The Inside of Out

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  I probably should have let it go. Said something along the lines of: “As a student of Palmetto, I know firsthand that the issue of equal treatment for all students is important to everyone of my generation blah blah . . .”

  Instead, I said what I was thinking.

  “I’m sorry, can I jump in?” Shawna pivoted back to me. I raised my eyebrows. “I find it hypocritical for Mrs. Beck to sit here and talk about the rights of straight students when her own daughter came out of the closet no less than three weeks ago.”

  Shawna’s expression wavered between thrown and delighted. She nodded to Mrs. Beck. “Care to respond?”

  Mrs. Beck’s face had gone very pale. Even for her. “I don’t know where this accusation is coming from. It’s a lie. A blatant attempt to—”

  “She’s dating my best friend.” I shrugged. “That’s where the accusation is coming from.”

  Uh . . . whoops! I guess Hannah wasn’t my fake-girlfriend anymore? I mean, I hadn’t actually said her name, but if America could put two and two together, it was fine with me. One fewer lie to haul around.

  “It’s a private matter!” Mrs. Beck wriggled out of frame and back again. “And I don’t see how airing it on national television is in any way appropriate, just as I don’t think it’s appropriate for one subgroup to bully an entire community into doing what they want just because they yell the loudest!” She sniffed a breath, dragging her chin upward. “Miss Beaumont-Smith has spoiled homecoming for the vast majority of students and we on the school board don’t see that as fair.”

  “We haven’t spoiled anything,” I replied cheerily. “Everyone is welcome at this event. We’re hoping to bring students and alumni together in an open, honest way, for maybe the first time ever.”

  I’d remembered my talking points. Thank God. My heart was flailing like a cornered bat at the sudden realization that I’d just gossiped about Hannah and Natalie on national television, but—focus, Daisy. Mrs. Beck was counterpointing.

  “I have a hard time believing Palmetto students will have any interest in attending this ‘alternative’ event,” she said, thus demonstrating to America how little she knew about people my age.

  But Shawna turned to my picture and said, “Daisy?” and I felt like I needed a better rebuttal than that, so I blurted:

  “Our event is going to be amazing. We’ll have a red carpet. A lot of celebrities have expressed interest in attending.”

  Shawna and Mrs. Beck were both squinting in confusion.

  “And . . . also . . .” I gave a mysterious side smile to cover my scrambling. “We have one of the biggest bands in the world playing. Can’t disclose who yet, but it’s going to be epic. And like I said, all are welcome! That’s the entire point.”

  “Thank you Daisy, Cindy . . .” Our faces disappeared and Shawna said, “Next up, mass protests in the oil-rich region of—”

  And the monitor went black.

  “Great job,” said the producer, who probably said that to everyone, and they were pulling the earpiece from my face and the microphone from my collar and Mom was doing a goofy cheering dance and Dad was looking up from his gaming magazine in time to wave, and my heart started trotting like a dressage horse because it was finally allowed to react to the fact that I’d just been interviewed on national television. Then Cal drew me aside and said, “What’s this band that’s performing? And who are the celebrities?” He grinned. “Kind of a big win to keep from me!”

  I laughed. It sounded maniacal. “Surprise!”

  And then they were clearing up and we needed to get out of the way, and somehow, miraculously, an hour later, I managed to shuffle both Cal and the news crew out of my house for the evening without ever answering the question.

  I ran upstairs and turned my phone back on. It rang right away—Raina.

  “What the fuck, Daisy.”

  I turned the phone over to stare at it. Was this how she expressed enthusiasm? Hopefully?

  “What the fuck indeed!”

  “One of the biggest bands in the world?”

  “Yeah, it just sort of . . . came out.”

  “We’re already playing catch-up with what you over-promised, and now you lay this on us? Celebrities? What celebrities?”

  My mouth went dry. “Jack said that we’d been getting a lot of retweets? From—”

  “That’s retweets. That’s not . . . ugh, Daisy.” She let out a long, low groan. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  When she hung up, I saw a text from Jack: “You are one crazy bitch. High fieeeeeve!”

  And one from Sean: “Celebrities??? Which celebrities? OMG OMG.”

  And Sophie: “Good job, Daisy! We’re proud of you!” with an emoji of a bear holding a heart.

  I kept Sophie’s text lit up on my phone for as long as I could.

  Then Hannah called, and without thinking, I answered. A second after saying “Hey,” the memory of our argument vise-gripped my stomach.

  Hannah was silent on the other end. Had she butt-dialed me?

  “Hello?”

  “I don’t even know what to say to you.”

  My fingers curled around the phone to keep from flinging it across the room. “Then why did you call?”

  “Natalie’s really upset.”

  “Boo! Freaking! Hoo!” I shot up from my desk. “Maybe she shouldn’t have unleashed her hell hound of a mother on us, then.”

  The theory that had been hovering in my mind for weeks took form and shot out of me like a blow-dart.

  “You think I don’t know that she tipped her mom off about the school board meeting? They came in prepared. Remember? How do you suppose that happened?”

  Hannah went quiet. “You have no idea how hard it is for her.”

  “I don’t care about her, I care about you.”

  As soon as I said it, all the anger flew out of me. I cradled my head in my hands.

  “What is this, Hannah? This isn’t us. We don’t fight. What is happening?”

  “You tell me, Daisy. You’re the one who’s gone insane.”

  “Insane? Because I’m fighting for your rights?” I shook my head. “What’s insane is that you don’t seem to care at all. It’s like you’re in denial.”

  “Maybe I am!” She laughed. It was an ugly sound. An unfamiliar one. “Maybe what I wanted was the same life, a normal life where people weren’t taking my picture or constantly talking about my sexual orientation. Maybe I wanted my dates with my girlfriend—my real one—to be private and not a matter of national discussion.” She let out a low moan, almost a sob. “Did you ever think to stop and ask me what I wanted, Daisy? Ever once?”

  I could hardly get my mouth to work. “Everything I’ve done has been for you.”

  “That’s not the same thing.” She was quiet for so long that I checked the phone to see if the line was still connected.

  “Is this about your dad?” I asked quietly. “You still haven’t told me—”

  “It’s about a lot of things. It’s . . .” Her inhalation was shaky enough to hear over the phone. “I feel like . . . the moment I came out, I stopped being me to you? I started being an issue. Or, like, a hobby.”

  I flushed, blinking furiously. “That isn’t true, Hannah. I promise you, it—”

  “Okay.” The word was a door slamming. “I know you mean well, Daisy. You always mean well. But you shouldn’t have outed Natalie. That was . . . cruel. It wasn’t like you to do something like that.”

  Cruel. That was the word that stuck to my brain like Saran Wrap, until a few hours later, mulling it over, trying to mentally replay what I’d said in the interview, I still couldn’t understand what Hannah meant. I’d stated a fact—pointed out a flaw in Cindy Beck’s argument, a glaring blind spot in the debate. What was cruel about that?

  Unless . . .

  I pictured
Jack, buttoning up his polo shirt, shedding his swagger every time he walked into his house. Mrs. Beck, sunny with confidence at the school board meeting. And her crestfallen, floating face tonight.

  Oh. Crap.

  Natalie’s parents didn’t know.

  23

  When I was little, my heart still intact, the only thing that bothered me about Natalie Beck was that she learned everything more quickly than me. The summer before second grade, we took swim classes at her grandparents’ country club, and I watched in grudging awe as she took to the waves like a mermaid, while I stayed behind in the Guppy class for weeks.

  One day, I refused to go in her backyard pool, dangling my toes on the side as she did flips in the water. Then her head popped up under my foot.

  “I’m your seahorse,” she said—and hauled me in with her. Nat was strong enough to stay above the surface as I rode on her back yelling “Giddyup!” every time she turned. She didn’t falter once—not until her mom walked out and stood watching us with the oddest look on her face, like her lips had been broken and glued back on.

  “I’ve made some snacks,” Mrs. Beck said sweetly. “Help me bring them out for Daisy.”

  Natalie swam us into the shallow end and slid me off her back. “Mom—”

  “Right now.” She walked into the house and Natalie scrambled out of the pool, rubbed herself raw with a towel, and hurried after her.

  It felt weird to be unsupervised, so I dried off too and crept inside.

  In the kitchen, Mrs. Beck was yelling without raising her voice. “Do you hear me? Enough.”

  She stormed out the other way just as I walked in. Natalie’s back was turned, shoulders collapsed. There weren’t any snacks on the counter.

  “Are you in trouble?” I asked.

  Nat turned. She was crying. I’d never seen her do this before. It was like finding out her red hair was a wig. This was not who she was.

  Just as I processed it, her tears seemed to retreat back into her eyes, her face relaxing, shoulders straightening, making me question whether I’d seen anything in the first place. But there had been something that remained. A tension. An edge. I’d never forgotten it.

  I saw that same edge now, the day after the Shawna Wells interview, as I glanced out the open cafeteria door to the lunch stoop, and Natalie happened to glance back. She’d been crying. And now she was pulling it back in. At the sight of me, she picked up her lunch bag and motioned around the building for Hannah to follow. I was too vile to even be permitted a look at them.

  As I made my way through the cafeteria to the Alliance, faces turned toward me like a cresting wave, some admiring, curious, others smirking or disdainful. But when I reached the table at the edge of the room, there was only one face I wanted to see.

  Kyle looked up at me with a grin. For someone with a purple shiner, he seemed upbeat.

  “How are you feeling?” I whispered, my shaking voice barely coming out.

  “Deaf,” he whispered back. It took me a second to realize he was kidding. “I’m fine! Seriously. I saved you a seat.”

  The rest of the group was giggling, too giddy to notice me joining them.

  “This is astounding.” Sean idly drummed a swing beat on the table. “The whole cast?”

  “The show’s publicist called me this morning to confirm.” Jack’s face floated into a grin. “Did that sound official? Do I sound like I know what I’m talking about?”

  Sean clapped. “Yes!”

  Raina gave me the barest of smiles. “I take it back, Daisy. You sure can deliver on your bat-shit promises.”

  “I can?” I leaned over to get a better view of Jack’s tablet in the center of the table, seeing only a giant photo of Chase Hernandez, number two on my ever-evolving list of the Hottest Guys on Triplecross.

  “He came out last night,” Sean breathlessly filled me in. “Really, really, really publicly. The press release said he was inspired by the efforts of Daisy Beaumont-Smith.” He made a tiny flourish of a bow to me. “And would be making a trip to South Carolina to come to homecoming. Our homecoming. And now the whole cast has said they’re coming. The entire. Cast. Of Triplecross!”

  Sean and Jack linked hands and screamed. Clearly they were fans.

  “That’s a show,” Sophie explained. “On the television, I think.”

  And clearly Sophie wasn’t.

  Raina’s fork hovered in front of her mouth. “Sometimes I swear you just wandered in from a Disney movie.”

  Sophie beamed, resting her head on Raina’s shoulder. “Aw, thank you!”

  “So.” I grinned back at Sophie—who did look an awful lot like Cinderella, now that I thought about it. “We’ve got our celebs. Now we just need a band.”

  “Yes.” Sean snorted adorably. “But not just any band . . .”

  Everyone said it together.

  “One of the biggest bands in the world!”

  I cringed, preparing for insults, but they all started laughing. “It could happen!”

  In the flush of the Triplecross win, everybody seemed to agree with me. So why was there still such an ugly knot in my stomach—like I’d done something terrible and was just waiting for everybody to find out?

  Because I was lying to the country, maybe? Seemed like a workable theory.

  Stop being neurotic, I ordered myself. At least until after homecoming. Everything is great.

  Hannah blanked me during bio. And in the hall, after class. I wondered if she heard about Triplecross.

  I didn’t ask.

  Everything is great.

  Adam looked even nervier than usual as he waited for me outside the Moonlight Coffee Shop, feet tapping, hands stuck deep in his black corduroy pockets. I cocked my head as I neared him, wondering why he wasn’t in the corner booth like last time.

  Then I heard it. Something inexplicable.

  Voices. Inside the diner.

  The Moonlight Coffee Shop was packed. Every table full, every seat at the counter occupied. It didn’t make sense until I pressed my nose against the glass and spotted laptops, tablets, iPhones in front of every customer.

  The reporters. They’d invaded my hideout.

  “Twenty-minute wait,” Adam announced.

  “This is an outrage!” I shouted.

  He laughed. I stared him down. His grin sank into a gulp.

  “Should we pick another spot, then?” he offered. “I’ve been wanting to go to the beach. What do you say? Change of pace?”

  I peeled myself from the sidewalk and fell numbly into Adam’s passenger seat, saying a silent good-bye to the desolate diner that was. We rounded the corner and sped off before any of the other reporters could spot and accost me.

  It took me several sullen blocks to process the fact that it had started to drizzle. I turned to see Adam’s reaction, whether he’d order a rain check, but he seemed undeterred. When we got to the empty Folly Beach parking lot, he jumped out of the car, standing on his toes to get a look at the waves.

  “It’s nice like this,” he said, the wind whipping his dark hair into a mop. “Empty. I’d be insulted by sunbathers, if I were the ocean. This ageless, majestic thing in front of you and people bring along neon umbrellas and towels and . . . what do you call ’em? Boogie boards.” He shuddered. “I used to go to Coney Island when it was raining, but nobody ever wanted to come with me.”

  I stopped walking. “Say that again.”

  He swiped his hair back, one glistening curl dropping down again. “I guess it’s kind of a weird preference.”

  “No.” I turned toward the surf in an attempt to stop staring. “It’s . . . I get it.”

  “Thanks for taking time out.” Adam put on Reporter Voice. “I know how busy you are these days. With Evening News appearances and all that.”

  I grimaced. “Did you watch?”

 
“You kicked ass.” He squinted over his rain-spattered glasses at me. “So her daughter . . . that’s Natalie? The one you—?”

  “Yeah.” I picked up a shell and chucked it at the ocean. It arced high, landing a few feet away. Leave it to me to miss the Atlantic Ocean. “I didn’t mean to mention her on TV. I guess it was kind of a mistake.”

  Adam shrugged. “It won you the debate.”

  “Hannah’s pretty mad.”

  Adam picked up another shell and handed it to me, but it was pink and swirly, too nice to throw.

  “So Operation Hannah isn’t going so well?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I would definitely categorize it as ‘unwell.’ We had a fight yesterday, before I even went on TV. She thinks I’m gonna screw everything up. Or bail, like with the opera, among other things. Actually, I think she wants me to bail, which is even more confusing . . .”

  “Okay.” Adam stepped out ahead of me and dug his sneakers into the sand, hands outstretched to stop me. “That’s the third time you’ve brought up this opera. I have to ask.”

  “You ask too much.”

  “Off the record?” He crossed his heart.

  The only way out of this was to answer. Quickly. Pulling off a Band-Aid.

  “Freshman year, I started writing an opera about Stede Bonnet. The school got really excited, but I couldn’t finish it, because . . . reasons. So we had to cancel and everybody was really mad at me for about five minutes until they forgot all about it. The end.”

  Adam looked perplexed, as well you might when hearing someone say they’d started writing an opera. “Stede Bonnet?”

  “The Gentleman Pirate?” I offered. “Terror of the seas? Hanged on the Battery?”

  He shrugged and my mouth fell open.

  “How could you not know who Stede Bonnet is?”

  He let out a bewildered laugh. “I’m new here.”

  “He’s not a Charleston thing. He’s a pirate legend!”