I Wish You All the Best: Chapters 1–13

’Tis the season, I suppose.
Too bad I don’t feel very jolly right now. Maybe I should’ve donned some more “gay apparel” to lighten the mood.

Mariam walked me through this half a dozen times; I just have to wait for a good moment, a lull in the night, when we’re all feeling pretty good.

Dad looks indifferent, but he pretty much always looks that way.

“He just called from a pay phone?” That voice I don’t recognize, but it’s deep and gruff. I’m guessing that’s her husband.

She runs a hand through her red hair, a dye job, I’m guessing, since no one in our family has red hair. And the chances of her hair suddenly turning red naturally seem bleak.

“So, what are your pronouns?” she asks.

“Okay.” I take a seat in one of the plush armchairs up against the glass dividers of the office.

Filling out paperwork is even more tedious than it sounds.

There’s this really nice quad area that sort of resembles an amphitheater at the back of the school.

“Okay, sassy britches. I just think it will help, and it’s a short meeting. Only forty-five minutes.”

I’m not exactly sure what to expect. Maybe stark white walls, ugly tiled floors, and an inescapable medical smell.

I take a deep breath through my nose, trying to read through everything the documents entail.

Mariam had been texting me about cardinals during lunch, and how they’re Mariam’s favorite bird.

For Mariam though, their hijab represents comfort, security, a connection to their faith.

In some combination of my insomnia and curiosity, I go downstairs to the living room and pull out the laptop, googling the causes of insomnia, but that doesn’t help. One, because I’m not sure that’s what this is, and sometimes self-diagnosis can be dangerous. And two, the results yield anything from asthma to sinus issues to arthritis.

“A Night Under the Stars!” He accentuates every word by sticking his hand in the air. “It’s going to be about as fun as you’d imagine.”

He laughs. “I should work on that image. What do you think? More brooding? Or should I start wearing black turtlenecks?”

“Hey, you’re the bohemian writer. It’s for the aesthetic,” I add.

“Hey, you’re the bohemian writer. It’s for the aesthetic,” I add.

I unfold the note and stare at the ten-digit number he’s written inside, along with the message scrawled messily underneath.

Her question isn’t accusatory. Dr. Taylor isn’t telling me it would’ve been smarter to just wait.

I try to recall all the ways I’ve remembered the dozens of formulas over the years, rhymes or songs or acronyms.

I mean, that’d open me up to a whole other slew of problems.

“Didn’t ask. I name you an honorary student council member, we’ll get you credit hours if you need them. Now get to work.” Stephanie points to the large wooden panels propped up on the stage.

Nathan’s sweater is less royal than azure, but with the gold trim at the bottom I don’t think anyone’s going to challenge him on the specific shade.

I could try this monochromatic technique I saw online.

“Find your muse?” She walks to the back room, holding a stack of pallets decorated with watercolor paints.

I don’t know any of Mrs. Liu’s other students, besides a few of the freshmen in the other room. But I do know for certain that they’re better artists than me. The portraits and the landscapes, the abstract concepts, the sculptures.

Some humongous white dude waves, pushing through the crowd as he makes a beeline for us.

Todd doesn’t let me finish though. “Come on, I can tell you’re a man of more refined taste. Here, try this.”