“Vita, you know that virginity is such a patriarchal construct,” Theo deadpans.
“My mother would be so proud of you,” I say, a smile finally creeping back onto my face. “I just wish I had some experience to speak of. I wish someone wanted me.” The minute I say that, I’m mortified.
“Seriously, Lacey, I’m sure people want you. We’ll just get you that first kiss. And you’ll see, it’s not like this slippery slope,” Evita says.
“Wait…,” Theo starts. Then he shakes his head, his cheeks suddenly blooming with color, as he closes his locker.
“What?” I ask him. I’ve recovered from being mortified, and now I’m just annoyed that he’d have the gall to be embarrassed by this conversation. After all I’ve heard about him sleeping with Evita and even tidbits about Lily Ann.
“You haven’t kissed anyone?” he asks.
“For real, Theo? Where have you been?” Evita asks him.
“I dunno. Like, never at camp? Or, like, on the bus as a dare? Or at a middle school boy-girl party?” Theo asks.
“You knew me in middle school,” I point out. Being the new kid at that age was awful. I was awkward, and I didn’t know anyone. Theo and Evita saved me from certain hell. They cared way more about the fact that I was into music than the fact that I wore childish clothes or that I was shy or a dorkily overeager student. They saw me through two sullen years of complaining about my mother getting married and how my life was over. They even boycotted a middle school party because the girl throwing it didn’t want to invite me.
“Yeah. But you’re not Lacey Burke, prepubescent dork, anymore,” Evita points out.
“Thanks,” I grumble.
“No. You know what I mean. Now it’s cool to be smart. Or cooler. And, like…” Evita opens and closes her mouth, as if she can’t think of anything else nice to say about me. Super helpful for how insecure I feel at this moment.
“Stop. You really don’t have to try to make me feel better about this. Let’s just drop it.”
“You’re a catch,” Evita says firmly. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I’d be happy to make out with you if it would make you feel better. You know I’ve always wanted to kiss more girls. Softer lips.” Before Evita came out to us as asexual, she came out as bi. Previously bisexual, currently biromantic. She tells us her identity is a never-ending work in progress. And, yes, she has often bemoaned the fact that there aren’t more gay or bi girls at our tiny school, even in the Genders and Sexualities Alliance, which she’s the president of. Her backpack is practically a shrine to all things pride, the black, gray, white, and purple asexual flag pin being her most beloved pin.
In this moment, I wish I could have things half as figured out as Evita does. Or be even a quarter as comfortable talking about sex and attraction. “Can we just change the subject? I’m getting twitchy.”
“Good twitchy or bad twitchy?” Evita winks.
“Stop! Bad twitchy! Definitely bad twitchy.” I shoo her away.
“Hey, Lacey, you’re fine,” Theo says. He affectionately tugs one of the short pieces of my grown-out bangs that always fall into my face.
I bat him away. “I’m a delicate flower.” I don’t want them to see just how embarrassed I am to have asked about this. But it’s obvious, so Theo throws his arm around my shoulders. Evita shimmies her way under his other arm, and we walk toward government.
“My delicate flower and my prickly porcupine,” Theo says.
Two
Sometime in the last month, the three of us went from best friends jamming on our instruments to an actual band. Theo plays the last of the melody on his cello, I lay down a huge chord on my keyboard, and Evita fades it all out from her console. I’m grinning. I can’t help it. We sound good.
“The extra keyboard is magical,” Evita says.
“Yeah, but I need major practice,” I say. I’m not a pianist; I’ve just taught myself what I can. The viola is still my instrument of choice.
“Let’s do that one again, then,” Evita suggests. She ties her long mop of hair into a high bun and pulls one leg of her sweatpants up past her knee. “I think we should record a demo of this one to try to get gigs. What do you think, Lacey?”
“It’s very us,” I say. Our music falls somewhere between epic film score, trippy electronic music, and pop. Dramatic and catchy.
“Sounds amazing. But twenty minutes ’til you have to shut it down,” Evita’s mom, Janice, says as she picks her way through cables and clutter on her way to the kitchen.
“Let’s start at the top, then. Time to run through it five more times,” Evita says. Without even a moment to catch our breath, Evita spins the beat up. I pick up my viola and look at Theo on his cello. We lock eyes, I take a deep breath in through my nose, and we start in unison.
* * *
With all the equipment shut off, the three of us pile onto Evita’s deep couch. This is our routine. We play until it gets late, then we watch TV or do homework until we all crash in Evita’s room. My mom and stepdad don’t mind that I spend most of my nights here. And Theo’s parents don’t seem to care. He says it’s a benefit of being the youngest of four kids.
I pull out my biology textbook to try to get some reading done, when Evita jumps up.
“I almost forgot!” she says. “I think I have a name for our band!”
“Do tell,” Theo says. We have been drawing blanks for weeks on this. Every name we suggest either seems too fluffy or like we’re trying too hard.
She holds up both of her hands in a gesture like wait for it! “The Sparrows,” she finally says.
Theo and I look at each other, our grins mirroring each other’s perfectly. “Yes!” I say. “I love it. It fits.”
“But where did the name come from?” Theo asks. “Aside from you being a tiny little bird of a person?”
“The inspiration is not important. It works, right?” Evita says. Her eyes are huge and she’s nodding enthusiastically.
“I’m just glad it’s not Evita and the Something-or-Others,” I say.
“Well. Right. So, the name comes from an Eva Peron quote … so it is tangentially related to my name,” Evita says.
“Ha. Knew it,” Theo says, laughing.
“Whatever. It’s good, right?”
“It’s good,” I say. “Now you can put a label on the demo we record.”
“Oh my god, yes! I need to sketch a logo!” Evita scampers into her bedroom to grab a notebook and then doodles little birds while I read.
Theo’s phone rings, and he goes into Evita’s room to answer it. Evita looks at me with her eyebrows raised.
“That just kills my good mood,” Evita says, climbing up onto the couch next to me and covering us both with a blanket.
“Don’t let it,” I tell her. “He’s allowed to talk to Lily Ann on the phone.”
“I know. I can’t help it,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder. “I guess I’m a little jealous,” she whispers.
“I understand,” I say. I really do understand. It was hard for me when Evita and Theo were together. It was stressful when they broke up. And it’s hard now, knowing that Theo always has this other person on his mind when Evita and I are used to being the only ones.
“I wonder if I shouldn’t have ended things with him,” Evita whispers.
I snap my head toward her. She’s never seemed anything less than certain that splitting up was best for both of them.
“But I thought you didn’t want to be with him like that.”
She bites her lip, like she isn’t sure if she should say anything more. “Okay, so that’s the thing. I couldn’t stand it when he would look at me that way.”
“What way?”
“You know, that sort of searing stare where the person wants to take your clothes off and is feeling all sexy?”
“I don’t know that look,” I say grumpily.
“Okay, well, that look made me anxious. It made me like him less. Like having sex was kind of fine. Like it co
uld feel good sometimes. But I hated him wanting me. I hated knowing he was feeling things I wasn’t. I felt like I was pretending to be into it. Pretending is so not my strong suit. I wanted to slow things down, not speed them up. Like if we could just kiss and cuddle forever, I’d be happier. We were totally not on the same page. I like him so much better when he doesn’t want me like that.”
“That makes sense,” I say.
“But that’s the thing,” she says, playing with a loose thread on the blanket and scooting closer to me. “I’m asexual. Not aromantic. Because that’s a totally different thing.”
She’s talked about these parts of her identity before. Theo and I both joined the GSA when she did, and there’s a lot of discussion of identities there. I know that even though she’s asexual, she’s alloromantic, meaning she experiences romantic attraction. And sometimes she specifies biromantic, because she has romantic feelings for guys and girls.
I know that she still wants to date. She wants to fall in romantic love. But she’s never said any of this in relation to Theo. “So … like … maybe you love him?” I ask her. The words feel so heavy.
She nods, tight lipped. I want to talk more about it with her. She spends so much time being bright and bubbly and untouchable. But the moment is over, because Theo comes back in and plops down on my other side.
“Let’s see the sketches,” he says, reaching for Evita’s notebook.
All I can do is give Evita’s arm a little squeeze under the blanket and then marvel over her sketches with Theo. When Theo has his face in the notebook, Evita glances at me. She shakes her head ever so slightly. She doesn’t want me to ever tell Theo any of what she’s just told me. I nod. We’re on the same page, like always.
Three
After school on Tuesday, I drive to the hospital to meet my mom. She’s a labor and delivery nurse. I could meet her at home, but whenever I meet her at the hospital, she gets this goofy grin that I just can’t pass up. My earliest memories are of her working toward this career, and I love seeing her so happy.
I park in the hospital garage and take the elevator to the fourth floor. When I get off the elevator, I see a bunch of familiar faces at reception and down the hall at the nurses’ station. I volunteered here over the summer. Mostly I restocked postpartum kits for the new moms and made coffee runs to the cafeteria, but since school started, I only come by when Taco Tuesdays coincide with Mom’s shifts.
I say hi to some of the nurses I know. I don’t see Mom, so she must be busy with a patient. I head to the large waiting area. It’s brightly lit and pleasant. There’s an older couple sitting across from the seat I choose. They’re holding a bunch of balloons and looking both tense and excited. Probably waiting for the arrival of a grandchild. I smile at them and they smile back.
Glancing around, I realize with a shock that I recognize someone here. Sitting off in a corner is my friend Alice. Our eyes meet, and my first instinct is to pretend I haven’t seen her. Because she might be here as a patient. She’s almost definitely pregnant, judging by her belly and the way she rests a hand there. A few doctors and midwives see prenatal patients at the hospital, and she’s sitting in the corner of the waiting room near the offices. The way she’s sitting, with her shoulders shifted away from the room and her back curled, I don’t think she wants to be noticed.
I’m not sure what would be kinder, pretending I don’t see her or walking over and saying hello. I glance back over. She’s studying her shoes, which is not exactly an invitation. But this is Alice. Soprano Alice. GSA Alice—at least until her mom made her quit. She’s a junior. Last year Evita declared that she wanted to be her mentor because “The girl has got some serious pipes,” and “In a sea of non-queer people, it’s nice to have a bi friend,” and “She’s like a taller mini-me.” I haven’t seen her all school year. And her large belly possibly explains why.
Before this awkwardness can go on, I grab my bag and walk across the waiting room toward her.
“Hey, Alice,” I say, taking a seat near her.
“Lacey! Hi!” She looks relieved I came over. “How are you? How’s Evita?”
“We’re good. Doing a lot of music stuff. How are you?”
She looks down at her belly and smiles. “You know. Good. Kind of huge. But good. Everything’s good. Are you…?” She nods at my belly.
“Oh. No.” It comes out defensive. Which makes me sound judgmental. And I want to say something to make Alice more comfortable. “My mom’s a nurse here.”
“Cool. Obviously, I’m here as a patient,” she says with a shrug.
“We miss you at school,” I say. “You should get in touch with Evita. She’d want to know how you are.”
“I know I should. But I’m sort of embarrassed. My mom thought it would be easier for me if I just homeschooled this year and got off Facebook and stuff.”
“Gotcha,” I say. But this is exactly the stigma that makes me angry. Why should she hide? I search for something else to say. Anything that isn’t the rant I have building in my head. “Do you like homeschooling?”
“It’s kind of all right, actually. I’m trying to fit junior and senior year into just this year. So that’ll be good. I just do my schoolwork online and watch a lot of TV. Occasionally come to appointments and stuff.”
I nod. I’m already being super awkward, especially since I’m trying not to look at her with pity. But her life now sounds so isolating. It’s not like she’d be the only pregnant girl in school, either. I guess sometimes the teen moms drop out, but most of the time they keep going to class right up until they deliver.
It sucks that someone’s own parent would encourage them to drop out of school. My mom would never. But then, she continued going to school before and after she had me, even when it was difficult. Even when it took her twice as long to graduate and get through college.
“It’s really fine,” she says, even though in this situation, I feel like I should be putting her at ease.
“Is anyone here with you?” I ask, looking around.
“Nah. My mom says that if I’m old enough to get myself into this situation, I can handle it all by myself.”
“Sorry, but that’s bullshit,” I blurt out before I give it a second thought. I clap my hand over my mouth. “Oh my god. Sorry. It’s just…” There’s no end to that sentence. Or rather, there are a thousand ends. She deserves better. She should have more support now, not less. She shouldn’t be punished for this.
But Alice smiles. “It is, isn’t it?” She sighs. “It’s really awesome running into you.”
“Are you still singing?” I ask her.
“To myself. To him.” She pats her belly.
“It’s a boy?”
She grins. “Yeah. Eli James.”
“That’s an awesome name. I have a baby brother. He’s so sweet.” What stupid things to say, I think. Maybe I should just be polite and wish her well and go find my mom. Or else I’ll probably keep saying stupid, unhelpful things. But maybe if I were in Alice’s shoes, I would be tired of people being afraid to say the wrong thing. I think maybe what she needs right now is a friend.
“I volunteered here over the summer,” I say. “And I came with my mom for all of her appointments when she was pregnant with my brother. You know, if you ever want company for appointments or anything…”
“I’ve been coming to them by myself and it’s mostly okay,” she says. “And now I have to come every two weeks. So this place is like my home away from home.”
“Okay. But if you do want someone. I mean … I’m here. And I happen to like doing the baby thing. Hearing the heartbeat.” My palms are legit sweating. It all feels like a bad pickup line.
“That would actually be really great,” she says, smiling. “Even Eric doesn’t want to come. He’s the dad. Do you remember Eric?”
I nod. Eric was her boyfriend last year. I didn’t know him that well. I’m grappling for things to make this conversation less awkward than it already is. “I’m really not
trying to pry. Is he still…?” Oh my god. That is totally prying.
“Oh. I don’t know. He’s going to be around for the birth and wants to be a dad and stuff, but, honestly, the whole thing is kind of a lot for him. It’s a lot for me, too, not that anyone ever asks.” She pauses. “So … actually, you could come with me, if you want. Or … if you don’t mind. And I’d love to see Evita and hear about choir and GSA. I just feel so weird that I didn’t tell anyone about the baby and then to be so huge and, like, spring it on everyone? That would be so awkward.”
“She would love to see you. You should come jam with us sometime. Evita isn’t totally satisfied with my backup vocals. Not that she’d come out and say that to me. But I bet she’d love to have another singer to record stuff.”
“You guys are recording stuff?” she asks.
“Well, not like an album or anything. Audition pieces for Berklee. Other than that, just some tracks and samples for the stuff we want to perform live.”
I start telling her about the band name and the instruments we play and how we’ve been collaborating when we write stuff. Once we start talking about music, the awkwardness just falls away.
My mom walks over in her Pepto Bismol–pink scrubs that all the labor and delivery nurses wear. “Lacey, the other nurses said you were here,” my mom says. She’s so energetic, you’d never guess she’s coming off a ten-hour shift.
“Mom. This is Alice,” I say. “She’s a singer,” I add, instead of saying “She’s pregnant.” My mom has this rule about never commenting on another woman’s pregnancy. It’s up to the mom to tell you she’s pregnant. And, unless you see a baby emerging, you don’t assume.
My mom holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Alice.”
“Nice to meet you, too. I’m here for an appointment with Kelly,” Alice says.
“Kelly is the best,” my mom says. “She delivered Lacey’s little brother and oversaw Lacey’s volunteering hours this summer.”
“Really?” Alice asks.
“Yeah,” I tell Alice. “You are absolutely in great hands.” Then I tell my mom, “I’m actually gonna hang with Alice for her appointment if you just want to meet at home.”
The Birds, the Bees, and You and Me Page 2