Follow Your Arrow

by Jessica Verdi

  It takes most of the afternoon, but I get through all my notifications and messages. Yeah, there are a handful that say “Shut up, CeCe” and “Stop trying to be relevant,” but for the most part, it does seem like the bulk of the haters have lost interest. #win

  I take a selfie on the couch with Abraham. I’m wearing zero makeup, and my skin looks pale and bumpy. I can’t help myself—I soften and smooth it out with filters before posting. But, hey, at least I own up to it in the hashtags. Baby steps.

  It feels surprisingly good to be so transparent—to be honest just for the sake of being honest, and to not let my fear of how it will be perceived stop me. And I didn’t reread the post twelve times before posting.

  Quickly, before the momentum fades, I add a few new frames to my stories, inspired by the signs and chants and other speeches at Pride:

  We may have achieved marriage equality in the US, but we cannot and will not rest until every citizen of every country around the world has the right to marry the person they love, openly and without fear of retaliation from their family, community, or government!

  and

  Protect trans youth! No more bogus “bathroom bills”!

  and

  Fight back against the rampant voter suppression efforts in this country! Know your rights! Register to vote, volunteer, and offer a ride to a neighbor on election day!

  When the likes start pouring in, a mangled sob of joy escapes me. Abe’s head pops up at the noise, and he gives me a look that says, Shhh! I’m trying to sleep!

  When Mom takes Abe out for his walk, I pull my fuzzy socks up to my knees, put on the British Office to stream on the TV, and allow myself a few moments to be an observer. To let the #lastdayofschool kid pics, pretty lattes with steamed milk art, and early summer vacation photos wash over me. Snapshots of lives lived. Today, I’m very liberal with that little heart button.

  As I scroll, a single hashtag keeps popping up in my feed, and I slow down to pay more attention. #definebi. Define bi.

  Hmm. I do some quick recon.

  I didn’t realize it at first, because many of the posts didn’t tag me, but it seems the video of my speech has had a chance to circulate. People who didn’t see it live are catching up today, and sharing it to their feeds. But they’re not just sharing the link and moving on—they’re telling their stories too. About being bi. About what it means to them.

  My heart hammers as I try to absorb it all. People from all corners of the internet, of all genders and ages, of different nationalities and careers, are sharing their experiences with being bisexual.

  This is the best thing ever.

  I follow the hashtag closely; there are more posts every minute. Some of them tag me, but most of them don’t. The movement is taking on a life of its own, and I suspect many of the people participating haven’t heard of the speech or know who I am. Somehow, that makes it even cooler.

  “Yes!” I leap to my feet on the couch cushions and shout, “This is why I love the freaking internet!”

  Mom hurries in from the foyer, Abe’s leash still in hand. “Now what?”

  “Look at this!” I show her my phone.

  “ ‘Define bi’?” She scrolls through a few of the posts, and looks up at me, wide-eyed. “You did this.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t!”

  “No, you did, CeCe,” Mom insists. “It’s because of your speech!”

  “Nope.” I jump off the couch, scoop Abe into my arms, and dance with him around the living room. “My speech helped start it, maybe, but this is its own thing.”

  I can’t stop smiling. When I was first figuring out my identity all those years ago, the internet helped me. Ever since, I’ve wanted to give back. But I always questioned how far one person can really push the needle, even if they do have a million people watching and listening and … judging.

  No, it’s this kind of movement, this wave of honesty from lots of people—hundreds, maybe even thousands—coming together to share their experiences, and what being bi looks like to them, that is huger than anything I ever could have hoped to achieve. The posts are all incredible. Each unique, special, and powerful. And they’re going to live online forever. This can help kids and teens and adults coming to terms with their own identities. It can help shift the cultural perspective as a whole.

  The freaking app, man. Gotta love it.

  #socialmediaforever

  * * *

  That night, I’m helping Mom with dinner, listening to her hum and trying to pinpoint what song it is, when another notification pops up on my phone. I take the opportunity to put the knife down and wash my hands. I need a break anyway—my eyes are so watery from chopping onions it’s like I’m seeing the kitchen through two fishbowls.

  “Still trending?” Mom asks as I wipe my eyes on my sleeve.

  #Definebi was still trending at last check, but that was an hour ago. “Let’s see … yup!”

  Mom pumps her fist in the air.

  I swipe over to my notifications.

  And I stop breathing. There’s one new mention, from a handle I know well, but who has never tagged me in anything before. @JoshuaHaimViolin.

  I’ll need to click on the tab in order to see the post in full, but I’m frozen in place.

  “Mom,” I whisper.

  “Hmmm?” She finishes turning over the potatoes and closes the oven again.

  “Josh.”

  She whirls around to face me. “What? Where?”

  “Here.” I hold up my phone. “He tagged me.” My voice is still quiet, as if it doesn’t want to risk scaring the notification away.

  “What did he say?”

  “I don’t know.” My heart is rattling my rib cage. The phone is shaking in my hands.

  “CeCe! Go look!”

  But what if it’s bad? What if a private declaration of being done with me wasn’t enough? What if he’s posting about our breakup to the app, just to make sure I get the message?

  When I don’t move, Mom grabs the phone from my hand and clicks on the post herself. I watch her expression carefully as she takes it in, whatever it is. But a slight uptick of the corner of her mouth is all I get. Wordlessly, she hands the phone back to me.

  “What?” I demand. “Tell me.”

  “Just read it, CeCe.” She’s sort of smiling now.

  Okay, fine.

  I look at the post.

  I gasp. Look at Mom. She nods, full-on smiling now. Speechless, I go back to the post.

  The accompanying photograph is a selfie of Josh. It’s backlit by the setting sun, so his face is a little out of focus. His eye line is all wrong—it’s clear he’s looking at his reflection on the screen, not at the little camera lens. But it’s adorable.

  And then I notice the background in the selfie. It’s very familiar.

  I thrust the phone at Mom, run to the front door, and throw it open. There he is, on my porch, phone in hand like he didn’t know what to do with it after hitting the POST button.

  “Hi,” Josh says sheepishly, his cheeks pink. “Did I do it right?”

  With a yelp of joy, I jump into his arms. He drops the phone, sending it clattering to the porch floor, and holds me tight against him with those strong, violin-playing arms.

  “I’m sorry,” I say into his chest.

  “No, I’m sorr—” he begins, but I cut him off.

  “Stop. It was all me. You did nothing wrong.” I lower myself back to the ground and gaze up at him, taking his hands in mine. “Well, except the framing of that selfie—was that your first selfie ever?”

  “No,” he says, mock-indignantly, then laughs. “Close, though.”

  I smirk. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you a few tricks.”

  “Hey, don’t get too excited; it’s not like I’m going to be posting all the time now. That selfie was a one-time-only occurrence.”

  “I see.” I nod sagely. “So you’re saying you did it for me.”

  “I did.” He says it without even a hint of he
sitation or uncertainty. He searches my eyes. “I care about you, CeCe. A lot.”

  We’re close, standing here on the porch hand in hand, but I lean in just a little closer, on my tiptoes. “I care about you too.”

  “You do?” He leans closer still.

  “Very, very much.” My gaze is trapped in his. It’s only now, in this moment, that I’m realizing how much I’d been holding back from him, like I’d been wearing too-small, tightly laced boots our entire time together. But now that he knows everything, the laces have been loosened, the boots kicked off. I can stretch and wiggle my toes. It feels incredible. And now we can really run.

  “Well then, okay,” Josh says.

  “Okay what?” I ask. Our mouths are so, so close now, our breath mingling, our voices mere whispers.

  “Okay, maybe I’ll let you show me a few selfie-taking tips. If it’s that important to you.” He allows his lips to lightly graze mine. They’re soft, and warm, and smiling. But he’s waiting for me to take the next step, and I don’t—not just yet.

  “Deal,” I say. “But don’t worry, they can be just for us.”

  He pulls back the slightest bit at that, to get a better look at me. His brows are raised high.

  “What?” I blink innocently. “You don’t have to post everything, you know.”

  Josh laughs. “I think I’ve heard that somewhere.”

  I can’t hold off anymore. I grab his shirt, pull him to me, and kiss him. Properly this time, with no secrets, no one watching, and not a single care about what anyone else thinks.

  “So there’s this thing,” I murmur when we eventually come up for air.

  “Thing?” he echoes, his forehead touching mine.

  “Yeah. This prom thing. It’s on Friday.”

  “Ah. A prom thing.”

  “The tickets were on sale last week, but I didn’t buy any because … well, you know.”

  Josh nods, and squeezes my hand as if to prove to us both that we’re here, together. I squeeze back.

  “It’s too late to buy them now, but the GSA planned the whole thing, and Silvie and Jasmine are working the door, so I’m pretty sure I have an in.”

  “You and your connections.” Josh rolls his eyes teasingly, and I pinch him on the arm.

  “Do you want to go with me?” I whisper.

  “Yes,” he says without missing a beat.

  “People’s eyes will be on us,” I warn him. “And pictures will probably end up online.”

  “I know.”

  “And you still want to go?”

  “For you?” he says. “I’m all in.”

  My lips tug into a giant grin, and the rest of my body follows, rocking up onto my toes to kiss him again.

  Delicious, delirious minutes later, our mouths part, but our hands are still linked. I turn to open the screen door. “Come on in,” I say, nodding inside. “We’re making dinner.”

  And Josh follows.

  “Wait, is this …?” Josh stops dead in his tracks and gapes around in wide-eyed wonder as we enter my school’s gym. “Are we in the freaking Vienna Musikverein?” He stares at me, uncomprehending.

  “Oh my god, I forgot to tell you!” I laugh. “The prom theme is An Evening at the Symphony. Inspired by … well, you.”

  I do a slow twirl, admiring the GSA’s handiwork. We busted our butts all week to transform the sweaty gym into one of the most famous concert halls in the world. Some of our members voted for Radio City Music Hall or Walt Disney Concert Hall, since the general student population would be more likely to recognize those, at least by name. But those of us who pushed for the lesser-known but much more ornate Musikverein prevailed. And I’m so glad we did.

  The gym walls are draped in gold-hued panels silkscreened to look like windowed tiers, gold statuettes guard the room’s perimeter, faux chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and DJ Karima K has her table set up on the stage, under the silver pipes we hung to resemble an organ.

  At first I wasn’t sure if we totally pulled off the classy concert hall aesthetic, especially since the center of the gym is taken up by the dance floor and dinner tables, rather than rows of red seats. But Josh recognized it immediately, so I’m going to count that as a job well done.

  “I can’t believe you did this,” he says, still stunned.

  The ballad that was playing when we walked in transitions into a pop song with a strong beat, and I have to raise my voice so Josh can hear me. “The DJ even promised to play some symphony music during the dinner hour,” I tell him. “What do you think?”

  He shakes his head, amazed. “It’s incredible.”

  “Yay.” I grin.

  We stand there gazing dopily at each other for a long moment. Josh looks super cute in his maroon slim-cut suit and skinny black tie. His hair is just as messy as ever. I’m wearing a short, black, lacy tutu dress, with black tights, red heels, and red lips. The shoes are from a new company I’m working with that makes gorgeous footwear out of recycled water bottles. And the dress reminded me of something Madonna would have worn back in the ’80s—which I felt was the perfect vibe for a night of dancing. My hair is pushed back from my face with a black plastic headband, making it look even shorter than usual.

  “Um, I didn’t realize there would be supermodels here tonight,” a familiar voice says, and I turn to see Silvie, hand in hand with Mia, both of them admiring Josh’s and my outfits.

  “Hello, you two should talk!” I say. Silvie and Mia look amazing in their dresses. Silvie’s hair is newly dyed all blue, and Mia’s is done up into an intricate series of braids with silver strands woven through. “Hashtag beauty queens.”

  I notice Silvie and Josh eyeing each other shyly, and realize a half second too late that though they’ve followed each other on the app, they haven’t met in real life yet.

  Nerves flutter within me as I turn to Josh. “Josh, this is Silvie and Mia. Silvie and Mia, this is Josh.”

  They all shake hands, and, somehow, it’s not nearly as weird as I would have thought. It feels … right. It occurs to me that we kind of are on that double date I thought would never happen.

  “You like my dress?” I ask Silvie, gesturing to my tutu. “I found it at a thrift shop.”

  “I love it!” The lights of our makeshift ballroom dance in her eyes. “You have to let me photograph you in it for my book.”

  “Really?” I didn’t expect that.

  “For sure.”

  “Okay.” I smile, touched that she’d want me in the book, after everything that’s happened. Guess we really have come a long way. “Cool.”

  Another fast song comes on, and Josh looks at me, then at Silvie and Mia. “So … anyone else dying to get on that dance floor?”

  “Definitely,” Mia says. With a quick wave, she and Silvie dance over to where Jasmine and her boyfriend, Peter and his boyfriend, and the rest of the GSA are already jumping up and down to the pulse of the song.

  Josh takes my hands and steps closer to me, leaning down for a long kiss. “Ready to be dazzled by your boyfriend’s epic dance moves?” he says over the music.

  “Always,” I tell him.

  Hand in hand, we make our way through the throngs of my classmates all dressed up in suits and dresses and jumpsuits, and that one guy in a kilt, and find an open spot on the dance floor. Josh immediately starts moving with the music in that joyous, uninhibited way of his—his exaggerated wiggles and kicks are the complete opposite of the understated step touch of many of the other kids around us.

  I’m aware there are people watching us, their curiosity pulsing in time with their dance steps. But without hesitation, I join Josh, leaping and jumping and waving my hands high above my head. It’s so much fun.

  As the up-tempo music fades into a slower song, Josh does one more particularly goofy spin, and then seamlessly pulls me in close. As we sway together, his heartbeat pounding against my cheek, it hits me, with all the certainty in the world, from my headband down to the heels that I kicked off halfway through
that last song: I’m in love with him.

  For the next several hours, Josh and I laugh and kiss and dance our hearts out. And we even take some selfies too.

  But I only post a few of them. Most, I save just for us.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at Jessica Verdi’s And She Was!

  Time slows. I sense everything. My breath is fast but steady, my callused palm in its familiar curve around the racquet’s handle. I stare the ball down—unblinking, undeterred—and count the nanoseconds. Ready. Eager. Calculating. Finally, with a ferocious forehand stroke, I let out a grunt and connect strings to ball. I can almost hear the poor thing wailing in frustration as it sails away from me. Mary Shea, my training partner across the net, darts into position to volley it back.

  In moments like these, when I’m in the zone, my hair slick with sweat and my muscles thrumming, the only things that exist are the ball, the net, and the court, and the symbiotic relationship my body has with each. It doesn’t matter if I’m playing against Mary, or our coach, Bob, or no one at all except a steadfast, bruised wall. The rest of the planet tunes out to a distant static; my own thoughts dim to the lowest volume on the dial. On the court, there is no problem that isn’t solved by hard work and determination.

  Mary and I keep the volley going. It’s our third set, match point; advantage, me. If I score the next point, I win. I imagine I’m on the hard court at Arthur Ashe Stadium, going head-to-head with Serena Williams in the finals of the US Open, the audience half cheering, half holding their breaths in suspense.

  Someday, I vow, I’ll be there.

  Mary returns the ball close to the net, but I meet it easily and smash it—hard—back to her side. She shrieks as she dives for it, but she’s too far away. The little yellow sphere bounces to the ground, unobstructed.

  “Yes!” I shout on the last of my air, lifting my racquet high in triumph.

  “Very nice, both of you,” Bob calls from his trusty portable camping chair by the net post, where he’s jotting in his notebook.