Before long, we’re both gasping for air, and we have no choice but to pull apart. Our eyes rove over each other’s faces. I’m out of breath. Josh’s cheeks are flushed, his hair hanging in his face. I reach out and brush it back. He captures my hand and presses his lips to my palm.
These tiny actions bring everything into complete and utter clarity. How many times have I wanted to touch his hair, his face? And by the way he just kissed my palm, so confident, so greedy, I know he’s had that in mind before today too. And now we’re suddenly allowed to. That thin thread of awkward tension that has been stitched through our friendship is gone, carried off in the breeze.
Josh’s face breaks into an awed smile. “That …” His voice is scratchy. “That was …”
He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. I know what he means. “Sorry not sorry,” I tease.
He laughs. “Can we do it again?” he asks.
I launch myself at him. I’d forgotten how fun kissing can be. And Josh is really good at it.
Still kissing, we sit down on the pavement beside my car, on full view to the street but hidden from whoever might be watching from inside Josh’s house.
“I thought you’ve never dated anyone before,” I say at one point.
“I haven’t,” he breathes against my lips.
“Then where did you learn to kiss like this?”
“From you, I guess.”
“Huh?”
“You’re my first kiss, CeCe. This is all your inspiration.”
“Oh.” His first kiss. I shouldn’t be so happy about that, but I am. I like that it was a first, of sorts, for both of us. I kiss him again, hard.
“I feel like I should tell you,” he murmurs, “I’ve been enamored by you from the moment I opened my eyes to find you standing there, watching me play.”
I pull back to get a better look at him. “Really?”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, it was obvious. I even asked you out on a date, as you may remember.” He raises an eyebrow. “But you made it clear you only liked me as a friend, so …” He shrugs.
“Well …”
“Uh-huh.” Josh brings a hand to my face again, caressing my cheek. I lean into it.
“I did only like you as a friend at first,” I admit quietly. “But I wasn’t over Silvie yet. The timing was wrong.”
“I know,” he says.
“But you had to be so damn cute and charming.”
“Oh yeah, you know me,” he teases. “Always being accused of being cute and charming.”
“Josh, every person who’s into guys at your school is probably already in love with you. I’m certain of it.”
“I highly doubt that,” he says. “But anyway, there’s only one person I’m interested in.”
I can’t help the glow that spreads over me. “Same.” I extend a hand for a shake, as if to seal the verbal agreement.
Josh takes my hand, but doesn’t shake it. Instead, he pulls me in close and captures my mouth with his again. “You taste like gummy bears,” he whispers against my lips.
“Is Mia going to be your prom date?” Jasmine asks at one of our before-school prom planning meetings.
We’ve had a ton of these meetings in the three weeks since spring break ended, and we’ve definitely made some good progress. Turns out DJ Rio was unavailable, but Silvie got a commitment from another DJ, so that’s done. And our official prom theme is An Evening at the Symphony, which was one of my suggestions—and directly inspired by Josh, though no one knows that. But we’ve also been talking ourselves in circles on the subjects of paper tickets vs. digital, and plated dinners vs. buffet. One of the benefits of not being in charge anymore is that I get to tune out whenever I feel like it.
So I’m on my phone, reading QuietGuy’s message for the second time, and at first I don’t pay attention to Jasmine’s question—she’s probably talking to Deri or someone.
I get messages like QuietGuy’s every now and then. Sometimes the writer asks my advice, but more often they just want to share their truth with someone who’s willing to listen. I’ve shown Mom a few of them in the past (always covering up the writer’s handle when I do so, to maintain their privacy), to remind her of the good parts of social media. I’ve been debating showing them to Josh too; I still haven’t told him about any of this, and it could be a good gateway into the subject.
I begin to craft a response to QuietGuy—maybe there’s a way for him to let the other boy know he’s not alone, while also ensuring his own safety?—but after a moment my thumbs slow their typing.
The only response to Jasmine’s question about the prom date has been a loaded, extended silence. That’s weird.
I look up from my phone.
Jasmine isn’t awaiting an answer from Deri. She’s looking at Silvie, who is suddenly red-faced and half eyeing me. My phone clatters to the table.
Heartbeat spluttering, I ping-pong my gaze between Jasmine and Silvie and the rest of the GSA members, who are utterly silent and watching me for a response too.
“Who …” My voice is scratchy, and I clear my throat. “Who is Mia?”
Silvie fiddles with her pen. Her hair is shorter than it was when we were together, just brushing the tops of her shoulders, and there’s a light blue streak at the front. It shouldn’t work with her eye color, but it does. “I, um, posted about it. Her. A couple weeks ago. I was wondering if you’d seen it, because you hadn’t said anything.”
“You posted what? What did you post?” Hands trembling and moving in fast-forward motion, I grab my phone again and click on Silvie’s handle. Sure enough, there are three pictures of Silvie and this Mia.
I swallow painfully.
Mia is really pretty. Dark skin, big hair, minimal makeup, amazing gold jewelry. The photos were taken from the same white-sand, blue-sky, blue-water setting of Silvie’s other vacation posts. Their arms are around each other in all the shots, and there’s no space between their bodies.
In the photos, Silvie is looking at Mia with an expression I know well. It’s her heart-eyes expression.
And the hashtag at the end: Te amo. Does Mia speak Spanish too, like Silvie? And are they really already saying I love you to each other?
The air zaps out of the classroom, and I suddenly feel like I’m choking. I cough, hard, and someone—Ramsey, I think—smacks me lightly on the back. I shrug them off.
“Wow, tell me how you really feel,” Silvie says sardonically.
I shake my head. “Sorry. Leftover cough from a cold I had last week.”
“Right.” She doesn’t believe me for a second.
Ten attentive faces are still staring at me from around the table, waiting for me to say something. They’ve probably been waiting for me to say something since Silvie’s first Mia post went up. But I didn’t know. How could I not have known?
And I realize—I didn’t know Silvie was dating anyone because I muted her on the app, and I haven’t clicked on her page in ages. Because I’ve moved on too.
Over the past few weeks, the bubble around me and Josh has sealed shut—a more lasting version of that split second outside the conservatory when his fingertips were on my shoulder and the world started to disappear.
He and I have been spending most days together after school, usually at his house because Gabby isn’t old enough to stay home alone. But sometimes he comes over for dinner with me and Mom. I think, because Josh and I don’t interact online, we’ve been accommodating for it in other ways. In real time, with no publicly posted history to scroll through, we’re learning each other’s stories and quirks, likes and dislikes, reactions and expressions. There’s always something to ask, or something to tell.
Small things, like when he showed me the trick of feeding ice cubes to my orchid plants rather than regular water. Or when we argued over whether fennel tastes good or not (I am firmly in camp “shoot it into outer space and never think of it again”). Or when he found out my mom had once gone to an Alanis Morissette concert, and t
hey geeked out together over the photos she’d taken from the nosebleed seats.
And bigger things, like when I told him about my grandma who used to quote lines from old black-and-white movies, before the Alzheimer’s got really bad. Or when Gabby got a new email from their birth mother, but he didn’t get one.
It’s special, this place of isolation with him. Comfortable. Warm. I wonder if this is what it’s like for him when he’s playing his music.
I study Silvie’s photos on the app again. Mia looks nothing like me. But then, Josh looks nothing like Silvie. I can’t believe it, but I’m actually … okay with it? Even if that okayness does have the slightest tinge of sore-loser-ness to it.
“You should bring her,” I say, putting as much certainty into my voice as I can. “To the prom. You should bring her.”
Silvie looks stunned. But after a moment, she smiles. It’s a small, close-lipped smile, but it’s there. “Okay.”
“Great!” Jasmine claps her hands. “Now, let’s talk party favors.”
* * *
After the meeting, I catch Silvie on her way out the door.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
“Can I walk you to your class?”
She hesitates, like she’s worried I’m about to unleash my real reaction about her new girlfriend. “Sure.”
We slowly make our way through the halls, which are filling up with more and more people as the school buses unload. It’s weird how much about walking with Silvie is the same as it was before. The crane of my neck as I look over and up at her. The way she hugs her books to her chest, because she’s never been one to carry a backpack. Our matching strides, despite the fact that her legs are a lot longer than mine. So much has changed since we last did this that it feels like everything should be different.
“So, a book deal, huh?” I say. It’s not the main thing I wanted to talk about, but it is a lingering elephant in the room. We’ve only spoken about GSA stuff these past few weeks, and barely even that.
“Yeah. Sorry I didn’t tell you about it. A lot of things were still up in the air with it back when we were together, and I didn’t want to jinx anything …” She trails off. She knows her excuses are flimsy. I don’t need to tear them apart for her.
I nod. “I hope it goes well. I’m sure it will.”
“Thanks.”
We round a corner and dodge a few oncomers.
I take a deep breath. The corridor smells like bleached floors and the musty insides of lockers. “Anyway, I wanted to let you know—not in front of everyone—that I’m actually dating someone too.”
I peek over at Silvie in time to watch her eyebrows go skyward. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“Since spring break, I guess.”
Silvie nods. “Same.”
“Yep.”
“Where does she live?” Silvie asks.
My stomach dips nervously at her assumption. Why do I feel like I’m coming out all over again? But this is Silvie. No matter what we’ve been through, I can be honest with her. Right? I clear my throat. “Um, actually, it’s a he. Josh.”
“Oh.” A beat goes by. “Wow. That’s new.”
I nod, staring down at the tile floor. “I wasn’t looking for it,” I say quickly. “You know I like girls more than boys.”
“I know.”
I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve betrayed her somehow, by dating a boy. It doesn’t make any sense, especially for me—gender is truly not the thing that makes me attracted to someone. Silvie knows that. But this girl vs. boy thing is complicated. The image thing is complicated. And okay, maybe I still feel the need to justify it to myself too.
I always assumed I’d just date women. Like, forever. It’s what I know, and I know I like it, and I’m so entrenched in the queer community already … I’ve always been totally okay with boys being nothing more than a possibility.
And then Silvie left, and Josh showed up.
“He lives here,” I continue, answering her earlier question. “In Cincinnati. But he goes to Delilah Beasley. He’s a musician.”
We’ve reached Silvie’s classroom. I’ll have to book it to the other side of the school for my first class, but I can’t leave her yet.
“So …” I look up at her cautiously. “What do you think?”
She chews on the inside of her bottom lip for a minute. Then she meets my eyes and smiles. “Is he an ally?” It’s like she’s an old-school parent asking if he comes from good breeding.
I laugh in inexorable relief. “He is. You’d like him, I think.”
“I hope I get to meet him someday. Maybe we can double-date.”
Yeah, that’s never going to happen. “Totally,” I say noncommittally.
“Cool,” Silvie says, tightening her grip around her books, and I know she has no intention of this double date ever happening either. “Well, thanks for telling me. I’d better get to class.” She nods toward the open classroom door.
“Me too.” I pause. “Hey, Silvie?”
“Yeah?”
“Is Mia part of the ‘finding out who you are without Cevie’ thing?” I ask, hitching my backpack strap higher on my shoulder and forcing myself to meet her gaze.
She nods.
“Are you happy?” I ask.
The corner of her mouth curves up, and she nods again.
“Good.” I’m not totally sure if I mean it or not, but it feels like the right thing to say.
Silvie disappears inside the classroom, and I slide my phone from my bag as I walk to my own class. I need to send out another Treat Yo’Self post today, and until a few minutes ago, I had no idea what I was going to write about. Things have been good—better than good. I’ve even been considering asking Tawny if it would be all right if I veered away from all the #heartbreak talk.
Now, though, the words come easily.
The following day, after school, I sit cross-legged on my bed with my laptop. The cursor on the blank page blinks, waiting.
I have to get my speech to Kathleen by May 29, which is less than three weeks away. And I haven’t started writing it. I’ve barely even let myself think about it, since that day Silvie bailed and it became clear that I’d be doing it all alone.
When Cincinnati Pride invited Silvie and me to speak, I accepted the invitation with an OMG! YES! This is the biggest honor of my life, I will be there with bells on, thank you SO MUCH, and Silvie and I immediately began brainstorming speech ideas.
I wanted to talk about coming out in middle school, and having a long-term, same-sex partner in high school. Even now, with marriage equality, and antidiscrimination laws, and more diverse representation on TV and in movies, my experience is far from the norm. Especially in the Midwest. I was going to use my share of our time onstage to gush about Silvie, and talk about all the ways in which I’m lucky, and how I want every queer kid to have the same experience, if they want it.
I was going to allow myself to be political in public for the first time in a long time.
Now what?
The cursor blinks. And blinks. And blinks. I’m not going to get any speech writing done today.
I close the laptop and text Josh.
My birthday is two weeks from today. Want to know what I want?
About a half second after I push the SEND button, I recognize how flirty the words sound. That’s actually not what I meant. But I don’t clarify.
The phone lights up with a response: Hi. Wouldn’t have pegged you for a Taurus.
I burst out laughing, and thumb back a reply.
I wouldn’t have pegged you for someone who knows anything about astrology.
Gabby’s influence, he writes back. And then:
Josh! Look at you with the emojis!
Ha ha, he says. So what do you want for your birthday?
I want to help you get your music online and redo your photos and press materials.
I count the seconds, my whole body
made up of heartbeat, waiting for his answer. Unlike speech writing, this is something I’m good at. Marketing. Curating. I know how to help Josh; I just hope he’ll let me.
Sixteen endless seconds later:
OK.
I throw my arms up, touchdown-like, and hop around my room in victory.
Photo shoot, I text before he can change his mind. Sunday morning.
* * *
“Josh. Lower. Your. Arms,” I say for the fiftieth time.
We met up in the trendy Over-the-Rhine neighborhood, Josh armed with his violin, me with my phone’s camera already set to portrait mode. We took off on foot, walking around the neighborhood, stopping for pics whenever I spotted a cool brick wall or mural for Josh to pose in front of. Well, “pose.” Turns out he’s terrible at it.
This photo shoot is the complete opposite of the ones Silvie and I used to do together. We knew what we were doing.
Josh does not.
I’ve never met anyone less comfortable in front of a camera. Every time I point the phone in his direction, his shoulders hunch, his chin goes rigid, and he suddenly seems to know only two facial expressions: mug shot or squinty-eyed, toothy-mouthed cheeseball. I’m starting to understand why he used that grainy picture for the CD cover. It was probably the best one he had.
Right now, he’s leaning, as instructed, against a stack of banana crates we found. One leg is propped up, his dark gray T-shirt is rumpled in just the right way, hinting at the suggestion of abs. He wouldn’t let me put product in his hair, but luckily the humidity is low today and he didn’t really need it. He looks totally hot. Like, so hot that I can’t believe I didn’t find him attractive from day one.
These photos are so close to what we need. Except he keeps insisting on holding the violin and bow up like he’s playing.
“But why?” he asks, also for the fiftieth time. “I’m a violinist. I should be playing the violin.”
“You can play the violin all you want,” I say, trying hard to keep the exasperation from my voice. “Later. Right now we need to see your freaking face.”
I swipe from the camera setting to the web browser on my phone and do a quick image search. Famous violinists. About a zillion images of old white men come up. Nope.
Follow Your Arrow Page 13