Launch Day! Unboxing Get Curious

Get Curious Has Launched!

Get Curious releases today! I recently got my first copies, and wanted to share the excitement of unboxing them with cover artist Stuff Stud.io. Below are photos of the unboxing, also featuring Seelie and Sabel, the true heroes supporting my writing process.

You can order Get Curious from Bella Books, or see my book page to learn what other book vendors you can get it from. See the end of this post for a sneak peek of the first chapter of the book. And you can check out my previous post to see other ways you can support the launch of this book.

See me and other LGBTQ+ creators at a Sinister Wisdom party

If you’re local to the Twin Cities (or will be here on a trip) and want to help celebrate the book, Sinister Wisdom is having a group event on June 3rd! This PDF has all the info. You can see me, Stuff Studio, Judith Katz, and other wonderful people. (Oh, and you might spot Ashton, who’s secretly writing this sentence right now.) You don’t have to RSVP, but if you’d like to, you can do so in this form.

Read a sample:

Get Curious chapter 1

The sea monster living in my gut has been angry since last night. I want to open up my torso and ask it, “Why now?” The last two weeks—my first weeks in college—I’ve felt my lungs expand, taking deeper breaths than I knew I could, so why isn’t my gut on board? How do I get the message across that we’re finally in a cool place where we get to stay for four whole years?

The trans and nonbinary student group at my college is meeting outside on this still-hot late September day, and the food looks amazing but I don’t know what’s in it. Students sit in clumps around a long table—more than a dozen in total, way more trans and nonbinary folks than at my high school. Most of them aren’t first-year students like me, and they know each other. I recognize Char from the queer student orientation in our dorm last week. She has a similar vibe to my best friend from back home, starting with Char’s backpack buttons—trans ones and fan ones—plus tiny animal plushies hanging off the backpack straps. Anybody willing to walk around with soft animals is a person I can hang with.

Char has pink streaks dyed into her light-brown hair, today in pigtail braids. She’s in a fuchsia ribbed sweater, baggy and loose, with jeans. I head toward her section of the table, and she waves me closer.

“You’re one of the new students,” she says.

“Rev,” I tell her. “The queer student meeting. You said you’d teach The Science of Muppets.”

She laughs and pulls out the seat next to her. Smiling bunches her cheeks over her high cheekbones as she asks, “You remember that?”

“I want to take it,” I say as I slide off my backpack and lower into the seat.

The breeze carries the scents of nutmeg, honeycomb, and crayons, either from Char’s backpack or Char herself.

I ask, “Which Muppet would you be?”

“Skeeter, but with protest. I’m waiting for a trans girl Muppet. Are you a Muppet?”

“Not usually, but when asked, I’m Gonzo.”

She grins. “I love that.”

“Why Muppets and not some other show?”

“Muppets have special physics that need explaining. Plus, there’s Beaker and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew to guide the class.”

“You’ve thought this out,” I say.

“Helping my roomie do her education homework last year. Did you want to get food?”

“I guess.”

I go to the food table and gather tortilla chips, guacamole, a tiny amount of chicken, and a fizzy fruit drink in a purple flavor. When I return, Char raises an eyebrow at my scanty plate.

“Food allergies,” I say. That’s pretty much true.

“Let the organizers know and they’ll make sure you have stuff you can eat,” Char tells me.

I nod, but I’m not going to do that. The foods that irritate my gut change from day to day, and I don’t know why. Kids at my high school sometimes accused me of faking when I’d eat a food I’d been avoiding. It takes too much energy to try to explain—especially when I don’t know the answer.

I ask, “What comes after Muppets? Conversationally.”

“Coming out stories?” Char suggests. “If you want. I’ll start so you can eat. My folks thought I was gay even though I totally had a girlfriend. We were thirteen and just held hands when we watched movies, but I had picked out the dress I wanted her to wear if we got married—so, yes, I can see how my parents got a gay vibe from that. Honestly, I think they were relieved when I told them I’m a girl, like maybe it’s easier for them to understand gender identity than it is to understand gay people. I’m not complaining. They’re in Nebraska, and not even Lincoln, so they get all their queer and trans info from the TV.”

As she talks, I nibble a chip and then test an edge of it in the guac. Seems okay, so I eat a few chips’ worth. The chicken is too spicy. I want to eat the protein bar in my bag but that seems rude. I sip more of the fizzy fruit drink, hoping that will placate the roiling sea monster.

“Want to tell yours?” Char asks.

“It’s a whole mess. I have a good friend back home who’s a trans girl and she helped a ton—somehow her being out as trans helped me figure out that I’m nonbinary. But I use she/her pronouns. I want to stay in that she/her territory and expand it for nonbinary folks.”

As Char opens her mouth, she also tosses a hand up in a wave. Whatever she was going to ask me turns into “Kai, over here!”

Kai is shorter and stockier than me, deep-brown skin, broad smile, head shaved on the sides but a flop of medium-long tiny ringlets on top. The rugby sweatshirt over loose, dark-gray sweatpants suggests team affiliation with Char. We haven’t met yet, so Kai must live in a different dorm.

As Kai sits next to Char, Char says, “This is Rev, first year, nonbinary with she/her pronouns.”

Kai turns toward me with a grin and a nod. “Hey, welcome. I’m on rugby with Char and nonbinary. They/them pronouns. What unique thing should I know about you?”

I love that question!

“I’m really into weird places. Every time I get to a new place, I want to check out all the forgotten spaces. So far, my favorites are the turret space in French House and the rooftop art installation on Hampton.”

“Honey,” Char says. “That’s not an art installation.”

Kai snort-laughs. “Have you experienced the Hicks-Anderson basement? Five-foot-high ceiling and flickering lights. I’ve never been all the way to the back because I’m afraid it leads to another dimension.”

I grab my notebook out of my backpack and put that on my list to explore. “I’ll let you know if it does.”

Char asks, “Have you seen that Frankenstein’s monster room way at the end of the hall in the Science Building, past the labs. Why is there a bed?”

“Sleep studies,” Kai tells her.

“Who could sleep in there?” Char sounds incredulous.

Kai shrugs. “That’s why it’s always empty.” They finish assembling a taco and bite into it. Juices run out the far end onto their hand and wrist, and they grab for napkins.

My gut is hurting more—or I’m more aware of it now as the pain cuts through the excitement of being here, talking to Char and meeting a new person. I want to lie down until it passes, but where?

Plus, Char says, “The tunnels.” The words hold a full page of meaning.

“There are tunnels?” My voice rises way too much.

“Steam tunnels under the campus,” Kai tells me. “I heard some are so small you have to crawl and once a student got lost and died in there.”

Char shakes her head. “Nobody died. They got dehydrated and had to go to the hospital. It was less than ten years ago. You can google it.” She pauses and peers around like she’s telling a ghost story over a campfire. “But I heard there’s a fallout shelter down there that used to be filled with supplies until students raided it for the morphine.”

Kai says, “The way I heard it, a student lived down there for years and nobody knew.”

“Are you sure that’s not the plot of the movie Real Genius?” Char asks.

“Never seen it,” Kai answers.

Char says, “The college put a new heating system in about eight years ago and there’s no way a student is getting in and out through the security doors. Nobody could live down there.”

I bet that I can get through these security doors, but don’t voice this. I ask, “How big could this fallout shelter be?”

“A real shelter would be under a different building, not sandwiched in with HVAC,” Char says. “Unless it’s safer with all that equipment. But I think that’s actually the reason the Hicks-Anderson basement is so weird—they were trying to insulate it against nuclear radiation, like that’s going to work.”

“But there are tunnels?” I ask. “Can I get in them?”

“Not the new ones, but maybe the ones between the dorms,” Char tells me.

Tunnels between the dorms sound perfect. Tunnels are in my top three favorite secret environments. Hidden rooms and crawlspaces vie for the number one spot. Tunnels can have all the mystique of caves but without as much dirt and bugs. Don’t get me wrong, I will do dirt and bugs for a good cave.

I could use a hidden room right now. The gut cramps are closer together and feel sharper.

We’re near the new Science Building. I got a basic tour of it earlier in the semester, but I don’t remember much except that there were good bathrooms, maybe single-occupant ones. My gut doesn’t feel like it’s going to force everything out. It’s really cramped up, and if I can lie down for a bit, it’ll probably get better. Hard to lie down in a shared bathroom, though.

“I’ll be back,” I say and get up, heading for the building.

I go through the entryway and past the shared bathroom, walking like I know where everything is. I heard about a private, all-gender bathroom, but where? It’s got to be near these bathrooms, right? Because plumbing.

The pain in my belly radiates up my spine, making it hard to stand up straight. I wrap my hands around the straps of my backpack like it’s the weight of the books making me hunch forward. I should’ve gone back to my dorm room. But I want to be out there so much listening to everyone.

A door to my right is open, and I peek in. Rows of equipment extend back into the room, leaving little space for lying down, but there’s another door to the right of this one. I shove it open and see electrical panels. Looks like there’s a space on the far side where I could sit and not be seen. I hurry to the back and slide gratefully to the floor.

As I drop the tension of holding my body up, the pain eases a little. But then another round of cramps start. I shrug out of my backpack and set it on the floor, curling onto my side with my head on it like a pillow. The only sound in this room is the whoosh of air through the vents, which smells like fake tropical flower air freshener—my second favorite after vanilla.

I focus on breathing slowly and steadily. Not counting breaths because that can make me feel more freaked out, but just letting the breath come in and out, slow and steady.

I bargain with the sea monster in my gut: Calm down for a bit, and I promise when I get back to my dorm I’ll put the heating pad on you?

My gut-monster says: No! You overdid it! Now you must pay!

Each statement is punctuated with a spasm that’s like period cramps but higher and wider.

I offer: Hot pad and soup?

I picture the soothing heat, and this starts to work. How long will the other students stay at the meeting? If I go out there again too soon, I’ll risk more cramps. Worse, maybe I’d need help getting back to my room. I am so not willing to ask for that, especially from folks I’m just getting to know.

I made it through high school without curling up in a ball in front of anyone other than close friends, and I’m going to make it through this semester too. I want normal completely weird queer friends who don’t think I’m more of a disaster than I appear to be.

I lie still and breathe, pretending I’m in a hot bath. By the time the cramps have eased up enough, almost thirty minutes have passed. I bet everyone is gone. At least that means I won’t be tempted to linger. I can get back to my room and use the hot pad.

I shoulder my bag carefully, trying not to tense my stomach, and head for the door. The lever does not turn in my hand. Who locks an electrical room from the outside? What would you possibly need to keep in the room? Or maybe someone screwed up the lock install and nobody worried about it because everyone who’s supposed to be in here has keys.

I jiggle the lever and push at the door, but no luck. My ribs have tightened in cahoots with my gut-monster, and cold prickles spread across my back.

I bang on the door with my fist, but I’m not near the building entrance or study rooms so it’s unlikely anyone will hear. The air freshener scent is taking a turn toward salty lemons and apricots. Probably not great ventilation in here, which rules out yelling through a vent.

I sit against the wall next to the door and thumb through contacts on my phone. I have the numbers of other first-year students. Connections where we might share homework ideas or watch a movie together. Not the kind where they’ll come rescue me from the electrical room in the Science Building. Would a first year even know how to find me?

I could call campus security. Does that go on my record? Am I allowed to be in here? Would my residence hall advisor come get me out? I’m not sure I want her to know about my exploration habit yet.

Char is a sophomore and I think she takes science classes. She probably knows her way around this building. I got her number on a list of LGBTQ students from the earlier meeting, which means it’s okay to randomly text her.

She’s my best bet, so I text: Are you still at the lunch? I’m stuck in the Science Building’s electrical room and could use some help.

Leaning back against the wall, I focus on slow breathing until my phone buzzes.

Char writes: I’m on my way. Where’s the electrical room?

I send back a whole lot of thanks and tell her: First floor, take a right inside the door and go past the bathrooms.

Minutes later, the door opens and Char peers down at me. Somehow her pink-streaked pigtails look authoritative from that height. I push up to standing and she goes back to being cute and shorter than me.

“This is cool,” she says and steps into the room.

I catch the door before it can close and hold it open with my foot. “Hand me my backpack?”

Char retrieves it from the cozy corner and brings it to me. I find my roll of black duct tape and tear off two strips. Holding the door handle so the latch bolt is flush with the door edge, I tape it in place. I let the door close, knowing I’m not locking us in.

“You keep duct tape in your bag?” Char asks.

“I like to get into places and explore, like urbex, urban exploration. I keep things I might need.”

There’s a whole section of my bag dedicated to exploration, but I stopped before adding lock-picking tools. Exploration isn’t supposed to be breaking and entering. If I can’t find my way into a place through cleverness, I’m willing to wait until I can.

“How’d you get into that?” Char asks.

“I moved around some as a kid, and it became a way for me to get established in a new place—to find some kind of nook, hidden place, secret room that other people didn’t know about. Searching for those spaces is a really fun way to explore and get to know a geography.”

Char wanders to the back of the space, peering at the walls and ceiling. “You’re right. I didn’t know this was here. It gives me a different vibe about the building.”

I return to the spot behind the panels and sit on the floor, leaning back against the wall with my legs stretched out. Char settles down next to me, cross-legged.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Just cramps,” I tell her. “I wanted to come back to the lunch.”

“You didn’t miss much. I complained to Kai for a while about my failed romance and then we talked about rugby.” She gazes at the ceiling where a tile has been pushed up so wires can run from a panel into the darkness above. “This is a cool way to get to know this building. Do you get in trouble, though?”

“Sometimes,” I admit. “But way less often than you’d think. I stay out of places that are obviously illegal or dangerous. And my bleached hair makes me appear ridiculously innocent. People think I’m younger, so they tend to let me off with warnings.”

“Sneaky,” Char says.

“Not bad sneaky, though. I like finding things out about spaces, but if I can overhear folks talking and it’s private, I put my headphones on or leave.”

She rests her palms on her thighs and squares her shoulders before asking, “Do you want to check out the Hicks-Anderson basement next? Oh, or the storage room in the Language Arts Building, you should definitely see that.”

My heart does joyful flips that would get it a ten in Olympic gymnastics. “I’d love that, but why are you helping me?”

She taps the floor tiles. “Being in here feels kind of good. Because we’re not supposed to, but we’re not hurting anyone and we’re learning things.”

On a big inhale, she pauses, and I wait to see if she’ll say more.

She does. “This guy I was dating—I realized it only worked because I’d shaped myself to his preferences. I need to be more rebellious. But I don’t want to do anything bad. Being in here has good rebellion vibes.”

I chuckle. “Positive rebel is half my personality. Do you want to be my partner in harmless crime?”

“What if I’m terrible at it? I’m awful at sneaking.”

“I can teach you.”

I’ve never taught someone to explore or be rebellious before, and my body hums with the thrill of this idea. Plus, I see the awe in Char’s eyes, sitting here, knowing she’s in a secret space, and I want us both to have that.

I tell her, “If we do it right, no one will know we did it, so it becomes a secret power.”

She grins. “I’ll find out if anyone in rugby still has keys to the Language Arts basement.”

“Fabulous,” I tell her. “I’m going to work on getting us into the tunnels between the dorms, though I really want to get into those HVAC tunnels because they’ll be bigger and go farther.”

She quirks up one eyebrow and a corner of her mouth. “Why not at least check out what it would take to get into the HVAC tunnels?”

“You don’t start small,” I tell her.

She says, “Rugby skills. Plus, I’ve always wanted to travel to places that are strange and new to me—and this kind of travel really fits my budget.”

“Love it. I figured they’d be super hard to get into, but I’ll check them out.”

“You heading back to our dorm next? I’ll walk you.”

We’re both in the segment of a dorm set aside for trans and nonbinary students. “Thanks,” I tell her.

My gut has calmed down enough that I’ll be able to walk fully upright, not curled in on myself, so I nod. Char stands up and offers her hand. I let her pull me up. On the way out of the room, I peel the tape off the door latch, ball it up, and shove it into my pocket, where it rests against my leg like a tiny trophy.

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