The artwork is hanging on the lobby walls by the end of the day. I walk into the lobby, Ezra beside me, and we stand there and stare at each of the pieces, hanging exactly where my old photos had been hanging months before. Each painting’s title has my real name. Emotion builds in me, remembering the day I’d walked into this lobby and seen my old pictures and my deadname, knowing that the entire school had seen, too. The embarrassment, the pain, the anger. Ezra takes my hand and squeezes it. “I’m really proud of you,” he says.
