Quick helper before starting: To avoid confusion, I will usually use the singular (and grammatically correct) "them/they/their" for Quinn. And then "they all" or "them both" or just "everybody" or "everyone" to describe more than one person. Just so you know and I hope it helps.
A riot was starting, and Quinn swore it wasn't their fault.
Somebody's shoulder crashed through the crowd, and it ended up knocking both Chris and Quinn forward with a grunt. Chris fell to his knees. Someone's fist closed around Quinn's collar and yanked. It cut off Quinn's air, made them swing around and yelp. Quinn fell again, felt gravel against their cheek, digging into skin. Somewhere in the chaos, Chris found his feet. His hands were clamped over his mouth. Quinn collected them-self, too, noticing the dropped cam-recorder and grabbing it back.
Chris took it. "Thanks!"
"Yeah!" Dirt got into Quinn's mouth. It was gritty. Made them gag. They felt their glasses and were amazed that the pair were still there and unbroken. Everybody was so loud. Quinn swallowed. "I think we should go home now."
Four days before, the two sixteen-year-olds were at Chris' house.
"No," Quinn said, "here..." They pointed with a pencil. "You gotta do what's in the brackets first. See? Oh, wait... at least, I think so?"
"Dammit," Chris said. "We should know this. It's tenth grade stuff. Plus, you're Asian. You're meant to be smart."
Quinn grimaced and used the pencil to push their spectacles up their nose. The glasses were thick and black and square.
Resigning himself, Chris scowled over the graph paper. He and Quinn had been slaving over algebra homework for forty-five minutes now. Mrs. Bakers wouldn't let them both get away with outstanding work again this week. What kid is supposed to do two Math classes a week anyway?! was the question that seemed like it would plague both eleventh graders until death. Quinn could tell that Chris was tense and annoyed. He usually was anyway, but, this time it was different...
His dad was on the phone.
"Hard part comes now," Chris' mother, Eliza, said into the receiver, walking back and forth from the porch to the kitchen, folding towels and underwear as she went. "You gonna be okay for the weekend?" Travis said something back that made Eliza roll her eyes. "Can you still take Christopher?"
Quinn pressed their forehead to the table top and groaned when b over 2a made their brain want to vomit inside itself. Chris looked up from the notes, turned to his mom, gritted his teeth, and moaned, "I don't wanna go!" at her.
"Chris," she complained. "It's Dad's weekend – he has a say."
"I get a say in this and I don't wanna go!" he growled back. Quinn watched them both over the textbook, glancing between mother and son while nibbling on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich Eliza made—today Quinn's mom, Hye, dropped Quinn to Chris' because she needed to go into work early and help out (Hye and Eliza worked together as nurses), whereas usually Quinn took the bus and saved a seat for Chris. They'd share earphones or cram homework or rate the girls that got on. Today, due to the ride from Hye, everything was ahead of schedule, which was lucky since neither had even started their homework.
"Well," Eliza said to her boy, "maybe I don't want you here, Mr. Unpleasant..." Quinn knew that would've stung, and judging by the crease in Chris' brow, it did. "Maybe," Eliza went on, "I have plans."
The two kept arguing. Quinn tried to focus on the jumble of letters and numbers and brackets. Quinn kind of hated letters and numbers and brackets. In fact, Quinn kind of hated anything to do with any one of them. The subject Quinn was most talented in was art; the whole cover of their textbook was littered with tiny doodles, ranging from dragons, crazy landscapes, colourful plants, weird swirls and cracks and shapes. There were also a few genitalia sketched here and there, which always made Chris grimace or smirk, depending on his mood. Right now though, Chris glared at the tiny doodled phallus (it had wings instead of a scrotum because Quinn liked to be symbolic).
"I'm not gonna go to some hospital for the weekend."
"Chris..." Eliza's ex-husband, Travis, talked over her through the phone, and she sighed, walked over, hips swaying Elizaly, as she handed the phone over. "Talk to your father."
Quinn wondered if it was a good idea to leave right about now; just go wait at the stop for Chris to be done here. But Quinn chose against it when Eliza tossed an apple. Quinn caught it. It was green. The dark, deep kind of green. Quinn rubbed it on their pant leg, then bit into it. Chris was biting his mouth.
"I don't wanna come," he said, and his father said something back, and Chris' leg shook under the table violently. Quinn kicked him. Chris stopped. "Fine," he said—Quinn wasn't sure who to until, "Dad. Force me." Chris could sometimes be a little melodramatic. "Let's bond – what do you have planned for the weekend?"
"I'm gonna go," Quinn mouthed; the apple wasn't enough to stay after all, even if it was a type of green that made Quinn's mind spin. They slid their baseball cap on backwards and made for the front door. "Chris. I'll meet you at the stop, okay?"
Chris frowned, but nodded and kept talking to his father: "Yeah well that really doesn't help."
Quinn waved goodbye to Chris' mom and left the apartment. Even from the end of the hallway, running their fingers along the wall, Quinn could hear Chris yelling. "Nick's not my friend and he's not my brother." Nick was Chris' dad's girlfriend—Madison's, son... or something. "He wouldn't have to be there for me – not like that." Like that, meant, found high on drugs lying on the side of the road after getting hit by a car, furthermore, after being missing for days. Chris' family, especially on his Dad's side of it, was a little messy right now. Quinn's own family, the Chŏns, which consisted of just their mom and pet gecko, Newt (short for Isaac Newton not the species), was barely tolerable, especially later with how much Hye had to work. Just last week, Quinn walked into the room and asked for a new sketchbook and Hye threw a box of herbal tea at them.
School sucked all week. Quinn was ready for the weekend on Friday, and as the last bell rang, went and waited at the bus bay like usual. Chris strolled along soon after, stuffing things into his backpack. He was studying at Quinn's that evening for the biology test on Monday, which both teens knew meant playing video games and listening to music all weekend, unless, of course, Travis had finally convinced Chris to spend the weekend uptown.
Chris leaned against the wall opposite, frowning. Quinn knew not to take the frown personal. To take Chris' frowns personally would be like telling yourself it wasn't normal for the sky to be blue. Quinn shuffled aside to make room. Chris pushed away from the wall and took a seat with them, shoulder-to-shoulder. He was still frowning.
"Going?" Quinn asked, cleaned their glasses' lens. "To your pop's?"
Chris grunted no. Quinn pushed the glasses up their nose. They were bored. Quinn brushed a stray lock of hair behind their ear. Quinn had hair a few inches shorter than Chris', and a million shades blacker. They both wore their hair swept back, messy, curled around their ear lobes, or sometimes Quinn had it in a side parting.
"Hey," Quinn whispered, "look..."
"If it's another dick pic, I don't wanna know –like– at all."
"No!" they hissed. "That was Snapchat, so you know I didn't know it was coming." Quinn grimaced. "Idiot clicked My story instead of Myra. The whole school must've seen it."
Chris laughed dryly. "Poor kid."
"Look at this."
Hesitantly, Chris did, cupping his hand over the phone to block the sun. It was a news feed, playing from a helicopter's point of view. The camera focused on a figure in the middle of some road accident. He ambled and shambled and bled from his mouth and stomach, and it took over ten police officers to gun him down. Chris grimaced.
"Gnarly, huh?" Quinn said. "There have been stuff like this caught all over the place last few days."
"Just a hoax."
Quinn scoffed. "I saw a dude eat a pigeon yesterday, right by the park across from my house. Mom says it's some designer drug going around."
"And who the hell says gnarly?" Chris asked.
The bus squeaked into park inside the bay. The two knew to wait for the other students to get on before they themselves boarded. Finally, they paid fairs and nodding thanks to the driver.
Chris was ranting.
"You're so gullible, Quinn. You gotta grow up. Believing dumb rumours is why Jackson Vons still gives us Chinese burns in the lunch hall. You saying 'gnarly' is why we still get—"
A group of seniors decided it was funny to jut a knee under Chris' foot. He almost tripped, but caught himself. Quinn was able to avoid the foot but one guy, Jeff Singer, still snatched the back of their collar and yanked. Quinn felt Jeff's chest dug into their back. He pushed a hand through their hair and twisted hard. Quinn flinched and growled and tried to get away, but Jeff shoved a kneecap into the small of their back and sent them reeling to their hands and knees. The driver yelled. Quinn got up quickly and took a seat next to Chris a few rows back, both shaking their heads angrily.
Jeff snickered and called them faggot. Quinn put a middle finger up when he wasn't looking and Chris yanked the hand down. He gave them a look. Quinn rubbed their head.
"This is why we still get messed with," Chris complained.
"What?" Quinn asked defensively. "'Cause of the word gnarly or because I'm a 'faggot'?" They used air quotes.
"Both," Chris answered, and smiled so his friend knew he was joking. Quinn shoved his arm and didn't smile because even though it was a joke it wasn't a very funny one. Chris waited a few minutes for Quinn's bubble of anger to deflate. When it did, he handed them an earphone.
"Thanks."
"They're assholes," Chris told them as Moby began to play.
"They're mustard yellow," Quinn told the window. "The worst colour."
"And what are we?" Chris asked.
Quinn regarded this, thinking they were pale blue and red and a little bit of green, and Chris was brown and pink and purple, sometimes even magenta. Hell, sometimes Quinn thought Chris had a whole rainbow inside of him.
Chris' phone lit up.
Calling...
Travis.
Chris rejected it and put in an earphone.
'I'm gonna ask you to look away
I love my hands, but it hurts to pray
Life I have isn't what I've seen
The sky is not blue and the field's not green
Wait for me...'
Ten or so blocks from Quinn's place, traffic was bad. Chris suggested just getting off and walking but Quinn couldn't be bothered. They didn't mind the bus, now that Jeff and his sardine squad were gone. At some point, Chris' music was drowned out by a siren squeezing through the traffic. Chris spun around to watch it and Quinn caught his earphone when it fell, plugging it in their own ear. The Doppler effect was making their brain wobble red and blue and white, so they turned up the music to ignore it. Quinn was good at ignoring things. Chris was stood up now. The ear phone popped out of Quinn's ear all together. Quinn didn't try to grab it back.
"Cops shot some homeless dude!" Somebody burst onto the bus, and Quinn couldn't ignore it this time. "Shot him like twenty times!" People were getting up now, scrambling off the bus. Of course, Chris and Quinn saw no other option, that looked anywhere near as exciting, than to follow everybody.
The crowd wound through the LA downtown streets, filing towards the sirens. Quinn covered their ears. Eyes went up at the sound of a helicopter overhead. There was an ambulance, and a paramedic was tending to an officer's wound. Quinn only saw the bloody gouge on his arm before Chris urged them to keep moving. They both got another three blocks. Ahead of them were a collection of emergency vehicles: 'to protect and to serve'.
"You!" somebody yelled out. "This is wrong!"
Quinn froze when they saw the worn pair of sneakers and the limp body they belonged to. A sheet covered the body. There was blood.
"Holy–"
"Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!"
"Sir, this is none of your business," an officer yelled. He looked Korean, like Quinn.
"This is our business," another guy yelled. Somebody yelled from behind, too. "This is all our business!"
"Hey," Quinn said. Chris has his cam-recorder raised high in the air overlooking the scene. "What're you doing?!"
"Hush," Chris said, "come on," and pushed through the crowd. Quinn wanted to argue, but swallowed and followed in the narrow wake.
"That man was unarmed," somebody yelled. "LAPD's out o' control!"
Quinn saw a middle finger, and the cop's unamused glare right in front of it. "Whoa," the teen said, and a swell of nervous energy prickled at their chest. They couldn't help but feel a little impressed. Quinn saw Chris move forward again and followed him.
"We're gonna need to clear this area now," the cop ordered.
"We ain't clearin' nothin'!"
The cam-recorder was right in front of Chris' face now. Quinn saw the screen as it peered over a heavy shoulder, and both teens glanced anxiously between the argument.
"This is a crime scene."
"Yeah, we're all behind the tape!"
"I'll tell you people again..."
"Do it, 'cause we people ain't movin'!"
"That's right!"
"Hey!" The cop pointed at the kids. Quinn shriveled up inside. "Put the camera down! Now!"
Quinn started to mutter for Chris to listen to the cop, but turned to another guy when he spoke up. He was tall and intimidating. His voice was low and burly. "Nah, nah, homey. Keep that camera up." Then he started talking about freedom of speech, even though both Quinn and Chris had already lost every morsel of their own speech. Quinn was tugging on Chris' sleeve. Chris ignored them. More people started shouting. The cop was calling for backup into his walkie talkie. Everything was getting too messy so Quinn grabbed Chris' sleeve and yanked.
"What're you doing, Quinn?!"
"We should go."
"Fight for what you believe in!"
"What're you talking about, Chris?" Quinn's eyes got big when they were scared. "This isn't a game. A guy's dead over there."
"Exactly!" Chris pulled away, kept chanting: "HELL NO! WE WON'T GO!"
Quinn grimaced, looked around, and even they could see that something was wrong here. The cop was being so nonchalant about it. It was probably him that did it. And that other guy was right, the homeless dude was unarmed... so, Quinn started chanting, too. Mob mentality might have been the word that would describe the switch that had just been flipped in Quinn's brain. That and just being an impressionable teenager. Chris grinned in approval.
"HELL NO! WE WON'T GO!
HELL NO! WE WON'T GO!
HELL NO! WE WON'T GO!"
It took Quinn a moment to realise that Chris had stopped. "Mom?" He was crouched next to Quinn, ducked under the noise, shouting into his phone. "Mom!"
Quinn broke away to him.
"Dad," Chris yelled over the shouting. "Why do you have Mom's phone?" Quinn's heart was racing. "There's a protest. I'm at a protest! There was – The cops. They shot some homeless guy, Dad! This poor guy. He wasn't doing anything."
Well, we don't know that for sure.
HELL NO. WE WON'T GO.
"The people," Chris shouted, "we're taking action! What? Y-yeah, Quinn's here, too. This is important, Dad! We're part of it! Look, I gotta go."
He hung up. Quinn felt like laughing, asking, "Dramatic, much?" but suddenly something crashed into the back of them. "Holy crap!" Quinn wasn't sure who had pulled them up, or who had fallen against them, just that things were really getting out of hand. They grabbed Chris' cam-recorder and handed it back.
"Thanks!"
"Yeah. I think we should go home now."
"What?" Chris barked. "Are you kidding me?!"
"This is crazy!"
"I know!" Chris yelled. "It's freaking awesome!"
It was Quinn's phone that rang next. They barely heard it in time to answer.
"Quinn!" their mother barked. "What is going on?"
"Erm. Hey, Mom."
"Why did Eliza just call me to say you were at a protest?"
"Oh, uh, yeah. About that."
"Where are you?"
"In town."
"What is wrong with you, Quinn? Haven't you heard about the–"
"Mom, I'm fine. Chris' fine, too."
"I'm watching the news... There's – I'm coming to get you."
"No, Mom, we're fine. We'll be home soon."
"It's not safe, honey. There's – shit."
Quinn grimaced. Their mom never swore. "I'm okay. Really. You don't have to freak out about it."
Hye started to say something but an arm came up and crashed into Quinn's hand, and the phone flung into the crowd.
"My cell!"
"Oh..." Chris winced. Quinn spotted it. It was shattered and smashed against the asphalt. They pushed forward and grabbed it. "HELL NO! WE WON'T GO!"
Quinn wasn't sure how many minutes had passed, just that soon their hands were clamped over their ears, at a few occasions reaching out and grabbing hold of the hem of Chris' polo as not to lose hi. More people were there. The chanting had turned to shouting. People were shoving and throwing things like bricks and food and bottles.
Quinn froze when they saw a tall, tanned figure coming forward.
"Uh-oh."
Chris frowned.
Quinn pointed. "Your dad."
Chris was pulled around before he could properly register their words. He saw his father, Travis Manawa, Eliza just behind. When Quinn saw their own mother there, right behind them; short and stout and furious, they leapt forward and wrapped their arms around her.
"Mom!"
Hye Chŏn was yelling and gasping all at once. Eliza put a hand on her son's arm, yelling and gasping, too.
"How'd you find us?"
"Travis drove by when I was leaving," Hye said, and her eyes were watering. "Eliza knew where you were."
"What're you kids doing here?!" Eliza ordered.
"They shot him," Chris answered.
"I know," Travis tried. Quinn didn't like how afraid he sounded. The few times they'd met Travis, he'd never sounded afraid. Uptight, annoyed and stern, sure. But afraid? Never. Eliza crouched next to the tape and barricade and saw the dead homeless guy as a gust blew the street back, revealing the blown-out hole through his eyeball. Quinn shivered. Hye cursed again. Travis and Chris were still arguing.
Men in big yellow contamination suits started climbing out of another vehicle, and the adults shunned Quinn and Chris away from the riot.
"Christopher, now!" Eliza ordered, and grabbed his sleeve.
"C'mon," Travis urged. The five of them turned down the street to the left, stopping when they all saw the police in riot gear marching towards them. Chris didn't stop arguing, not until the first gunshots went off.
Then all of them were running.
The small group travelled two blocks, down some steps. Quinn's backpack slapped hard against their spine. They lost their cap and it flew off behind them. Travis lead them all out onto a street. Everybody could still hear the gunshots in the distance. But much closer was the screaming and the yelling. People were knocking down barricades, kicking over trash cans, rocking whole cars side to side. Others were falling and panicking and screaming.
"Mom!" Quinn said. They did they let Hye pull them close. They grabbed around her blouse and held on like they did when they were a kid.
"Home's only four blocks away!" Hye said to Travis and Eliza.
"It's crazy out here!" Eliza yelled back, scared.
"This way!" Travis said.
They saw a man outside a barber shop, rolling down the grid shutters to close the place up. He was old –in his mid to late sixties– olive skin, balding, short and a little stocky, wearing a pale shirt and jeans.
"Excuse me, sir," Travis pleaded. "Can we come in, please?"
"We're closed."
"Please, it's not safe out here. It's dangerous."
"Go to the police!" The man's Spanish accent was strong and annoyed.
"No, no," Travis insisted. "I think they're the danger. I mean, they're not letting anyone leave." They saw an old woman inside, sitting at a barber chair watching them. "We just need somewhere to ride it out. Please?"
"Please?" Hye said, too.
The old woman inside muttered something in Spanish, and the man tried to refuse.
"Please?!" Eliza begged.
He nodded. "Okay."
Notes
Song was Wait For Me by Moby.
Writing in third person when the protagonist is genderqueer is a challenge, I'll admit that, but not impossible. Just gotta be a little more strategic about how to structure sentences. Think I did okay though.
Happy reading.