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Honeymaren
She can feel Ryder’s eyes on her, sees his hands squeezed anxiously under his armpits as he taps his toes on the coffee-stained floor behind Kaffeost’s front bar. Every woman in the café seems to have her phone open, reading the words they all knew were coming yet hoped would not… while men watch their friends and partners and daughters, slowly picking up on the increasing tension in the room. Honeymaren feels as though it isn't her but someone else reading the breaking news alert on her phone, someone else clenching her jaw, digging her fingers into the countertop, holding her breath.
“Is it bad?” Ryder’s soft words float into her mind.
Honeymaren chuckles, low and brittle. “Of course it’s bad,” she answers.
“But,” he starts, his voice cracking. “It won’t be bad here, will it?”
If not for that little crack, that sign of true fear from her little brother, Honeymaren would have shouted at him for his question, for the sheer foolhardy… ignorance. Willful unrealistic optimism. Instead, she settles for lifting her eyes from the news to glare at him. “It will be bad everywhere, Ryder. Yes, reproductive care for anyone with a fucking vagina is still legal here, but it will be bad anyway. Fuck!” Huffing and raw, she tosses her phone over the back bar into the open-air kitchen, waiting for her to start batching pastries for tomorrow morning’s rush of college students and professors. The mere idea of doing her favorite thing exhausts her.
Tense, quiet exchanges like their own slowly permeate Kaffeost. One woman on her own starts crying by the front window, her shoulders shaking as she rocks herself side to side. Honeymaren grimaces, feels that same pain prick at her heart. Ryder silently grabs a spare mug, fills it with coffee, and strides to the young woman by the window. In the quiet of the café, his whisper travels back to Honeymaren: “It-it’s on the house, ma’am.”
Before he can retreat, the woman takes his hand and holds it tight. Watching tenderly, Honeymaren sees Ryder recognize the magnitude of what has happened to them all.
Elsa
“They cannot be serious,” Elsa mutters to herself, standing in the atrium of the law school. The weight of her backpack, briefcase, and tote bag full of more books no longer register as icy anger fills her veins. Other students mutter among themselves, congregating together in the sunlight beaming down from a glass ceiling. Beautiful blue skies above fail to register their collective disrespect for the audacity of the highest court in the land.
“Did they even edit the ruling since the leak?!” one law student snorts, reading from her tablet. “This is so much worse than I expected.”
“No long-standing tradition my ass,” another grumbles, loosening his tie. “Have they not heard of HIPAA? Of-of privacy?! All medical privacy laws use Roe!”
“This better not be on the Bar, what the fuck are we supposed to do with this.”
“Shit, I can’t take more of this,” another student says, running their hand across their undercut. “Detransitioning kids by law, can’t say gay or mention slavery back home, and now this? What even…”
“You know what else isn’t in the constitution? Twelfth-century witch-burners you hacks!” one woman rages, pointing a citation out to others. “Look at this! Yale and Harvard graduates my ass! A high school debate team wrote this!”
“They can’t just ignore decades of case law! Hundreds –”
“Thousands,” a professor corrects.
“– thousands of cases!”
“Look at this state, blatantly criminalizes miscarriage, what the fuck are we supposed to do?! Prosecute?!”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, did you see the response from the Speaker? She’s supposed to be a prosecutor, what the fuck do you mean ‘go vote in six months’?! This affects our work, our clients now!”
“Why bother voting if that’s the best defense they can muster? The court's going to legalize gerrymandering in a week, we all know that!”
“Hey, no, stop! This is exactly why people should vote – if not for that fucking nazi in the presidency, this shit wouldn’t be happening!”
“It’s always been happening for some of us!”
Elsa interrupts, “What we need to do right now is read these laws, find holes in them, and contact organizations and clients about their options.” She pauses, registering how quickly her emotions are rising. I need to get home… she decides—she can practically feel steam coming off the top of her head as the hot sunlight hits her freezing body.
Honeymaren
As Ryder sweeps the front of house, Honeymaren slowly finishes the last row of neat balls of dough, evenly spacing them in dough-proofing baker’s trays and stacking them on a dolly. It’s taken her twice as long to complete the task today—or, at least it feels like it took twice as long. She heaves a sigh, glancing at her phone on a nearby countertop; it lights up with another notification, and from a distance she can see a stack of unattended notifications on the screen. Sooner or later, she’s going to have to answer them all and probably call Gran.
“Sis?”
She startles at Ryder’s voice, snaps her head back up. “Hey, w-what’s up?” she asks as she steers the dolly of dough trays toward the walk-in around the corner.
“I was just gonna ask if you’re okay,” Ryder says, returns the broom to the back and placing the mop bucket under the mop sink faucet.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” Honeymaren shrugs. Ryder shrugs back, exaggerating the motion with a curious face. Her lips edge up at the corners because it’s cute. She exaggerates a shrug at him again, taking a wide stance. He chuckles, squats low, and shrugs again, bouncing his shrugs to an imaginary beat. Impersonating an emcee, Honeymaren chants, “Oh! Oh! Yeah! We all right! We all good!”
Throwing in a quick shuffle, Ryder says, “More genocide, here we go!”
They both laugh softly, accepting the reality of things. They're Indigenous after all. Honeymaren didn't have it in her to mentally map out how this is connected to eugenics, but she's sure it plays a part. Denial wouldn’t get them anywhere. Ryder reaches out and Honeymaren accepts his hug. She takes a deep, shaky breath, feels him echo it. “We’re all fucked.”
“Totally screwed,” he agrees. They separate a bit look lovingly at each other.
Honeymaren pats his arms, adds, “Let’s not work tomorrow.”
“Bet, sounds good to me,” Ryder agrees, and he turns his attention to the full mop bucket, turning off the faucet.
Elsa
Grumbling to herself on the back porch, Elsa searches her purse for her house keys. The Nokk watches her intently from his pond in the backyard, and although Elsa can feel Gale’s presence, the wind spirit remains appropriately quiet. She checks the front pocket where her keys usually are again, but it’s still empty. “Motherfuck!”
A moment later, the backdoor swings open suddenly. Elsa yelps with surprise, large streaks of ice sweeping across the length of the yard, all the way to the garage. She looks back, astonished at herself (and grateful for the large privacy fence they had up for the Nokk.) When she turns back to the door, she utters a small, “Oh!”
Kristoff stands in the doorway, in what appears to be the protective gear for a hockey uniform. He glances with equal surprise from Elsa to the large, gnarly, sharp ice formations behind her. She is about to apologize in embarrassment when he says, “You’re pretty stressed, too, huh?”
Elsa stiffens but nods. “Yes. I couldn’t find my key—”
“Can you come in here and help me?” Kristoff asks. The Nokk groans softly behind her. It’s the lack of formality that clues Elsa in that something is wrong. Normally, Kristoff saves his casual side for Anna, while treating Elsa like a parent whose approval he needs. Red flag.
“Is it Anna?”
He nods, biting his lip nervously. Once he steps aside, Elsa marches into the kitchen and ditches her purse. She steels herself with a deep breath in, spotting Anna’s downcast head in the front room. Samantha—the little child-like earth spirit that usually prefers the basement—paces nervously nearby until she senses Elsa. The spirit totters toward her for a hug, which Elsa accepts. Kristoff strides past quickly, taking his seat on arm of the couch beside Anna. He takes her hand, strokes her red hair. Elsa takes a seat beside Anna on the couch, noting the tear streaks on her face, as well as the discarded gym bag and hockey jersey by the front door, as though Kristoff ran inside. Her brow furrows with concern.
“Anna,” Elsa says softly. She reaches out, letting her curled pointer finger gently raise Anna’s chin until her sister meets her gaze. Anna’s bottom lip trembles, barely keeping it together. Her frayed braid shifts, revealing Bruni curled up on Anna’s shoulder. With a sigh and a gentle touch to Anna’s arm, Elsa murmurs, “Sis.”
She collapses against Elsa, pulling in a ragged breath as crying ensues.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Elsa comforts, wrapping Anna up in her arms while Kristoff worriedly skootches closer and rubs Anna’s back. For her own part, Elsa struggles not to be swept up in her own emotions, rage and desperation and despondency swimming just below the surface of her calm. Anna rocks against Elsa’s shoulder, holding nothing back, fearless.
“I would have died!” Anna manages to groan. Elsa’s gaze shifts to Kristoff’s eyes. He asks her the question with his eyes, and Elsa nods grimly: Hans.
“I know, dear,” Elsa says, softly affirming her. “I know.”
“He tried… And if I hadn’t… He nearly—and then, if I hadn't gotten help—”
“I know, it’s okay.”
“I was so scared!”
“You’re not in any danger now,” Elsa quietly reminds Anna. “It’s okay, you’re safe now.”
Anna blubbers, “B-But other women! Wh-What if—?”
“No ‘what ifs’ right now, Sis” Elsa commands, even as her own mind flashes with worst-case scenarios. She can’t deny how dire this situation is, but right now she needs to focus on keeping Anna safe from the deepest depths of sorrow. “That was then, this is now.” Anna’s shoulders quiver a bit slower and she takes several steadying breaths. As Kristoff keeps rubbing Anna’s back, she turns her face slightly to meet his eyes. They share a long, meaningful look that seems to steady her.
Through several sniffles, Anna croaks, “What do we do now?”
Elsa takes a breath herself. Her mind rushes through those worst-case scenarios again, trying to come up with legal solutions for corruption in the highest judicial institution in the country. But nothing comforting comes to her mind, it just isn't her forté. She gets shit done; Anna is usually the emotional support sister. Aimless, she glances up at Kristoff.
“I think,” Kristoff ventures, “We just gotta… feel these feelings right now? We can do stuff after that.” His response, his guess at best, knocks the air out of Elsa. Since when did Kristoff get feelings? Was he always like this around Anna? Much better than Hans, she thinks. But his words crack Elsa’s veneer of calm. She shudders, senses frost forming in the corners of the room. Anna moves her eyes to her big sister, and Kristoff watches Elsa sadly as well. Elsa blinks back tears herself, grimaces, and lets them fall at last. Samantha totters up to the little family of humans, pats them each as gently as she can as the emotions and frost fill the room. For several minutes they stay like this, grieving as a family…
Until Samantha falls over.
The resounding thud jerks everyone’s attention to the little earth spirit on the floor. Flawless ice covers the floor, and Samantha slips and slides across the surface on her moss-covered limbs.
Suppressing a giggle, Elsa asks, “Are you all right?”
The earth spirit rolls, attempts to grab the coffee table to right herself, pulls herself up onto her ‘feet,’ and collapses again. With the coffee table. The humans struggle to contain their giggles. A frustrated, rock-grating sound comes from the little one.
“Lemme help!” Anna announces, rubbing her tears away. She stands up from the couch, just to slip on the ice and grab Kristoff head.
“Ow! Hair.”
“Sorry! I—whoop!” Anna slips, flips, pulling Kristoff down with her and sending Bruni flying from her shoulder. Shocked to find himself flying, Bruni reflexively turns into a fireball.
“Oh no!” Elsa cries, leaping to her feet and reaching to catch the flaming salamander. She doesn’t slip on the ice, but she does trip over both Kristoff and Anna, and comes crashing down onto the icy floor alongside them.
Bruni trills in alarm, unable to control his fall. He bounces on a chair, immediately setting it on fire, and lands on the impromptu ice rink.
“Bruni!” resound the three humans.
Samantha, now upright but constantly unbalanced, groans.
“I’ll get water!” Kristoff shouts, crawling on his hands and knees toward the kitchen. Elsa promptly shoots snow at the chair. “Or, okay, maybe I won’t.”
“Ah, Elsa melt it!” Anna says, pointing at the snow pile. “Mom’s old chair, it’ll be ruined!”
“And the fire didn’t?” Kristoff chimes in.
“Bruni!” Elsa yelps. The spirit is still hot enough that he is melting ice around him, which means—
The Nokk leaps to life out of the tiny puddle Bruni had made, sending the salamander flying into the air once again, screaming and ablaze.
Honeymaren
“Gran.”
Ryder watches his sister expectantly. She quirks her brow at him, already grumpy. “Just… a scoop?” he whispers.
She rolls her eyes, trying to keep her phone pressed to her ear and the bowl of mac & cheese balanced on her hip while listening to their grandmother react. “Gran.” She shuts her eyes, shaking her head. All she wants is to eat some easy junk food, crawl into bed, and maybe call Elsa to see if she is also dying inside. “Gran. Tuh, Gran!”
“And Ryder!” her brother whispers urgently, nudging his plate closer to Honeymaren.
“Ugh, fine, freeloader!” she growls. Honeymaren drops the bowl of pasta on the table and lets it clang. He startles, then reaches in with his fork. She rolls her eyes, paces the kitchen. As her grandmother chews her out for ‘picking on her brother’ again, Honeymaren hisses, “Well maybe I don’t wanna feed anybody anything right now! Ergh!”
“Whoa.”
The phone is silent.
Honeymaren sighs weakly. She leans against the kitchen counter, presses her head into her spare hand. “Gran,” she says meekly, “I’m sorry. I’m as upset as you are, but I can’t handle this conversation right now. Can I call you back in a couple days? … Thanks.” Gran hangs up, and Honeymaren tosses the phone.
“Mare,” Ryder says behind her. “You… You didn’t mean that, right?”
“I dunno, maybe? Maybe not.” She glances past her hand, spots some cake pans. They make her think of Elsa, baking a cake right here in this kitchen. Summertime.
“But… But you love cooking! You… You cook for-for everything. For the funeral!”
“I know.” It was the only thing keeping her together for her mother’s funeral, planning the menu and cooking for everyone.
“F-Frybread!”
Sliding down the counter and sitting on the floor. “Dude, it’s called depressed. I’m depressed.”
Ryder blinks across at her. “But that’s my job.”
Honeymaren chuckles. Shaking her head with a grin, she says, “It can happen to anybody, my guy.”
“But you cooked tonight!”
“When was the last time I made anything out of a box, Ryder?” she grumbles. Exasperated by her guest, Honeymaren flops down on the floor. Shutting her eyes against the glaring overhead light, she nonetheless hears Ryder approach.
“I mean… like, never, but… But Mare, I don’t know what to do. I can’t fix this. I don’t know if anybody can, I… I barely managed to TA biochem.”
She tries to breathe through everything happening inside and outside her. Honeymaren croaks, “Ryder, anytime you’re down, do I ever ‘fix’ whatever’s wrong?” By the sounds of it, he sits down beside her. And places the bowl of mac on the floor between them, too.
“Uhm, no. I guess not. But you do always make me feel better.”
Exactly, she thinks. The sadness spreads through her chest as the question that follows her everywhere rises once more to her mind—will anyone support her like she does them in her time of need? Would anyone in the world support her and her people in such times as these? Usually, the answer feels like 'No.'
“Like today!”
“Huh?” Honeymaren opens her eyes to look at her brother.
“Look at this!” he says, motioning to the cheap pasta covered in re-hydrated powdered cheese. “You didn’t even want to cook, but you did it anyway. You felt sad, and even though doing the thing you love didn’t fix things, you said, hey, I’m gonna do that thing. Because I’m awesome and no matter what, I’m going to keep being awesome!”
She smirks. He grins at her, resting his arms on his crossed legs. She elbows his knee. “Awesome, huh?”
“Big shot chef lady awesome,” he says. “Persistent as fuck. And come on, when was the last time you ate mac n’ cheese from a box? This fake shit’s delicious.”
“All right, hit me… Ow!” Honeymaren flinches away from Ryder’s punch to her shoulder. “Dude, what the hell?”
“Vengeance!”
“Gimme some fucking mac!”
“Haha, here you go!”
Honeymaren opens her mouth and Ryder pokes a forkful of pasta in her direction. As she chews, she says, “I’ll admit it. Salty and delicious.”
“Just like you.”
Honeymaren chuckles, sighs.
Vibrating. The siblings turn toward the kitchen counter. Ryder grabs Honeymaren’s phone and passes it to her.
She smiles. Elsa.
Elsa
“Honeymaren?” Elsa says into her phone. She sits atop the kitchen counter while Anna and Kristoff guffaw behind her, toweling off the chair and sweeping up cinders. They had finally chased the Nokk back outside the house.
“The one and only,” Honeymaren sighs into Elsa’s ear. “How are you, snowflake?”
“I know this is late notice, but I won’t be getting any studying done tonight after all. Um, would you like to come over?”
***
Honeymaren in her motorcycle gear is a sight for sore eyes. Even though she looks about as spent as Elsa feels, Elsa’s whole chest softens at the sight of Honeymaren on the front porch when she opens the door. Honeymaren smiles at her, and she can’t help but wonder that Honeymaren feels the same when she sees Elsa. Without a word, Honeymaren closes in, kisses her cheek, and wraps Elsa in a tight hug. She nuzzles into Honeymaren’s neck, grateful to have her company at such a time as this.
More distantly, she’s grateful for the soft swell of Honeymaren’s chest and stomach, the hard strength of her arms and legs.
“Uh, Snowflake? What happened in here?”
Elsa releases Honeymaren and follows her gaze into the house. “Oh, that. Just another spiritual escapade,” she chuckles lightly. Meeting Honeymaren’s eyes, she says, “Come in?”
“Yeah that hug’s taking way too long, young ladies!” Anna calls. “Leave room for fucking Jesus!” She quietly utters several swears. Elsa takes Honeymaren’s hand and pulls her in.
“Fucking Jesus,” Kristoff adds, sarcastically jovial. “Always the wet towel ruining a good time. Like rights.”
“Actually, I always got the impression he was the life of the par-tay,” Anna responds. “People who bring extra booze to a wedding turn up.”
“Facts, no printer,” Kristoff says. They fist bump.
“Wait,” Honeymaren interrupts as Elsa pulls her away from the several box fans set up to dry the living room. In the kitchen, she takes her usual seat on the kitchen counter and Honeymaren stands beside her. “Fucking-Jesus or fucking Jesus?”
Anna’s face turns red. “Nononono!”
“The real question is whether Jesus had sperm,” Kristoff wonders.
“Oh my god,” Elsa sighs, too exhausted for college kid conversations.
“Kristoff!” Anna shrieks as the other two women chuckle.
He chuckles when Anna ‘punches’ him, and when Samantha follows Anna’s example. “I think it’s a relevant question right now.”
“I don’t think I need to hear any more of this,” Elsa says.
“What do you need?” Honeymaren asks, interweaving her fingers in Elsa’s. Everyone pauses at the sound of Honeymaren’s low voice. Elsa takes a good look at her, notices an unusual slouch. As though of one mind, Bruni comes out of hiding behind the toaster and scurries into Honeymaren’s hands.
“Look at me?” Elsa asks. Honeymaren glances up, askance. Quirking her brow down at her, Elsa gently lifts Honeymaren’s chin so they can look each other in the eye. She moves her hand to Honeymaren’s back and rubs gently. “What do you need?”
She sighs, bites her lip, uncertain.
“Yeah,” Anna offers, “we all had a big long cry about it earlier.”
Kristoff raises his hand. “Even me.”
With another sigh, Honeymaren looks up at Elsa on her own. Tears gather in her eyes, but they don’t fall. “It’s just too much. I know I need to do something! …but I don’t know what. I just… I’m exhausted. You know, every day there’s something, some reminder that this country hates me, most days I can take it. But I… It just gets worse and worse.”
Although Elsa senses silence is the best response and wraps her arm over Honeymaren’s shoulder, feels her lean into her, Anna pipes up: “Maybe we should move to Canada.”
“They do have better hockey,” Kristoff says.
Elsa feels Honeymaren brace immediately, crossing her arms. “Tch, no, they’re just as bad! People like me aren’t treated any better there!” Bruni’s back starts to smoke, feeling Honeymaren’s anger with her.
“Women?” Kristoff asks quietly, uncertain.
“Natives,” Honeymaren and Elsa say in unison. They look at each other, and the briefest sad smile flickers across Honeymaren’s face. Elsa wonders what she’s thinking about; Although Anna and herself now know that their mother was Sámi, they do not have known ties to the Sápmi land or ancestors, even as recent as their mother’s parents. Their research had not been able to find any records of their mother’s young life. All Elsa knew for sure is that their mother attended one of the last religious residential boarding schools as a child, which were now categorically notorious for abuse of Sámi children. Not unlike those in Canada and elsewhere. Recent reports had come out in Canada specifically of thousands of unmarked graves of indigenous children at former residential boarding schools being discovered.
“What about Norway?” Anna asks more seriously. Where their Sámi family lines were from.
“I…” Honeymaren starts, shakes her head. Lost in her own head, Elsa would guess.
“That’s complicated,” Elsa says, rubbing Honeymaren’s shoulder. “Kristoff, could you open a window please?”
“Oh, uh, sure.”
Hope this helps, Elsa thinks. She has a better idea of what might be going through Honeymaren’s head now…
***
Elsa stood frozen to the spot late one summer evening, only a month earlier. She watched as Honeymaren—for lack of a better word—played with Gale in her apartment, running from one end to another, occasionally being swept up off her feet, whooping and hollering and laughing with the wind spirit. Windows were thrown open to the beautiful sunset outside, and Honeymaren was joyous. Never had Elsa imagined a stranger might find joy in the mysterious connection Elsa had with these spirits.
Spirits… how strange to BE a spirit, according to Honeymaren’s hints and Anna’s subsequent research. Elsa had little idea of the import of the Fifth Spirit and felt very undeserving of this position. Undeserving of this vision—a delighted Indigenous woman meeting a spirit of her ancestral homeland an ocean away.
“Have you ever been?” Elsa asked her later as they sat on the balcony in Honeymaren’s hammock, eating strawberry-rhubarb pie. “To Sápmi?”
“What?” Honeymaren chuckled, looks incredulous. “I might be an incredible chef, but I do not have that kind of money. That kind of travel Front-of-House money.”
“Oh,” Elsa answered, wondering if it would be impolite—or entirely too soon—to suggest they travel together. She had not yet lifted her ‘above the belt’ rule, even. “How do you know so much about it?”
“My Gran,” Honeymaren said, smiling at the thought. “She didn’t just teach us—well, me—how to cook the staples. She grew up there, and she didn’t move here until my mom married my dad.”
Parents. Elsa took a deep breath, thinking about her mother. How much did her father know about Iduna? “How are your parents these days?”
Honeymaren paused. Even Gale seemed to quiet. “My mom died a few years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” Elsa said immediately, laid her hand on Honeymaren’s shoulder. Gale swept around them both, slow and gentle.
“Thanks, I know you get it.”
“Mhmm.” Elsa wondered aloud, “What about your father?”
Again, Honeymaren paused, but this time Elsa felt her shoulder tense. “He’s alive.” Not the most promising start. After a few tense stabs at her slice of pie, Honeymaren continued, “We’re not on the best terms right now. Ryder stays in touch with him more than I do.”
“Did… something happen?”
“Kinda, sorta. Yes, I mean…” Honeymaren paused. “He’s Eastern Band of Cherokee.” Elsa blinked, remained mute. She had the feeling that she was supposed to understand something from that information, but she definitely did not. Catching sight of her face, Honeymaren took pity and explained. “They don’t officially recognize gay marriage, or two-spirit identities.”
“Oh!”
“Not that all Eastern Band Cherokee are like that!” Honeymaren added defensively. “There’s history there, like denying our people have been queer since forever is bullshit. But my dad is– he’s like that. When mom died, she was the one who kept us from blowing up at each other constantly.” She shook her head.
“So… you don’t talk anymore,” Elsa surmised.
“No, not really.” Honeymaren closed her eyes, leaning her head back into Gale’s welcome.
After another long pause, Elsa said, “I don’t know what my parents would have said about me.”
“You never came out to them?”
She shook her head. Honeymaren reached, sweeping loose blonde hair behind Elsa’s ear. “I was too overwhelmed with being the family secret to even try,” Elsa said. Honeymaren nodded, pressed a chaste kiss to Elsa’s temple.
“Parents are hard.”
“They are,” Elsa agreed. “I guess community is hard, too.”
“Yeah,” Honeymaren nodded. “It’s complicated for sure. I don’t always know what to do with myself. I grew up nearer to my dad’s community, but closer to my mom’s. But maybe it’s not his fault? Or it is but not the community’s fault? And Gran is great, but she’s never told me whether her community was more welcoming. Or maybe they are, or maybe things have changed since she lived there? Part of me knows like, ‘just google it!’ But part of me… doesn’t want to know. I want to connect, but what if they don't?”
Elsa didn’t feel like she had any answers. “I don’t know that I want to know, either.” The one thing she did know was that the spirits loved Honeymaren, and so did she.
***
When Kristoff opens the window, Gale gently breezes in. She fills the kitchen with a soft whirlwind. Once again, Honeymaren leans her head back and closes her eyes in the wind spirit’s presence, her long dark braid wrapping around her shoulder like a hug. Bruni's smoking back turns to smoldering embers, no longer threatening but still warm and breathing. Elsa feels the room shift—not literally, not the earth—but something about the sensation feels like love.
“Thanks, Gale,” Honeymaren hums. She leans into Elsa beside her, relaxing her body, and grins up at her.
“So,” Elsa says airily. “You want to do something about all this?”
Honeymaren nods.
“Oh!” Anna squeals, pulling her smartphone out of her skirt pocket. “I might know somebody who could use your help!”
“Is it who I think it is?” Kristoff asks. Anna just giggles gleefully.
Honeymaren
“Who taught you to drive?!” Honeymaren yelps, holding onto the handle by the front passenger seat of the U-Haul van she and Timmy had rented early that morning. Her friend Timmy—a Black woman chef at the helm of Lola’s, where Honeymaren used to work—has switched out her finger coils for braids and a scarf, looking as calm as can be behind her sunglasses.
“My mother! I grew up in Trinidad, babe. We drive on the other side of the street.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Timmy drives across the oncoming lane in traffic and parks on the opposite side of the street. “All good, see? You worry too much.”
“I worry just the right amount, friend.”
“Bitch, please.”
“This is not Carnival, this is a protest… pride… thing.”
“Anything can be Carnival if you party hard enough.”
Honeymaren looks out the window, sees a small group of people in the park beside the parked van. One of them is approaching. “I think that might be Anna’s friend.”
“Let’s go.”
The women clamber out of the oversized vehicle. Honeymaren makes a mental note to park the van properly once they unload everything. She and Timmy stand shoulder to shoulder, unsure what to expect of the oncoming figure. He’s a short young man, very pale with a curly red fro and a mustache that screams ‘gay.’ As he gets closer, Honeymaren spots top surgery scars under his fishnet tank top, as well as an asexual flag fashioned into a cape. A real deal cape, with shoulder tassels and everything. The young man smiles, his blue eyes enlarged by prescription glasses. “Uh, hi. We’re friends of Anna’s…?” Honeymaren starts.
“Hi, I’m Olaf,” he says brightly, his voice cracking from the HRT he likely takes. “And I like warm hugs! Do you? Consent is important.”
Timmy shrugs. “Eh, sure.”
“Yay!” Olaf says, then hugs her at a distanced angle. When they separate, he explains, “I’m still getting used to being perceived as male and never liked it when guys shoved their whole package at me. No thank you, hehehe! Anyway, what’re your names and pronouns? And would you also like a hug?”
Honeymaren shrugs, accepts the self-aware hug, and says, “I’m Honeymaren, she/her, this is Timmy.”
“Also she/her.”
“We’re doing the food tent?”
“Oh lovely!” Olaf exclaims, practically vibrating with excitement. “Until Anna called last night, all we had was a ton of donated water bottles, so this is a big help for us. Hope you didn’t bring any fruitcake though, I think we’ve got that covered! By me, it is me. Anyway, it’s just us organizers here so far and we’re still finishing last-minute additions, but I’ll go get some help to get you all set up, okay? Okay, bye!” He turns round and starts skipping back toward the small group further back in the park. From behind, Honeymaren sees that Olaf painted a message on his ace-flag-cape: “Trans men can be fem / Aces can be gay / Get over it!”
“Wow,” Timmy says. “Whatever coffee he has, I want some.”
“No kidding, every chef in the world needs it,” Honeymaren grins. “Let’s get this food tent set up.”
***
A couple hours later, Honeymaren and Timmy have their Pride + Protest food tent all set up. They both committed to closing their restaurants for the day in protest while paying their employees—a much bigger feat for Lola’s than Kaffeost, admittedly, but Honeymaren knows their budget can handle it—and donating prepped food to the organizers of this swiftly implemented march the day before the city’s official Pride parade the next day. Apparently, Olaf and his connections had spent the entire previous day making calls and putting this “shindig” (as he put it) together; or, rather, the annual shindig was already planned as a radical Pride party outdoors, and they responded to the morning announcement by expanding their plans and bringing on abortion clinics and funds. Several other tents have been raised, including indie venders and service providers, local abortion funds and non-profits and radicals, the organizers’ tent, as well as a medical tent.
Late in the morning, Honeymaren waves to Elsa when she sees her at the medical tent. “I’ll be right back,” Honeymaren tells Timmy, ducking under the fold-out table covered in tubs full of treats.
“I expect action, Nattura. I came here for gays, not the gaze,” she calls, motioning with two fingers pointed at her eyes, then Honeymaren’s.
“Shut up.” She walks across to the medical tent. “Hey Elsa.”
“Hi,” Elsa greets airily. She bites her lip before bestowing a chaste kiss to Honeymaren’s lips. Honeymaren offers one more kiss, sneaking in the slightest nibble on Elsa’s lip. When they separate, Elsa hums, wearing a demure yet delighted grin. “I’ll be volunteering here today.”
“No party for you?”
“We decided against it,” Elsa says, nodding toward Anna in the growing crowd in the center of the ring of tents. “Just in case of… unexpected guests.”
“Of course,” Honeymaren agrees. There’s coming out, then there’s coming out with superpowers. She wraps her arm around the back of Elsa’s waist and gives her an encouraging squeeze. “I hope they all behave themselves for you.”
“They will or else,” Elsa says confidently.
A middle-aged volunteer interrupts, “Ready for some medic training?”
“Oh! Yes, I am!” Elsa says.
Just outside the medic tent, they all overhear Olaf running by and screaming, “THE DJ IS HERE, YAY!”
***
From the food tent, Honeymaren feels a great deal of love at the impromptu protest. At one point before it got crowded, Olaf and others bring a group of people over for food from the homeless encampment at the other end of the park for free food, and the medical tent provides them all with cleansing wipes and other toiletries. The DJ brings a party vibe, which indeed pleases Timmy. They take turns partaking in dancing by the DJ when the food tent is slow; most of the time it isn’t. Which is not surprising: Honeymaren brought traditional kaffeost (hot coffee and dipping cheese), as well as her award-winning pastries; Timmy's restaurant, Lola's, caters for private parties and has a transportable deep fryer, meaning her famous chicken & waffles are on offer. While payment goes to a local support fund for BIPOC abortion seekers, the venmo tips are, in Timmy's words, "clutch." And, although she doesn’t announce herself, Honeymaren senses that Gale must be there. It’s a beautiful, windy day; plus, Honeymaren keeps catching sight of Elsa during targeted breezes.
Anna and Kristoff show up periodically, having assigned themselves to clean up duty, picking up any litter they spot. Ryder swings by at one point on his way to a graduate student union meeting near campus and browses the tents with them. During one of these visits in the early afternoon, Honeymaren asks, “Anna, how did you know about all this?”
Through a mouthful of chocolate croissant, Anna answers, “Ah know Olo fro caa!”
“Swallow, sweetheart,” Timmy instructs.
“I know Olaf from class!” Anna says.
According to Anna, this event is annual, but largely only attended by the rainbow community. In light of recent events, and stories on social media about the food, attendance is higher than organizers ever previously had. Several cishet women have shown up to the event and brought ample donations for the many organizations. Families of all kinds have come to picnic with neighbors and strangers.
“This park is actually jointly run by the university and the city park district, I think,” Kristoff says.
“The university?” Timmy asks, glancing first to Honeymaren, then at something in the distance.
Honeymaren follows her gaze. Near the park's corner, security SUVs are gathering. From here, she can’t tell whether they’re the school’s private security force or the city’s, or some other security guard situation for a nearby business. They don’t appear to be in riot gear from this distance but… In any case, bad news. “Anna,” she says. “Go get Olaf or whoever’s in charge here?”
“I’m on it!”
“I’ll come with you,” Kristoff says.
“Actually, dear,” Anna says, following Honeymaren and Timmy’s gaze toward the half dozen officers. “Maybe stay here.”
In a whisper, Timmy asks Honeymaren, “Can we trust muscles here?”
“Mhmm.”
Elsa
She can’t say for certain when the air changed, but it did. From her station at the medical tent, it looks as though the main festivities—the DJ sets interspersed with protest speeches by organizers—are unaffected so far. But here near the perimeter of the park, Elsa can sense the tension. Her eyes shift back and forth from Honeymaren and Timmy’s booth to the small stream of lead organizers jogging toward the security officers at the corner of the park. When she sees Anna jogging along behind Olaf, Elsa's breath catches.
“E-Excuse me, um, do you have something for anxiety?”
The voice draws Elsa back to the medical tent. “Oh, yes, we do,” Elsa answers. She digs into a bin behind her and returns to the young woman. Although she is certain her anxious guest must be college-aged, the butterfly and rainbow facepaint on her plump brown cheeks and her afro tied back in pigtails make her look childlike and precious. “Here,” Elsa says gently. “We have a few options. There’s CBD oil or Lavender/Chamomile oil. We also have coloring books, noise-canceling headphones, and um, I should ask, do you have asthma or any breathing problems?”
“N-No, I don’t. Can I try the lavender oil, please?”
“Of course,” Elsa says, passing her the bottle.
“Okay, thank you, I’m gonna go now. It’s those cops making me so nervous,” the woman explains. She takes a deep breath, then jogs back toward the main gathering. Elsa watches, notices that more and more people are looking her way. When she turns her gaze back to the corner of the park, Elsa realizes why: Olaf and other organizers appear to be talking to the cops, hands up, while walking backwards. Meanwhile, the officers seem to be increasingly irate, marching closer and closer to their tents. She looks across to Honeymaren and Timmy, who both look tense, whispering to each other. Kristoff stands near them, too. They both say something to him, and he gets his smartphone out to start recording.
Elsa calls, “Kristoff, do you know what’s going on?”
He shakes his head across at Elsa, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Looking back, Elsa sees a large Black man in furs and a bedazzled snapback pointing at a sheet of paper that Olaf hands him showing it to the officers. Anna walks with the pair of organizers, but when an officer shoves the taller organizer, he trips and bumps into her, knocking her over. At this distance, Elsa can hear him apologize, reaching down for her hand. “Let me help you up, Anna.”
“Move it!” the officer yells, followed by, “Hey don’t touch her!”
“Don't touch me!” Anna yelps at the officer reaching for them both.
“Hey!” Kristoff shouts angrily, jogs toward them. Elsa can feel a chill in the air, sees a cloud overhead rumble with thunder. Definitely her own doing, plus Gale. She briefly catches Honeymaren’s eye, who mimes a deep breath to Elsa. By now, the main group and organizations has taken notice, moving toward the commotion.
“She wouldn’t have fallen over if you hadn’t shoved Sven!” Olaf tells the aggressive officer in question. Elsa can see now it is university security approaching now. For a moment, the aggressive officer looks to be on the defensive, with another officer speaking in his ear, their line ending their advance. Then—
“Hey, hey, hey-hey! What’re you doing?!” Timmy shouts.
Elsa whips around to see two separate university officers yanking on the food tent. Timmy steps in close, and Honeymaren rushes up alongside her.
“You don’t have a permit for this!” an officer growls.
“Yes we do!” Honeymaren shouts back, then follows after the other officer, who starts pulling down the tarp walls of the tent. “What do you think you’re doing? Stop it!”
“Whoa, hey, no!” Kristoff shouts, suddenly realizing he’d been distracted, lured from his station by Timmy and Honeymaren. He starts running back, and Elsa sees the officers' angry faces.
Blood rushes in Elsa’s ears. She is not entirely aware of her own actions as she jumps over the medic table and runs over to the food tent. Everything seems to happen in slow motion: Timmy shoving her certifications in the one officer’s face, Honeymaren seeing the officer she’s facing off against pulls out his baton. Elsa hears herself shout for Kristoff, even as she’s running, even as she sees the officer start sweeping food off of the table and reach to throw the table over.
Even as she feels the ground beneath her rise, rolling her forward, wind at her back, ice and fire in her veins.
Thunder crashes above as Elsa leaps between Honeymaren and the baton, shielding Honeymaren’s body from the strike. It feels like lightning when it hits her back, but Elsa immediately senses a layer of ice forming under her clothes, cracking under the force of the strike instead of her skin or bones.
“Elsa!” Honeymaren shouts.
“Holy shit!” Kristoff yells. “What is the matter with you?!”
“Who the fuck are you?!” the officer demands. He looks around, realizes that Kristoff is recording him.
Elsa stands tall and brushes herself off. Distantly, she can feel the earth shifting underfoot, rolling the officers back out of the park. She can hear Honeymaren struggling for words and Timmy shouting. The rage of her own heartbeat is the only thing Elsa perceives as close.
Fixing the officer who struck her with her iciest glare, Elsa says, “I am the lawyer.”
“That’s right!” Timmy shouts from behind her. “I got you, Els,” she adds, pressing an ice pack to Elsa’s back.
Without shifting her gaze from the officer, Elsa demands, “I’ll be needing your business card and all of your friends’ cards as well. What’s your badge number?”
Honeymaren
Once the shock and fear wear off, Honeymaren's first observation is a lot of the words that come out of Elsa’s mouth that does not make sense to her at all. Neither does the way all but the two cops attacking her and Timmy’s tent suddenly moved back to the corner of the park by their SUVs, unable to move from that spot. Honeymaren’s heart races as she fully grasped what has happened. Still, she asks, “Chef, what just happened?”
“I think,” Timmy says, “your girl Elsa is Karen-ing the cops.”
Elsa marches one-by-one to every single officer with her own business card, a copy of the permit, and got everything she demanded of each of them. Some people even start filming her!
Anna starts filming her.
One of the organizers and another cop filmed her, too—until Elsa stared the cop down, appeared to say ‘Excuse me?!’—but mostly Anna. To be fair though, all the attendees from picnickers to the DJ were acting as an encouraging audience.
Suddenly, a city cop car screeches to a halt just by the curb. A portly, middle-aged Black woman gets out of the driver’s seat. “Can someone explain to me what’s going on here?” she asks.
A small trans man’s hand—Olaf—reaches overhead, barely visible to the cop over the line of university security cops. “We have a permit!” Olaf shouts.
“No we don’t,” the big guy in furs says, grabbing at the paper in Olaf’s hand. “We are marching after these ruffians struck this woman!”
Catching his drift, Olaf goes, “Oh oh! Yeah, what Sven said! What he said! That is a good idea.”
“I know!” Sven says, his deep voice shooting higher with excitement. “I just felt it in my heart!”
“In your heart!” Olaf agrees.
“Is that cool? I mean I didn’t ask everybody, I shoulda asked—sorry, what’s your name?” Sven asks Elsa.
“MISS! WHAT’D YA SAY YOUR NAME WAS?!” Olaf shouts.
Elsa, looks just over the rim of her sunglasses. “Get a warrant, I'm not saying that on camera.”
“Whaaaaaaat is happening?” Timmy groans.
“I have no idea,” Honeymaren groans. Both Elsa and the actual police officer speak quietly to each other. After a few minutes, the city cop shouts, “University po—? Are you serious? Who’s the sergeant here?”
The first aggressive officer attempts to step forward, but can’t because his feet are still mysteriously stuck to the earth. He says something else.
“And you two, you’ve got a permit to be in this park?”
“Technically—” Sven starts.
Olaf grimaces. “Yes?”
To the sergeant, the cop says, “Why are you giving me extra work to do, sir? Who, on this shit day, has time for this? What's your badge number? Call your supervisor.”
***
Next thing Honeymaren knows, Elsa has returned to Honeymaren’s side, and the group starts marching the streets while the cops argue with themselves. They definitely did not have a permit for this, though that doesn’t seem to ever be the point with cops. It’s no parade—no floats—but there are plenty of rainbows. And placards. Lots of chanting.
But also music. And dancing.
They crash a drag queen brunch. Then the brunch crashes their march because someone brought a Bluetooth speaker and plays ‘Break My Soul’ as loud as electronically possible.
Not Elsa, she does not dance. She shimmies a little at most and giggles excitedly when Honeymaren and Timmy and Olaf and Sven start dancing like they're at a club. And Honeymaren commits that giggle and the look in Elsa’s eye to memory. Gleeful, she asks her friend, “Timmy! Is this as good as Carnival?”
“Not even close,” she answers smiling.
Gale travels with them, largely keeping quiet but occasionally teasing Elsa and her sister or giving Honeymaren one of her comforting whirlwinds.
As they reapproach the park, and people return to their booths or picnics, Honeymaren asks Elsa, “What did we just do?”
“I’m not really sure,” Elsa admits. Then, she takes Honeymaren’s hand and kisses the back of it. “But we did something.”
Honeymaren’s heart swells. “Yeah, we did something.” She tightens her hand around Elsa’s, leans in for a kiss. Elsa throws her arm over Honeymaren’s shoulder and pulls her in for another, getting Honeymaren to laugh at her audacity. Out in public. They did do something, far more than nothing. They weren’t going to take this or any other crap lying down, and neither were all these other people with them, friends and strangers alike. Every person here, they were all doing something. Anything.
Elsa plops down in the grass. Honeymaren seats herself behind her, and before she can ask after Elsa’s injury, Elsa flops back against Honeymaren’s chest. “And we’ll keep doing somethings,” she says up to Honeymaren. “No matter what they throw at us, we’ll keep doing somethings until there’s nothing left to do.”
Her chest flutters. Honeymaren smiles down at Elsa, her girlfriend, the shy fifth spirit dislocated from her homeland, soon-to-be-lawyer-extraordinaire (not batman). Laying against Honeymaren's chest, lightly caressing her cheek, probably nursing a serious bruise meant for Honeymaren’s ribs. “Thank you, Elsa.”
She rolls her eyes and blushes. “Don’t, it—hm. Thank Samantha when you see her.”
Honeymaren grins. “I’m sure I will.”
Elsa nods in approval, giggles when Honeymaren bends over and blows raspberries on her cheek.
“I love you.”
“… I love you too!”