If you really want to know, I'm sitting in this crappy bathroom stall right now, hiding from everyone like some total loser. Got my feet up on the toilet so nobody sees me if they look under the door. That's what kills me about hiding places—they make you feel safe and pathetic at the same time.
It started in Ms. Patel's English class. She was going on about unreliable narrators and all that crap, how sometimes the person telling the story is full of it. I'm sitting there thinking, lady, you don't know the half of it. Could've just pointed at me if she wanted a real-life example of that phoniness.
"The narrator might deceive the reader," she says, writing UNRELIABLE in this perfect teacher handwriting, "but often, they're also deceiving themselves."
That hit different. Like, isn't that exactly what I've been doing? This whole Mason performance. I'm worse than all those phonies Holden was always complaining about. At least they only bullshitted other people—I'm bullshitting myself too.
She calls on Jamie, who's practically comatose at his desk. "Can anyone give me an example from the text?"
Jamie jerks up like he's been tased. "Uh...when he says he's fine but he's actually not?"
Everyone laughs, but Ms. Patel nods all serious. "Yes, precisely. The protagonist insists repeatedly that he's 'fine' when the evidence suggests otherwise."
I stare down at my notebook where I've carved the same spiral over and over, pressing harder each time until the paper's almost torn through. Fine. Just tired. Nothing's wrong. I'm okay. All these goddamn lies I tell every day. A whole dictionary of phony crap I feed to people, and they swallow it because they want to believe it as much as I pretend to.
When the bell rings, I bail. Which is how I end up in this bathroom while everyone else is at lunch. If my life were some indie movie, this would be the pathetic montage with some whiny soundtrack. But it's just me and the reek of industrial cleaner and someone's crude drawing of a dick with a name next to it.
I finally get my breathing normal and step out to splash water on my face. Then I freeze because there's someone else in here. A guy at the sink.
Except—wait—it's not a guy. It's a girl. In the boys' bathroom. What the hell.
She sees me in the mirror and turns. "Oh, hey."
I just stand there like a complete moron, wondering if I accidentally wandered into the girls' bathroom, which would be the most twisted irony imaginable.
"Relax," she says, like she read my mind. "I'm just using this one because the girls' is packed with Katie's whole cheer squad fixing their makeup." She rolls her eyes. "I'm Zoe, by the way. Not the same Zoe as your sister—I know her from math."
"How do you know she's my sister?" My voice sounds weird, like it belongs to someone else.
Zoe shrugs. "Small school. Everyone knows everyone's business." She gives me this look I can't read. "You're Mason, right?"
I nod, still feeling like I'm in some bizarre dream. Zoe has this short hair with purple tips, a nose ring, and this denim jacket covered in patches and pins. One pin catches my eye—a little rainbow flag. For a second it's like this tiny beacon in the middle of this disgusting bathroom.
"Cool," she says, like this whole situation is totally normal. "You should come to GSA sometime. Thursdays after school, room 204."
GSA. Gay-Straight Alliance. My heart starts hammering against my ribs.
"I'm not—" I start automatically, then stop because I don't even know how to finish that sentence anymore. I'm not gay? I'm not straight? I'm not ready? I'm not brave enough? I'm not Mason? All of the above?
Zoe just shrugs. "Didn't say you were anything. It's just a chill group." She heads for the door, then turns back. "Anyway, think about it. See you around, Mason."
And then she's gone, leaving me staring at my reflection. The same reflection I've been avoiding for years. The same face that never looks right no matter how I try to see it. Like looking at a photo that's slightly out of focus—you can tell what it's supposed to be, but something's just... off.
But today, something's different. Maybe it's the harsh lighting that makes everyone look like garbage, or maybe it's what Ms. Patel said about unreliable narrators, or maybe it's Zoe with her rainbow pin just casually inviting me to GSA like she knows something I don't even admit to myself most days. For whatever reason, I actually look at myself—really look—for the first time in forever.
Hazel eyes with these gold flecks. That stupid haircut Dad made me get. A face that's... not terrible, I guess. Just not mine. Not Ellie's.
I whisper it, barely making a sound. "Ellie." Watching my lips form the shape in the mirror. It should feel weird, but it doesn't. It feels right in a way nothing else ever has. Like when you've been staring at one of those Magic Eye posters forever and suddenly the hidden image just pops out at you.
The bathroom door slams open and I nearly jump out of my skin. Some freshman walks in, giving me a weird look because I'm just standing there staring at myself like a psycho.
I duck my head and rush out. The cafeteria is packed and loud and everything I can't handle right now, so I head outside instead. Find a quiet spot under a tree where no one will bother me. The thing about trees is they don't give a shit who you are. They just exist, no questions asked. I wish people were more like trees sometimes.
Zoe. GSA. Room 204. Thursdays.
The thought twists my stomach with something that might be terror or might be hope. Maybe both. I pull out my phone and look up the school's GSA on Instagram. Their bio says "LGBTQ+ and allies welcome!" There are pictures of meetings, movie nights, people at Pride with face paint and flags. Everyone looking so goddamn happy and free it almost hurts to look at them.
I close the app when I hear footsteps. It's just Jamie, carrying two chocolate milks and looking annoyed.
"Dude, I've been looking everywhere for you," he says, dropping down beside me and handing me one of the milks. "Why'd you disappear after English?"
"Headache," I lie, another one for the collection. "Needed some air."
He accepts this with a nod, and we sit there drinking our milk in silence. Jamie's been my best friend since forever, and right now that feels both comforting and terrifying. Because he knows me—or thinks he does—better than anyone. And sometimes I wonder if he can see through all my bullshit, if he's just waiting for me to come clean. Other times I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a clue, and that makes me feel both relieved and incredibly lonely.
"You doing okay?" he asks suddenly. "For real, I mean."
For a split second, I consider telling him everything. About Ellie. About the shoebox under my bed filled with secret things. About how sometimes I feel like I'm suffocating in my own skin. But then I look at him—at his familiar face, at our whole history—and I can't do it. Can't risk losing him. It's like standing at the edge of a cliff—you know there's a chance you could fly, but there's also a pretty good chance you'll just crash and burn.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm good."
Another lie to add to the collection. At this point I could probably wallpaper my entire room with them.
That night, I add a new treasure to my shoebox: a crappy drawing of the GSA's rainbow flag pin that I sketched during history class. It's not good—I'm no artist—but it's something. A possibility. A maybe.
I fold it carefully and tuck it beneath the nail polish and lip gloss, next to the paper where I've been practicing my real name. The collection growing, these little pieces of Ellie that I keep hidden away. Like I'm building her bit by bit, this tiny shrine to a person no one's ever met.
I pull out my phone and look at the calendar. Thursday is two days away. Forty-eight hours until I either find the courage to walk into room 204 or chicken out completely.
Part of me is already making excuses: too risky, people will talk, Jamie might find out, my parents might find out. But another part—the part that whispered "Ellie" to the mirror today—is so damn tired of hiding. Tired of being an unreliable narrator in my own life story.
I close the shoebox and slide it back under the bed, but I don't sleep. Instead, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, thinking about unreliable narrators and purple-haired girls who use the wrong bathroom and a room full of people who might actually see me—the real me—for the first time in my life.
By morning, I've made my decision. Thursday after school, room 204. I'm going. Not as Mason pretending to be an "ally" or whatever. Not as anyone, really. Just as me—this in-between person who's not quite Mason anymore but not brave enough to be Ellie yet either.
It's not much, but it's a start. A tiny crack in the mask I've been wearing for sixteen phony years.
And that kills me, you know? How something so small can feel so huge. How walking into a classroom can feel like crossing an ocean. But maybe this is what courage looks like for someone like me. Not some big heroic thing—just showing up and letting people see a little bit of who I really am.
And for now, that has to be enough.