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antagonizing me seemed to give him enjoyment. Perhaps it was subconscious on his part that he only asked me to help him solve negative, insulting words. He didn't seem like a mean or cruel person, just thoughtless.
    Hate is too strong, but I'd say I disliked him.
    And then, on that Monday morning when he smiled at me, things changed, and something had gotten over the chain-link fence around my heart. He'd scaled the razor wire with some tiny gestures of kindness.
    After that day's shift, I'd gone from disliking him to being open to the possibility of liking him. Despite saying I wouldn't go to the art show, I had a feeling I might. I could get some of Courtney's false eyelashes, all the better for batting at him.

    Let's fast-forward to Tuesday. Not the art show—not yet—but the morning at work and what happened that kicked me in the teeth and changed everything.
    The morning walk in was windy, and my newly-fluffy hair kept flying in my face, making me consider shaving it off. I'd raided my mother's closet again, choosing a pretty flower-patterned dress, paired with my black leggings and my least-mannish boots. I'd had the time to put on proper makeup, but with a twist. I'd followed the instructions from one of my favorite YouTube girls: base all over, pale gold on the eyelids, and smudgy brown eyeliner instead of my usual thick, black liquid eyeliner. I never used blush, so I didn't own any, but I used a dab of lipstick to put some red on my cheeks.
    On the way to work that morning, I stopped approximately three hundred times to admire the pretty girl in various reflective surfaces—the pretty girl who had a kinda-sorta date that night.
    When I got to The Whistle, Courtney was already there, rolling up utensils in napkins, and the first thing she said was, “Are you sure I can't get you to switch teams? You are foxy, sweetcheeks!”
    The funny thing about gay people—or at least the ones I know—is that even as they insist they were born that way , they will still make tons of jokes about converting you, as if it's a choice. It's kind of a cute double standard, if you consider it flattering that they'd want you on their team. Nobody wants to be the last one picked for teams, after all.
    “I'm not going gay,” I said. “Furthermore, don't think I've forgotten all those times when we were kids and you got me into the bathtub with you, pervert.”
    “I swear, I wasn't checking you out, and I didn't know I was lez.”
    “Like hell.”
    “I love that little birthmark on your hip.”
    I dipped my hand into the water in the bar sink and spritzed her. “Stop flirting with me. Don't you have a girlfriend?”
    Courtney stammered and looked down at her feet. “You can meet her tonight. If that's okay. Oh, I hope you like her, but I know you will. She's ah-mah-zing.”
    “I hate her name. I want to punch her in the face.”
    “What's wrong with her name?”
    “What isn't wrong? It's the name of a country. Her parents are clearly pretentious douchebags, and she probably is too.”
    Courtney slammed a handful of silverware down. “And you wonder why I'm afraid to introduce you both. Honestly!” She pushed past me out of the space behind the bar, marching in the direction of the ladies' room.
    “Courtney, I'm just joking! You love my comedic stylings!”
    The door slammed. Making fun of her girlfriend's name was probably too far, but how could I stop myself? The chick's named  Britain . Our favorite comedian, Margaret Cho, is against bullying, but I suspect she would have approved of my making fun of someone named Britain. I have a dumb name too, so it's fair game, like how a person of one ethnic group can make fun of their own, and they beg for more. Speaking of comedians, I went to a Russell Peters show with Courtney, and I swear I was the only white person in there. I didn't get all the jokes, but I love when he does the Stern Indian Dad voice and says, “Someone gonna get-a-hurt real bad!”
    Comedy makes life