“‘Enjoy the açai thing,’ I say, again mistakenly mispronouncing with the word with hard ‘c.’ She laughs in my face. I smile back. Maybe she thought it was cute? Maybe her finger slipped when she hit the ‘no tip’ button on her phone? Maybe the hundreds of other 20-somethings working in Midtown offices that I delivered to that summer accidentally tapped the ‘no tip” button as well?”
My sister started her coming-out process in eighth grade. My brother and I were in seventh. She entered her final year of middle school feeling alienated and afraid, so when the girl next to her in homeroom showed up with a print-out of Sid Vicious taped to her binder, Steph seized the opportunity to make a friend. Her name was Anna. She was thirteen, wore rainbow-banded tights and sometimes smelled like cigarettes. Her screen name was “kind-o-kinky.” She was the first bisexual any of us had ever known.