. They twirled a pen, pushing it against the margins of their brand-new oboe-notebook as if they were going to doodle something, but never did.

“I have to get home. Another time.” They finally answered. Oof.

“Oh, Rad, ok. Thanks! Sorry!” I had no idea what I was thanking them for. Or apologizing for. My brain was too busy trying to process whether I’d been rejected.

When I looked over, I noticed Harmony was mouthing my exact words, one after another, just as they came out of my mouth. It looked absentminded but when they saw my attentiveness, they stopped instantly.

We made eye contact, though. Just for a millisecond, I got to see Harmony’s old brown eyes. Beautifully opaque in their weary ways.

Presumably out of embarrassment, Harmony shivered and stretched before folding into their jacket. They propped up their New Balance sneakers on the seats in front of us and looked as if they were going back to sleep.

Then I remembered that Harmony had called me Ray instead of Rachel. We didn’t know each other well enough to be exchanging nicknames and yet… It felt warm. Like they knew me. Like home.

Home. What was home? Getson was a long way away from Chicago, nearly a thousand miles. Japan was even farther, but as much as Okaasan stressed the importance of remembering our heritage, it still seemed foreign. Distance felt good, but it also took a toll. I missed my cats, Charlie and Hebrew. I even missed my parents a little. Guilt seeped in as I remembered I would be missing Paul’s early graduation. I was glad to miss the fights between him and my parents. But that meant I’d miss the debacle of figuring out where he would go next, all because I had to go to Chicago, and be so far from home. Everyone said it wasn’t a big deal, and I knew Paul didn’t mind; he wanted me to go and make some cool ass shit. Guilt lingered, though. I felt guilty for living my own life.

Harmony stood up suddenly.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” They said quickly, even though class wasn’t over.

“Oh. Yeah ok. Bye!” I replied, unsure why I might see them. It was the second day of classes, and we only had art history on Thursdays.

They stepped past me, and with a few long strides, they were out the door. I waved, but they never looked back at me. Fuck. I forgot to ask for their pronouns.

Class ended five minutes later. Everyone started to line up in front of the teacher. It was a brawl even though no one was in a hurry. I felt restless too. The guy in front of me got up and cracked his back so loud I thought he broke something. I could see tattooed vines on his neck creeping past his North Face sweater. His middle, ring, and pinky fingers each had an A, an R, and a T inscribed on them in flowery lettering respectively. And he wore a ring on his pointer with a big F engraved on it. College was already a whole new world.

After retrieving a syllabus, I made my way through campus, decidedly not taking the fastest route. Half-lost, half-exploring. An unnerving number of pizza places were open, and a midnight donut delivery shop whose number I quickly jotted into my phone. It was eight o’clock in the evening. Class had started at seven but, despite getting out early, I knew from the syllabus that it was supposed to be three hours long. I sighed.

The city of Chicago and my university were crumpled together indistinguishably for the most part. Renovated apartment buildings had been converted into student housing or offices, the gym was hidden away, and the dining hall looked like a mall food court. Which reminded me how hungry I was.

            Did you eat? I’ll swipe you into the dining hall. I texted my roommate.

Sammy was six-foot-four, but her afro supplied the last two inches. She carried a huge goofy smile, and her biceps were thicker than my head. I wasn’t totally sure how we’d ended up as roommates because I thought the basketball team all got special housing, but I was glad. I liked her a lot. She’d grown up around Chicago, but I got the sense that she didn’t have many friends in town.

[drawing]dininghall[/drawing]

Sammy beat me to the dining hall. It was impossible to miss her towering over everyone. She waved one hand to catch my attention as if I couldn’t already see her in line. I laughed and slipped in with her. Some kid behind us moved to cut me off, but Sammy glared at him, and he immediately backed up.

“Hey girl, how were classes?” She asked.

“Oh, eh, you know, art school.” I answered, my enthusiasm swallowed by my exhaustion.

“No, I literally do not know. Give me details. Orgo is boring as hell so far. Organic Chemistry. I think half the class is gonna drop before next week. I don’t get to take anything fun for the first year.” Sammy rolled her eyes dramatically.

“I mean, I don’t blame them. When does science get fun? Did I miss that class in high school?”

“Calculus is a prereq for most of the fun classes. Sorry, boo. At least you’re pretty.”

“Wow. Ok. Well fuck.” I said, realizing Sammy was making fun of me.

“I’m kidding! I can’t wait to put up every single piece of art you make on our walls.” She said lovingly.

I forced a laugh, hoping that wouldn’t happen. The line moved forward, and I served myself a mound of mashed potatoes. At least the food was way better than Getson High’s cafeteria. Sammy grabbed three pieces of chicken.

“What kind of art do you make again?” She asked.

“I make mostly sculpture. So, I’m not sure it will fit. Like, on the wall. Or in the dorm…” I said.

“As long as there’s room to hang my math tests on the fridge too.”

“Definitely.” I said absentmindedly.

“Also, I set up the TV. My Netflix and Prime are both already on it, you can use them as much as you want. There’s an extra HDMI cable for your Playstation if you need it too.”

“Oh, thanks. I don’t have a Playstation though. Or any console actually.”

“I thought you said you played a lot of videogames?” Sammy paused, a towering spoonful of broccoli leaning precariously over her plate.

“Yeah, I do. I play on my laptop. RPGs mostly, like Fallout.”

“My bad, but that’s cool. I used to play Mario Kart with my neighbor when I was a kid, but I don’t really have time to play now ‘cause of practice and school. Plus, my mom was against screen-time.” She said, finally releasing the broccoli into a pool of corn.

“Okaasan used to be the same way, no screen-time. But she’s come around. I think it’s ‘cause Otoosan plays a lot of videogames too.” I took the vegetable spoon from Sammy.

“I need to get used to this whole ‘Okaasan, Otoosan’ thing. But it’s cool. Okaasan is Mom, right?” She asked.

“Oh yeah, sorta depends on the circumstance. But yeah. She really wanted Pauly and I to learn Japanese when we were little so we could talk to our cousins, but we don’t speak it much at home. Plus, they all learned English, so… I dunno, some stuff stuck. And it makes her happy when we use it.” I shrugged.

“That’s nice actually. Everyone in my family has such boring names like, Samantha McDonald.” She said in a nasally voice.

“I mean, Rachel Mori isn’t exactly super mysterious either.” I said.

“Oh! I do have an Uncle Perky. But everyone calls him that ‘cause he’s got a long neck.” Sammy imitated an ostrich and we giggled.

“Ototo has been trying to go by Paul instead of Pauly, but it’s hard. Like, whenever I think of him, I think Pauly.”

“Your brother, right?  I feel you, girl, that’s pretty normal. As long as you actually try, and respect him, he gets it. Names are really personal… and not just for the person who wears it. For you too. The name Pauly is attached to all of your memories with him. And those are your memories. It takes a real effort to make that transition. But it’s important. I had a friend in high school who came out as trans junior year. She said that when she picked her name, she’d tell it to herself in the mirror every morning to try and get used to it.” Sammy said, dropping her usual comedy routine.

“Fuck, really? I guess… I guess the least I can do is try, too.”

“Every time you use the name Paul, I bet he feels a little more confident about it. It’s like you’re validating him. You’re saying I see you, dude.” She smiled sadly.

“You’re right…”

We both got ourselves drinks quietly and roamed the dining hall until we found a table. There was a plant leaning over it like a drunk at a bar.

“Does, uh, your friend from high school go here?” I asked, curious.

“No. She moved away from Chicago last year. Some asshole beat her up at a party when he found out she had a dick.” Sammy said, letting out a deep breath.

“Shit.” I muttered into my food. I didn’t know what to say. I’d never even met a transgender person before.

“But hey, dating can be shitty, but it can also be great! Unless you’re a gay Black woman in any STEM field, in which case your options are nearly non-existent!” She said with a big stiff smile.

“Bleck. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok! At least the basketball team is only minorly homophobic.” Sammy continued without releasing her forced smile.

I didn’t answer and tried to gauge the level of sarcasm. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a cry for help.

“No big deal, you’re gonna meet lots of cute girls in art school and introduce me, right?” She said, bouncing her afro.

“Um, yeah. Yes. With all my social tact and cunning linguistics, I’ve gathered many suitors to your name.” I replied dryly.

“I’m doomed.” She moaned before filling her mouth with mashed potatoes.