I sit in my assigned seat for morning assembly, which the teachers call chapel, and wait for the start of hell, which the teachers call school. A girl with blond hair and a pressed shirt informs the boy next to her that it’s too early to be alive, and he agrees by yawning and barely acknowledging her presence. I know she has a crush on this boy. I also know he doesn’t like her back.

There are whispers that this boy is gay. They cite reasons like his lack of girlfriend and how long he spends doing his hair. Intrigued, I watch him talk to another boy in math class and look for signs of gayness, but nothing sticks out to me. Maybe he isn’t gay; maybe he’s really good at hiding it.

I am good at hiding it. So good, in fact, I don’t realize it myself until I meet Jo. She is everything I am not. While I sit quietly in class, hiding away, she floats in and out of the popular circles like a bird, which is why I’m so astounded when she lands near me. I am not yet mature enough to see myself as an interesting person, but she makes sure to let me know anyway. In a quiet dorm room, she almost kisses me, and I almost believe in romance movies.

As time goes on, I become Jo’s therapist. I know the stories she tells no one else, and keep them like trophies in my mind. She gets around, both socially and sexually, and knows all the gay people on campus. By extension, I know too. She tells me of a girl with perfect grades who plays piano, a boy with a previous coke addiction. Names roll off her tongue like a title card. There are more of us than I thought.

Jo’s sister is also one of us. I didn’t know it at first, but something linked us all together, an unseen chord of destiny and fear. I move in with her and adopt another client for counseling. If Jo throws out words like punchlines, Hannah dwells on each phrase and mourns their passing. Many nights are spent holding her as she sobs, the fear of a God who hates her. A God who hates us all.

When a previous student comes out on Facebook, I know it immediately. The internet may be fast, but boarding school is faster. A boy with a sharp haircut and sharper words proclaims his disgust in the cafeteria line. Whispers become more commonplace in the computer lab. The dean of the girls’ dorm relays to me how she reacted the first time she saw two gay people kiss. She vomited.

Jo befriends the girl with perfect grades. Soon the girl becomes Naomi. Naomi becomes all Jo talks about. Their story plays out like every high school romance, except when it doesn’t. Naomi has a boyfriend. Jo has to sit next to him at lunch. Every night Jo sneaks into her room, and I cover for her. As a present, I get to hear Naomi’s stories too. They are as heartbreaking as they are familiar.

The dean has a daughter who barely exists. A recent graduate, she has no use for a dorm full of high school girls, until she meets Jo. Like me, Kelly is brought out of her shell by Jo’s aggressive extroversion and showers her with gifts and affection in return. I am no longer called to give excuses for Jo’s absence; the dean knows where she is. What she doesn’t know is what she’s doing. I find it ironic that the very woman who barfed at two gay men kissing sleeps peacefully one room away from gay sex.

Hannah tries to kiss me in my dorm room at night. Unlike with her sister, I do not welcome this kiss. It lingers in the air every time we talk, and I feel it closing in whenever we’re alone. Embarrassed, I tell Jo and she shrugs off my concern. She isn’t the therapist here. Afraid of losing someone who understands, I shrug it off too. It’s not like I could tell the staff anyway.

It is the beginning of winter and I come out to my best friend. My throat constricts with worry and my eyes constrict with tears. I cry because she accepts me; I cry because that wasn’t a given. Although she knows, we never bring it up. It’s one of those things you keep to yourself.

Graduating is a mixture of freedom and fear. The question of whether we’ll be ourselves when we leave hangs in the air, but no one asks directly about it. I can’t fathom why Jo and Hannah would want to go college with the same values as this school, but keep my mouth shut. That is their story, not mine.

In one class, my teacher mentions an old student who was kicked out of the church for being gay. He said he talks to him on Facebook despite this, because he’s still the same person. His lack of concern about sexuality disturbs some of the students, but others of us share knowing looks. When I go to alumni events, he is the only teacher I look for. He is the only one who treats me the same.