Then I open a new text window. Hey, Josh. I know you want nothing to do with me, and I promise I’m going to respect that. But here’s a tiny piece of my apology. Hope you’ll watch. Xx
I attach the livestream link, and send it off.
“Thank you so much,” the speaker on the stage, an attorney who represents trans and nonbinary kids involved in court battles with their school districts, is saying. “And now it is my great honor to introduce today’s next speaker, social media sensation Cecilia Ross.”
Sensation, huh? I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not. I wonder how long it took them to land on such a perfectly nonspecific word.
Silvie beams at me, and I drop my phone into her palm for safekeeping. I don’t need it right now. “Break a leg,” she whispers.
With a final check to make sure my outfit—a pink jumpsuit with blue heels, green bangle bracelets, red-and-purple beaded necklace, orange headband, and my little yellow house earrings—is in place, I step onto the stage to the sound of applause. It’s very possible that I look more like a clown than an esteemed speaker at a major political event, but I don’t care. I wanted to wear every color of the rainbow, so that’s what I’m doing. I actually think it looks pretty good. Maybe I’ll set a trend.
I stand behind the podium and look out at the crowd. There are so many people here. And not just any people—my people.
The livestream cameras are trained on me from every angle.
“Hi, I’m CeCe,” I begin. “That was my first ever post to the app: Hi, I’m CeCe. It’s my handle too. It was the start of everything. So it feels fitting to begin that way now.” My hands are shaking; the stapled speech pages wobble in my hands. I place them carefully on the podium, and take a steadying breath. “I’m CeCe, I’m seventeen, I’m from Cincinnati, Ohio”—cheers sound at the mention of our city, and I smile—“and I live my life online. Openly in lots of ways, but not entirely. I’ve edited myself a lot over the years, with the goal of getting people”—I wave my hand across the sea of faces—“to like me. To think I was special.”
I squint out at the crowd. Mom and Silvie are beaming up at me from the very front row. Their presence means everything.
“But despite my obsession with making my life look perfect, things still went haywire. I still made people upset, and I still lost a ton of followers. If you missed the backlash somehow, go ahead and search ‘unfollow CeCe Ross.’ And make sure you have popcorn at the ready. I like to put chili powder on mine.”
That gets laughs. A whole roar of them. The sound relaxes me a little bit more.
“So. I’m going to try something new,” I go on. “I’m going to stop curating my posts so much. From now on, when I go online, I want to be the real me. And I’ll warn you—sometimes that means I’m going to be loud, and political, and angry. I will piss people off, I guarantee you. But, hey, why should my online relationships be any different than my real-life ones?”
More laughs. I wonder if my dad is watching this. If he is, I hope he can tell how much love and support and joy is emanating from this little section of our city today.
“For now, though, I want to focus on one aspect of my identity. One small but important sliver of who I am.” I pause. Take a breath. “I’m bisexual. Always have been, always will be. I am that B that people rarely talk about, even online, even today. Bisexual people in opposite-sex relationships are often seen as straight, and bisexual people in same-sex relationships are usually presumed to be lesbian or gay. But bisexuality is a thing, and it’s time we do better at recognizing and celebrating that.”
Some applause ripples through the sea of spectators, and even more than the laughs, this boosts my confidence.
I hold my chin a little higher. “Years ago, when I was first working through all this stuff, it was the online community who helped me realize that bisexuality doesn’t look the way most people think; it’s very rarely a fifty-fifty split of feelings for boys and feelings for girls. It can be different for everyone—some bi people are ninety-nine percent attracted to the same sex, some are ninety-nine percent attracted to the opposite sex. And guess what? It still counts!” I look up to see a few people nodding. “The definition gets even more delightfully muddled when you acknowledge that there are far more than just two genders out there, and that, yes, bi people may be attracted, or not, to individuals who identify as any or none of them.”
I turn the page. “This idea was simultaneously a revelation and a redemption for me. Personally, I tend to be primarily attracted to female-presenting individuals, and that was something I was aware of even as a preteen. But I kept getting hung up when it came to landing on a label. I thought, well, it really does seem like most of my crushes and daydreams are directed at girls, so that must mean I’m gay? But oh, hey, there’s that one boy who I wouldn’t mind having as my boyfriend. So … straight, then? Bi didn’t feel like a real option. Not until social media told me it was.” I glance at the crowd again; they’re still with me, still listening. Whew. “Isn’t it funny how our brains work sometimes?” I ask them. “How susceptible we are, even at a young age, to such internal and societal biases? Funny, and also depressing.”
“Preach!” a man in the crowd yells.
I grin and look back at my speech. “A little later, through those same online conversations, I realized that those ‘percentages’—the ‘I am seventy-eight percent attracted to A, nineteen percent attracted to B, three percent other,’ or whatever—aren’t set in stone. How could they be? The human heart and brain are complex organs. Figuratively speaking, they can change and grow just as much as any other aspect of a person. And when you consider the other big factor—that attractions vary based on the people the attractions are directed toward—all bets are off. When you’re bi and single and looking, you never know who your next partner may be, or how they’ll ID. You can guess, based on your feelings and your history, but you can’t be sure. You’re just a person looking for love. I think that’s pretty cool.”
For the first time, I notice the bottle of water sitting on the podium. I take a sip and continue. I’m not shaking as much now, thankfully, but it’s really hot up here, under the sun and camera lights. I hope my makeup holds up.
“When I came out to my mom at thirteen,” I continue, “bisexual was the word I used. When Silvie and I were getting to know each other, it’s one of the first things I told her about myself. If I was misleading in my interactions on the app, I apologize. My friend Mackenzie says you can’t just say something a couple of times online and hope it sticks—you need to keep the visual going. Maybe that’s true. But either way, despite all the self-censoring I’ve done, I would never lie to you. And if I’m being honest, which is the point of this whole speech, it hurts that you’d so easily believe I would.”
I pause again. Clear my throat. “When Silvie and I broke up, I couldn’t see myself falling for someone else—ever. I loved her so much.” I dare a glance at Silvie in the audience, and she shoots me a smile. “I thought we’d be together forever, even though, intellectually, I’m aware that the odds of marrying your high school sweetheart are incredibly low. So imagine my surprise when, after Silvie and I broke up, I did start to have feelings for someone new. Someone who happens to be a guy. I wasn’t seeking it, but there it was.” I try to push the image of Josh out of my mind. If I dwell too much on whether he’s watching right now or not, I’ll lose my nerve and never get the rest of the words out. I take another sip of water. “We kissed, as you saw. I’m not going to apologize for that. And you should never have to apologize for kissing the person you like either, no matter what gender they are. Provided that it’s a consensual kiss, of course!” I add.
Another page turn. “The thing about social media is it’s never the full picture. Feeling like you know someone’s life isn’t the same as actually knowing it.” The corner of my mouth lifts, and I shrug. “If you follow me, you know my dog Abraham’s scruffy face and screwy teeth, you know my favorite foo
d is gummy bears. You know how embarrassed I was to come clean with my Spanish-speaking girlfriend about that D-minus I got on my Spanish test last year. You know my mom is camera shy. But did you know I have a father too? One who doesn’t support a single thing I stand for? Who is so ashamed of me that he would rather I were someone else completely? No. I know you didn’t. Because I don’t share that stuff.”
I quickly swipe my fingertips under my eyes just to make sure there’s no moisture there. Yes, the irony of wanting to look okay while talking about wanting to look okay is obvious. But I’m leaning in.
“I didn’t need you all to tell me that if I dated a guy it wouldn’t fit in with what the world saw and knew and loved me as. That fear has been deep inside me for a long time.”
My ankles start to wobble, and I realize my knees have been locked this whole time. I try to focus on my breathing and let my muscles relax, like the voice in that meditation app says to do.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think recently,” I say, “and I keep coming back to the same questions: Why do I suddenly have to define what it means to be bi? Why do people’s identities and relationships need definitions anyway? If you like me, and follow me online, why not choose to be happy that I found a moment of happiness?”
The atmosphere in the crowd grows quieter than it was a few minutes ago. Thousands of people are giving me their undivided attention. It’s unreal. But I need to focus.
“I’ve noticed that many of the people who were mad about me dating a guy are the same people who claim to be open-minded and progressive about sexuality and gender,” I continue. “Yes, I understand that cisgender bisexual and pansexual people have the luxury—the privilege—of being able to date someone of the opposite sex and fly under the radar in everyday society, whereas gay and lesbian people, and many trans people, don’t. I agree it isn’t fair. But does that mean bi and pan folks don’t get to wave the flag quite as high or shout quite as loud? Do they not get to stand up and be counted too? What happened to supporting and welcoming someone no matter how they ID or who they love, regardless of if it fits a certain narrative?
“And what if the guy I kissed, the guy whose life has been turned upside down because of all of this, weren’t cisgender? What if he were trans, or male-presenting nonbinary? What if he were cis but I were trans or nonbinary? Would that be ‘better’? Why or why not?”
I pause to let that sink in, and find Mom in the crowd again. “My mom and I do this two-choice thing. Like: Paninis or wraps? Bike ride or a walk? Beyoncé or Halsey?” The crowd laughs appreciatively, and I go on. “A two-choice system can help things feel easier. But there are more than two choices in life. There are infinite choices. And even when something isn’t a choice, like sexuality, you have a choice in how to talk about it.” Mom is wiping her eyes, a wadded-up tissue clenched in her fist, and my heart squeezes.
“Yes,” I say, turning another page, “the labels, the letters in the initialism—LGBTQIAP—are important. Owning your identity is powerful, and something to be proud of. But sometimes the letters also box people in, put margins and rules on what does and doesn’t qualify, and who is and isn’t welcome, and what someone who IDs a certain way is and isn’t allowed to do.”
I realize I know the rest of the speech by heart, so I don’t need to look down at the paper anymore. I glance out into the crowd, meeting the eyes of person after person. “Remember when I said I’d felt like I needed permission to ID as bi? Well, I’m giving you permission to be you, if that’s something you need. No matter who you are, or how you identify, or who you do or don’t love, or how confident or confused you may be, you are doing great. And your story belongs to you alone, whether you decide to share it with a million people”—I smirk—“or no one.”
A pocket of applause bursts from the audience, and I bask in it. They’re not only listening, they’re agreeing.
“If you do decide to share your story, or it gets shared against your will, there are people who aren’t going to understand. And that’s okay. It’s not your job to change them, or change for them. I’m not saying to not care what other people think—of course we care what other people think. But maybe we should put more weight on what the people who love us think.”
My chest starts to feel tight; I’ve been breathing way too shallowly. I make myself take a long, deep breath before looking straight into the camera. “I didn’t follow that advice. And I hurt someone important. Someone who, until he met me, thought a ‘ship’ was just a big boat. Someone who doesn’t know how to take a selfie, and who has a remarkable ability to leave the planet for the length of a single song.”
I look down, suddenly feeling too exposed, too vulnerable. But I can’t stop now; I’m almost there.
“My time on the app has given me more than I could have ever dreamed of. But it’s taken some stuff from me too. Through it all, here’s what I’ve learned: Be proud of who you are, online and off. Kiss and flirt however your heart tells you. And when you find someone who loves you for you, whether that’s a romantic partner or a friend or a caregiver or a child or the teacher who runs your school’s GSA, put your phone down, let them see you with hashtag no filter, and give them a hug.”
The last word reverberates through the mic, and … that’s it. Speech over.
I can’t quite believe it.
The crowd erupts into deafening cheers, and I stand there, my grin stretching my face, my heart beating a million miles a minute. Silvie and Mom and even Mia are jumping up and down, clapping and screaming. By the time the next speaker comes onstage, the adrenaline has worn off. I’m shaking again and there are spots in my vision as I make my way down the metal backstage steps.
But then Mom is there, and Silvie is there, and their arms are tight, tight around me, and it’s all okay.
When we part, Silvie hands me my phone. “You have a text from Mackenzie,” she tells me. Bypassing the mile-long list of app notifications, I open the text message.
It’s just one word: Rockstar.
The speech repeats in my dreams all night, and when I wake the next morning, it takes me a minute to remember that it wasn’t all a figment of my unconscious imagination. I really did that. I really stood up there and bared my soul. That was me.
Mom and I watched the video three times last night (she kept pausing it and rewinding her favorite parts), but I have a feeling it’s going to take several hundred more viewings to feel real.
I slide my phone out from under my pillow. Maybe Josh has seen the video by now.
No texts. No missed calls.
My heart drops. I didn’t think the speech would be a guaranteed ticket to reconciliation or anything, but I’d hoped it would at least bring us a step closer.
I just wish I knew if he’s watched it. I should have never taught him how to turn off the read receipts on his texts.
The scent of fresh-brewed coffee, mixed with something sweet, wafts into my room, and I glance at the clock. It’s eight thirty a.m. Mom should be at work by now. I pull a loose sweatshirt over my head, grab my phone, and head down to the kitchen.
Mom’s there, singing along with the radio, pouring blueberry batter into muffin tins.
“What are you doing home?” I ask, shuffling over to the coffeepot and pouring a healthy serving into the Rose Apothecary mug I got from Treat Yo’Self.
Mom grins. “I took the day off.”
“You took yesterday off.” Not that I’m unhappy she’s here; far from it.
“I told them I needed a whole weekend with my daughter. I figured we could both use a mellow day at home after yesterday.”
I smile. “Sounds perfect.”
After the rally, Mom and I marched in the parade for a little while, but I was feeling drained from the speech and needed some time to decompress, so we peaced out early. Anyway, there were tens of thousands of people there—I knew no one would miss me.
Mom slides the muffins into the oven, then joins me at the table. “So,” she says, nodding at my
facedown phone. “Have you checked the app yet?”
I shake my head. I stayed off the app for the rest of yesterday, which at once felt freeing and very wrong. But as part of new-and-improved CeCe, I’m thinking I might try to keep taking mini-vacays from the app every now and then. Not for too long, of course, but it would be nice to get to a point where a half a day without checking my notifications doesn’t feel like the end of the world. We’ll see.
“I think you should.” It’s literally the first time my mother has ever told me to log on to the app.
Curious, I thumbprint my phone on and tap the app icon. I’m back up to 925,000 followers. That’s an increase of over 100,000 since yesterday! And I have so many messages it takes me over a minute just to speed-scroll to the bottom of the list. Almost all of them are overwhelmingly supportive. What a difference a day makes.
I look up at Mom. “Wow.”
She’s nodding, teary-eyed and proud. Just like yesterday. “Your story really resonated with people, kiddo.”
When the muffins are done baking, Mom piles them onto a plate, I crank the AC, and we snuggle under the couch comforter with Abraham. In between episodes of Killing Eve, I work my way through my app messages.
One of the first ones that came through, time-stamped yesterday before my speech even ended, was from Tawny, inviting me back to Treat Yo’Self. I thank her profusely—and politely turn the offer down. I really did mean what I said yesterday—it’s pointless trying to please people who don’t actually care about you, who drop you at the first sign of a challenge—and I’m trying to follow my own advice. To Tawny’s credit, she says she understands, and will continue to root for me in my endeavors.
I’m not going to stop doing sponsorships—at least not while I still have the opportunity to do them—but I think from now on I’m only going to rep products and companies that have a direct political or environmental impact. There’s an app that gives voters easy-to-understand info on their candidates—maybe I’ll reach out to them. What’s the worst they can say? No? I’ve heard worse.
Follow Your Arrow Page 19