“So are we like best friends now?” Steph asked Azalaan after they had entered the church building on the school’s campus. They stood in the back of the main room, just behind the wooden rows of chairs organized before the pulpit at the front of the church. The room was dim, but not dark, and light filtered in through the stained glass windows.
“Why would you think that?’ Azalaan asked.
“We’re keeping each other’s secrets, I just gave you a bomb-ass makeover. If this were a movie, there would have been a montage and everything.”
“But I just told you that I’m practically law enforcement, why would you even want to be my friend?”
Steph shrugged. “Just seems like we’ve bonded, I don’t know. We’ve spent so much of the day together.”
Azalaan couldn’t tell if he was being facetious. Steph wasn’t looking him in the eye, but he seemed to have his eye on others as they entered. Most everyone that trickled into the building at that hour as the sun was setting, made their way to the front row of chairs before the pulpit to pray, but some walked along a side wall to a door that was in shadow next to the pulpit. They’d been standing at the back of the church for about an hour and Steph had explained that he wanted the others to gather in the room of the church basement so that he could make an entrance.
“I don’t think we can be friends,” Azalaan said as Steph checked his watch and then waved for him to follow as Steph walked to the wall of the large room and then to the door in shadows. “The whole boss, subordinate thing makes that hard.”
“You’re not my boss, you said so yourself. Well, I’m trusting you to keep my secret, and you’re walking into a lion’s den with only the belief and hope that I will keep yours. Imagine if I spill the beans, that would be a riot, quite literally. You’ll have to tell me more about your little outfit later.”
“You mean this gorgeous ensemble that I’m currently rocking the shit out of?”
Azalaan made quite an attractive woman considering the low budget nature of his wig and clothing. Steph had pulled them from a friend’s duffle bag that they kept in Steph’s room in case of emergency. The friend was a drag queen, and luckily, about Azalaan’s size, and he filled out the red dress nicely. The wig was obviously fake, it was beet red and cut short at Azalaan’s shoulders like someone had used a paper cutter to make it uniform all around. But somehow, Azalaan pulled it off and as he walked with Steph from his dorm room, to the church, and then to the darkened door next to the pulpit that Steph led him inside and held his hand while they descended steps even though Azalaan had grown accustomed to walking in heels, men noticed him and commented on his attractiveness. The attention felt befitting of a God and Azalaan soaked it all in.
At the bottom of the stairs was a large room, though it didn’t seem large enough for the crowd assembled. Most of the floor space was lined with chairs that faced a small stage, and all of the chairs were occupied. People crowded the walls and even the space between the chairs, and all faced the small stage. A woman stood before a microphone giving what seemed to be a prepared speech and though the crowd obviously listened and called in response to the speaker when she questioned them, there was a low buzzing of conversation that filled the room and made it almost claustrophobic.
The woman on the stage somehow spotted Steph at the door and quieted the room. All eyes turned to Steph, and, as a result, to Azalaan, and they both stood proud under the obvious admiration of the gathered crowd. There was a splattering of applause as the woman talked.
“Folks, we are here tonight to do something important. The person chosen to represent us says a lot about who we are and what we live for. We are the only line of defense for the despised, for the discarded, the hated and the persecuted. We shine a light on the cruelty that American citizens are forced to endure because of the perceived difference of their bodies. We remind everyone that all peoples born in this nation are afforded rights that cannot be trampled, and our pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness is rooted in our bodily autonomy.
“No one embodies that more than Steph. You have been on the front lines of this fight since our founding a few years ago and I will gladly cast my vote for your leadership. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I think the enthusiasm in this room speaks for itself.” The room exploded in applause and the woman had to wait a full minute for the cheers to subside before continuing. “Let’s get the vote started shall we?”
“Can I say something?” Azalaan shouted above the renewed enthusiasm of the room. Everyone stared curiously at the tall and striking woman at Steph’s side, and then they all seemed to look to Steph for an answer. He smirked and nodded at Azalaan to continue. “It is a privilege beyond measure to be here with you all today. Steph has told me so much about this delightful organization and the things that you do to help society accept the progress that comes with the continued evolution of humanity. And Steph is the embodiment of progress, and he is so very handsome, a face to lead the people.”
The crowd cheered and Steph seemed to attempt modesty at the praise, but he was soaking it all in with a beaming smile.
“Everyone who sees him will know that he is a man deserving respect. People will listen and give him their attention. And this…” Azalaan said with a flourish of his hand that resulted in him holding up one finger before the crowd, “is why he can’t be your leader.” The crowd seemed to gasp, and Azalaan gave a sheepish smile at Steph when the two made eye contact. Steph’s eyes were full of questions, but he didn’t stop Azalaan from continuing. “As a trans man, Steph’s story is an inspiring one, a real example of progressive progress, but Steph’s face, his identity is more closely aligned with the patriarchy that has kept so many in this room down and subjugated. Don’t get me wrong, Steph has always been down for the cause, few have done more, but a figurehead is a symbol and a failure to understand that does a disservice to everyone this organization claims to represent.”
“What are you saying?” the woman on the stage asked. “Steph should lead us…”
“Let her finish,” Steph said and stared daggers at Azalaan. Steph smiled, but Azalaan could see the anger in the other parts of his face. “This is a healthy discourse before we make a very important decision. Continue, please, Aza…” he caught himself before he said Azalaan’s full name aloud. “Aza, the people deserve to hear what you have to say.”
“Thanks, Steph,” Azalaan said and began to walk around the room, squeezing through the tightly packed crowd that followed him with an attention that rivaled the admiration they’d shown for Steph. “Who is the most persecuted person in America?” Azalaan asked. “Is it the Muslim? Is it the Native woman? Is it the elderly? Or the poor?” Everyone waited patiently for Azalaan to tell them, even though they had their own theories. “The face of persecution in America is the black woman.” There was an explosion of applause and cheers that settled as Azalaan continued. “The black woman very quietly built this country and they are the backbone of all American prosperity. Black women have been denied full participation in the American experiment from its inception, but they persisted, they lived to empower everyone around them. There would be no present without black women, and I propose that your organization needs a strong black woman at its helm. And Steph,” Azalaan turned to make eye contact with Steph who had a subdued look of panic on his face, “just isn’t that anymore. But me?” Azalaan ascended the stage and stood next to the woman who had been praising Steph. She looked at Azalaan with dreamy eyes, mirroring everyone in attendance, except for Steph whose mouth had fallen open in shock. “I should be your Thursday.”
The entire room erupted into chants of Thursday.
“All in favor?” the woman on stage yelled and the crowd screamed a resounding, “yea!”
“All opposed?” the woman on stage yelled again, and Steph was the lone “nea!”
“You don’t even know this woman!” Steph said angrily.
Azalaan didn’t show it, but he was nervous. Steph could have ended the whole farce if he decided to go back on his word, and why wouldn’t he, Azalaan thought. He’d been very proud of the prospect of becoming Thursday and Azalaan had only been able to take it from him because of their mutual agreement to keep one another’s secrets.
“What is the nature of your objection?” the woman on stage next to Azalaan asked.
“You all question my dedication to the work? Because that should be the only reason to deny me the privilege of leading you all. I am your Thursday…”
“We all love you,” the woman on stage said, then looked to Azalaan, “but we have chosen our symbol.”
Suddenly, a black rectangle opened in the ceiling as a sliding door moved quietly. A ladder descended and Azalaan eyed it. The rectangular entrance was pitch black.
“Ascend, Thursday,” the woman on stage said as everyone cheered.
Azalaan locked eyes with Steph who just looked shocked and mortified. Azalaan ascended the ladder.
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