I nodded. “Of course.”
“Good.” Raina stared at me, unblinking. “Because it sure didn’t seem like you got it when you stood up on a chair at the school board meeting.”
Sophie cleared her throat. “This is Daisy’s decision. If she doesn’t feel comfortable . . .”
“It’s kind of the group’s decision,” Sean argued, turning to me with an apologetic smile. “I mean, it impacts us all.”
“Why don’t we vote?” Kyle rolled back as we all swiveled to look at him. “That’s, um, how we settle things in my family. Or . . . yeah.”
“Not a bad idea.” Raina knocked on the desk. “I vote for Daisy to stay in the closet. Sean?”
“Closet,” he said, pointing at me with both hands. “It’s just acting, remember? You were so good in Carousel!”
Liar.
“Sophie?” Raina nodded down the table.
She sighed. “I vote for the truth. I think forcing her to hide who she is kind of misses the point of what we’re doing here.”
Raina didn’t react. “Jack?”
“Closet.”
I blinked at Jack, surprised.
“I lie every time I step into my house.” He shrugged. “It’s easier than you’d think.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes, making me suspect otherwise.
“Kyle?” Raina went on.
“Truth,” Kyle voted. “Honestas ante honores.” He glanced up, eyes wide, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Sorry. Last period was Latin. It means, um—”
“‘Honesty before glory,’” Raina translated. Then her head snapped up. “That’s two for truth, three for the closet. We need a majority, Daisy. How do you vote?”
I stared at the Alliance, saw the hope in their eyes, registered the weight of the fact that they’d even given me a vote at this table.
“Closet,” I said.
Raina stood as the bell rang.
“That’s settled then. For the next thirty days, Daisy is a lesbian.”
17
Friday morning, September the twenty-third, at 7:52 a.m., Hannah picked me up for school. Natalie was not in attendance.
“This article,” she said as we pulled out of my neighborhood. “It’s everywhere.”
“Pretty nutso, huh?” I rolled down the car window, enjoying the first hint of crispness in the air. “A bunch of reporters have been calling me. We haven’t decided how to handle the press yet, though.”
“We?” She raised her eyebrows, smirking. “Have you adopted the royal ‘we’ now that you’re FOTI?”
I stared at her. “FOTI?”
“Famous on the Internet.” She blinked. “I just made it up.”
“Ooh, I like it. But no, ‘we’ is the Alliance. Oh! That reminds me!” I pressed my lips together as she glanced over. “I’m kind of playing gay for the next month?”
“You—wha—ga—” Hannah sputtered. “Daisy.”
She closed her eyes. It was a good thing we were at a stoplight.
“Just until the event is done.”
“Did it start with that interview?” Hannah’s lips were set tight, her eyes now locked ahead, and I had the sense that she’d been waiting a very long time to ask me this. “Did you lie on purpose, or—?”
“Nonono.” I grabbed her shoulder until she glanced at me again. “I was totally up-front, Hannah, I swear. Adam knew I was straight, but he didn’t mention it in the article for whatever reason. But now that it’s out there—”
“‘Adam’?” She made air quotes with one hand, steering with the other.
“That’s his name. The reporter. The first one, the college guy?”
“Yeah, I know, I just didn’t realize you were on an Adam-name basis with him.”
I shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She sighed, turning the corner. “I don’t know why you would or wouldn’t be. I don’t know anything about your life right now.”
Whose fault is that? I thought, but said, “I’m not asking you to lie. I know you’re not wired that way.”
“No.” She clenched her jaw. “I’m not.”
“But if anybody asks between then and now, just tell them my sexuality is a private matter and you refuse to discuss my personal life.”
“‘Them’ being?”
“Other kids? The press?”
Hannah let out a squawk. “Don’t you think this has gotten a little out of hand?”
“Pshhh,” I scoffed. “Picture a hand. Like a giant hand.”
She cracked a smile. “Okay?”
“This event is in it.”
Hannah shook her head, laughing. “If you say so.”
But then we turned into the school parking lot.
“This is in hand?” she said, while I could only muster a low, long, “Hooooollllyyy . . .”
In the narrow strip of public land between the road and the arts wing, a conga line of protesters stood waving posters. A printed sign along the edge of the crowd read “FREE SPEECH ZONE,” and across the street, a pair of police cars and three news vans were parked, observing the crowd from a careful distance. And it was a crowd—way bigger than any protest group my mom had ever assembled. Unless . . .
I leaped from the car, grinning, but turned back to see Hannah hesitating in the driver’s seat. “What’s the matter?”
She had her fist pressed to her mouth.
“Oh, don’t worry!” I waved my hand. “These are my mom’s people. They’re harmless.”
Hannah shook her head. “I don’t think so, Daisy.”
My eyes traveled to where she was pointing. The biggest sign of the bunch, held high by a beaming old man in a brown, too-large suit, read “GOD HATES FAGS.”
“No.”
They looked like hippies. But all the signs said horrible things. Nonsensical things, like “Stay strong Palmetto against the QUEER FORCES OF SATAN.” It turned out that’s what they were all cheerfully chanting, a tiny girl with pigtail braids the loudest of the bunch. It would have been comical if weren’t so horrifying.
Several of them wore T-shirts bearing the words “Christian Values Coalition.” I wasn’t the most religious person in the world, but I had a hunch they were the kinds of “Christians” who only read the same two sections of the Bible over and over, ignoring all those pesky parts about love and tolerance.
Hannah tugged me backward. “I’m not walking through that.”
“It’s the way in,” I said, squeezing her hand. “We can walk wherever we want. If we hike all the way around the soccer field, the terrorists will have won.”
She seemed to accept that, but clung on as we stepped forward. When we drew alongside them, Hannah held her breath, her eyes blinking hard as if to blind herself. I stared boldly back.
I shouldn’t have. The little girl’s eyes darted to our intertwined hands and a second later, the crowd ignited, red-faced and vicious, no longer in any way confusable with my mother’s brand of protesters.
“Abomination!” one woman yelled, spitting in our direction, missing by a few inches. Across the street, I saw the doors to the police car open and two officers get out.
“Daisy,” Hannah said as the crowd’s roar grew too chaotic to make out individual words. I turned to see tears streaming down her cheeks.
Someone, another student, stepped in front of us and snapped a picture with her phone.
“Almost there,” I said. “Two more steps.”
And then, thank God, we’d reached the steps of the school and then the doors, and the noise of those hateful bastards was silenced by the ordinary hum of morning in the lobby. Hannah wriggled her hand free of mine and hugged it like it hurt. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it so tight.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fine,” she said. “Every
thing’s fine.”
She was shuddering like she had a fever. But before I could reach out a hand to calm her, she’d already hurried down the hall to homeroom.
At 8:15 a.m., a senior on the cheerleading squad with the Twitter handle @tmtpiratewench tweeted the photo she took, tagging it #GoDaisy. I’d later learn that this was the same girl who last week called me a ho-bag.
At 12:25 p.m., I made my way to the cafeteria. A quick glance at the stoop showed me where I wouldn’t be sitting today. Natalie was pacing the steps, listening to whatever Hannah was saying with a thunderous glare. Watching her viciously rip her red hair out of and back into its ponytail, I decided now was probably not the best time to butt in.
And besides, wonder of wonders, right there at a table smack dab in the middle of the room, if it wasn’t the Palmetto High School LGBTQIA Alliance sitting together for once, their heads ducked over Jack’s shining tablet like it held the meaning of life. Kyle waved me over.
“The photo of you,” he explained. “People are sharing it kind of a lot.”
The cheerleader who’d snapped the shot had done a surprisingly expert job of framing it. On the left, the mob of supposedly Christian protesters, screaming hate. And on the right, two girls walking past, heads ducked, hands linked.
According to the tablet screen, someone in Florida had just retweeted it with the caption: “Gay advocate Daisy Beaumont-Smith with her girlfriend.”
No wonder Natalie was mad. Heh.
“It’s all over the Internet,” Raina piped up. “And #GoDaisy is trending.”
“Trending who?” I grabbed the tablet and shook it. “This is a Twitter thing? Show me, show me!”
Jack gently pried the iPad back and opened a bunch of sites. People on Reddit were planning counter-protests for as early as this afternoon. The Facebook group Jack created for LGBTQ Palmetto alumni had, nonsensically, grown to over 100,000 members.
“We’re on the Guardian website,” he said, opening another tab. “This must be the guy from your voicemail!” He turned to Sophie. “You were right. Not hot.”
“Anything in Spain?” Sean asked, leaning over me to see the screen. “I wonder if Diego’s seen this.”
“Probably.” Jack let out a diabolic laugh. “We’ve gone global, kids. We’re huge!”
I glanced up, then quickly back down. It wasn’t just online we were huge. Around our table, a group of fifty or more students had just gathered to steal peeks at Jack’s tablet—and at me.
“Bathroom break.” I scrambled out of my chair, bracing myself for another angry mob. But as the crowd parted, a few people patted me on the back, murmuring their support.
A week ago, I was the girl who got homecoming canceled. And now, greeting me in the hallway, the guy I suspected of throwing a Starbucks cup at me was offering me a high five. Why? Because I was FOTI?
“Go Daisy!” said a group of choir members in unison, popping their heads out of the auditorium. Seriously? I fled to the restroom and didn’t come out until the bell had rung. I wasn’t up for eating with an audience. And besides, I’d lost my appetite.
At 1:35 p.m., my stomach growled so loudly during lab that everyone turned to look at me. Everyone but Hannah.
At 2:32 p.m., I was sitting in French, glancing over the quiz I’d just gotten back, upon which Prof Hélène had scribbled German, Spanish, Latin next to my wrong answers, when a noise like the ocean roared from outside. We all glanced at the windows, seeing nothing but the eighth-period gym class jogging around the football field.
“What the hell,” the boy next to me muttered.
“En français!” Prof Hélène admonished, but the bell rang before we could figure out the translation.
The sound from outside grew louder and louder, mingling with excited shouts of students moving between classes, until I reached my history room on the other side of the building, where everyone, teacher included, stood with their faces cluttering the north-facing windows, riveted by the scene outside.
Almost everyone. Madison sat in her usual seat in the back with prim serenity, as if she alone were above our petty politics. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me, but she was only five-one. I could take her.
From what I could glimpse over my classmates’ heads, the crowd of angry protesters seemed to have quadrupled in the past few hours. No wonder Madison looked so smug. My heart was sinking when I heard Mr. Beckett, the history teacher, let out a whoop.
“Counter-protesters! Students?” He spun around to take my hand in both of his. “We’re watching history unfold. Right here. Today!”
I swallowed a snort, but as the others shifted to give me a better view, I started to suspect that his enthusiasm wasn’t all that overblown. The Free Speech Zone now spilled across the street and down the block. Closest to us, one group was holding up their “God hates you and loves us” signs, and yes, there were more now, but a larger group stood facing them, shouting in much more effective rhythm—and waving the biggest rainbow banner I’d ever seen.
As a siren sounded and two more police cars pulled into the parking lot, the speakers in the classroom beeped for an announcement.
“Students.” It was Principal Zimmer. He sounded exhausted. “Ninth period will proceed as scheduled, hubbub outside notwithstanding. I know it might be tempting, but we’re going to ask you not to talk to reporters as you leave school grounds. Thanks for your cooperation.”
I felt everyone’s eyes on me as we returned to our seats.
“Okay.” Mr. Beckett sat on his desk, slumping with disappointment. “Let’s talk about the Industrial Revolution.”
At 4:05 p.m., the final bell had already rung, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave the building. The mob outside was bigger than ever, and through an open doorway, I could see at least half a dozen news teams milling around the border of the Free Speech Zone, interviewing protesters. When the first waves of students walked out, reporters swarmed them, scanning the doorway, searching. For me.
A whistle sounded from behind me, and I turned to see QB at the end of the hall, making some sort of secret football signal that I assumed translated to “Onward!”
When I reached him, he huddle-whispered, “Do you have a ride home?”
“My mom.” Probably floating somewhere in that sea of protesters.
“Good.” He guided me through cracked glass doors into the athletic wing. “Tell her to meet us on the corner of Miller and West.”
As I hurriedly texted her, QB ducked into the boys’ locker room, reemerging with a football helmet under one arm. When we reached the door that led to the football field, he stuck it on my head. It bobbled back and forth.
“Better than nothing, right?”
“Right.” I knocked on the top of it. “Thank you.”
“One more thing.” QB shrugged out of his hunting jacket and wrapped it around me. To my surprise, it smelled sweet, like wood smoke. Like a fireside, in a cabin in the woods, cozy and . . . huh.
A guy as good-looking as QB should probably have brought to mind visions of the two of us nestling for warmth. But the most I could picture was he and I playing Chinese checkers or having a thumb-battle for the last s’more. Which actually wasn’t that unpleasant a daydream. I’d always wondered what it would be like to have a sibling.
He grabbed my hand and led me across the field toward Miller Street in a too-quick jog. It was a good thing I was disguised, because if any reporters saw us right now, hand in hand, they might get the wrong idea. Again.
“Hey, Chris?” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “If anybody asks, reporters or whoever—I’m gay, okay?”
His face registered confusion for a full three count. Then he slapped his leg. “I knew it!”
I bit back a clarification. Why was this such a confusing concept for people?
“So . . .” He held out a hand to help me across the dead hed
ges and onto a block of modest one-story houses, where the Veggiemobile was dutifully idling. Then he removed the helmet from my head, spun it on one finger, and tucked it back under his arm. “We’ve got an away game, so I’ve gotta take off, but—you doing anything next Friday?”
Back to gay and he was still hitting on me. The boy didn’t get it. But hey, he had just heroically orchestrated my escape from a school under siege.
I handed him back his hunting jacket with a smile. “See you at the game.”
The second I got home, my cell phone rang—and my heart started racing.
Hannah. Oh my God, how could I have forgotten her?
“Are you okay?” I asked, racing to my bedroom.
“Yeah.” She huffed. “I mean, I’m home. But it wasn’t good, Daisy. The reporters completely ignored the police barricade. I could barely get into my car.”
“Oh, no!” I clicked my computer to life. “But the counter-protests—amazing, right? They’re all here for you!”
“They’re here for you, Daisy. They have your face on posters.”
“What?” That called for immediate googling.
“The only question the reporters had for me was how long we’d been dating. I tried saying what you told me, that it was a personal matter, but it didn’t work at all! There are reporters outside my house right now. I’m looking at them.”
“You should call the cops? Maybe?”
“We have.” She sighed. “Are you okay? Did you manage to get past them?”
“Yeah, I snuck away. And they don’t know where I live.” I felt guilt-itchy, admitting it. “All quiet on the Daisy front.”
“Oh. That’s good. That’s . . . a relief.”
She didn’t sound relieved. And she fell silent for so long that I started to get worried.
“Hannah?”
“This is not how I thought this would go.” Her voice was a pinprick all of a sudden.
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