“Don’t cough yet,” she said as smoke flooded my lungs.
I held my lips shut. My chest heaved and my eyes watered. Finally the sizzle in my chest hurt too much and I let the coughs come. A blinding halo surrounded my head as I bent double, coughing long after my lungs were empty.
“I think I did something wrong,” I said. “Nothing’s happening.”
“Everybody says that,” Bee said. “Give it a sec.”
I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes, a tingling feeling beginning to spread through my body. I felt brave and free in a dizzy, nauseated way.
“So I guess it’s up to me to start.” Bee lit another cigarette and thought for a moment. “I competed in beauty pageants until five years ago.”
A laugh sprung from my insides, buzzing through my lips before finally breaking free.
“If you weren’t high I’d take offense.”
“I’m not high,” I said. My voice sounded slow and warped, like it came through a pink toy-store bullhorn, which made me laugh even harder.
“You’re high,” she said. She waited for me to calm down and then handed me her phone. I took it, just barely getting my breathing under control. On the screen was a photo of a girl with long, bleached hair curled in perfect ringlets, wearing a silver sequined gown.
“I think you’re a lot prettier now,” I said. I meant it. A warm wave ran from my toes up to my head.
“Our peers disagree,” she said. “Whatever. I could be her again if I wanted to be. They’re jackasses forever. Your turn.”
“My ears aren’t pierced.” I remembered asking my parents when I was little, and how embarrassed and confused I’d felt when Dad responded angrily. My emotional life had already begun to collapse at that point, but something about that particular dressing-down knocked loose the floodgates, and months of bottled up loneliness, fear, and shame poured out. I remembered lying on my bed after Dad was done yelling at me, listening to the cardinals outside, and wondering if that was the last time I would ever cry, if God had decided I only got a set amount of tears in my whole life.
“Seriously? That’s all you’ve got?”
“You said to start small!” I protested. “Okay fine. How’s this instead? I’ve never been drunk.”
“Well, you’re high as shit right now, so I’d say you’re well on your way. My turn: I’ve gotten to at least third base in every bathroom at school.”
“With who?” I said, loud enough to startle myself. I started giggling again, but did a better job keeping it in check. “With whom, I mean. Whom.” I liked the way “whom” felt in my mouth.
“Your turn,” Bee said, shaking her head.
“Ohh-kay,” I conceded, dragging the word out like a disappointed child. A bubble hovered at my mind’s edge, waiting to pop. I existed in the moment, free from the past and the future. “I switched schools because someone beat me up. You can still feel the stitches above my ear.”
She took a long drag on her cigarette, lighting the tip bright red, and held it for a while. “A year ago I spent a month at Valley down in Chattanooga.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Loony bin,” she said, tapping her cigarette on the table’s edge. Ash floated to the ground.
“I tried to kill myself my sophomore year,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “How?”
“It was a few weeks after my mom broke her leg. Her prescription painkillers were sitting out. I took too many.”
“How many’s too many?”
“Whole bottle,” I said, chewing my fingernails.
“Why, though?”
I just shook my head.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Bee said. “Kill yourself, I mean.” She met my eyes as she put her cigarette out on the table. “I’m bisexual.”
“Really?” I said slowly, trying to fit this fact in with everything I knew about Bee. I wondered if any part of me had suspected. “Have you ever dated a girl?”
“Remember when you saw me and Chloe at the game?”
“Wow,” I said, my eyebrows shooting up. I wondered if anyone else knew about Chloe. I doubted it; she was a little masculine, of course, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything, and it didn’t seem like anyone was out and proud at Lambertville High. “I thought maybe you were smoking.”
“Nah,” she said. “Chloe’s a huge jock, so she refuses to corrupt her body or whatever.”
I nodded, processing what she had told me. I had been so caught up with my own secret, I realized, it hadn’t occurred to me that my new friends were keeping secrets of their own.
We sat silently for a few moments, listening to the rain pound the roof. It reminded me of the time Dad took me hunting with some buddies from work and a freak storm kept us trapped in our cabin all weekend. I tried to make oatmeal cookies like in Mom’s recipe book from the ingredients on hand, but all it seemed to do was make Dad uncomfortable. He never took me hunting again.
Bee’s voice cut through the quiet. “Your turn. It’s your fourth, so better make it a good one.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to control my breathing. “Just give me a minute, okay?” She shrugged.
I thought again of that weekend, and how I threw the cookies away even though there was nothing wrong with them. I thought of how I’d stopped doing so many of the things I’d enjoyed so Dad wouldn’t be mad. I thought of going the rest of my life pretending I sprang to life from nothing at sixteen years old and felt my cheeks flush with shame and anger. I was so tired of cowering. I was so tired of hiding. I wanted to tell the truth, to say it out loud.
But when I went to speak, nothing came out.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally. My eyes felt dry. “I know what I need to say, but I just … can’t.”
She waited a moment. Lightning flashed outside the house. I expected her to prod me, or maybe try to guess. But she just leaned back and said, “The rain doesn’t look like it’s gonna let up anytime soon. Get your sketchbook.”
I set the pad on my lap. “What should I draw?”
“Whatever you want.”
I put a pencil to paper and licked my lips. Within a few seconds the outline of a sad-eyed little boy appeared. Minutes passed as I sketched, the only sound the pattering of the rain on the roof.
“It’s okay, you know,” Bee said quietly, taking a long drag of her cigarette. “Whatever it is you can’t tell me.” She met my eyes. “It’s gonna be okay.”
DECEMBER, THREE YEARS AGO
I was an hour early for the support group. The door was locked and the lights were off, so I crouched on the stoop. I played Final Fantasy on my handheld while I waited. My fingers were numb but my character in the game was named Amanda and she was beautiful and powerful, and watching her kill monsters helped calm me down. The only time I got to feel like myself was when I played pretend.
It was the first week of December, and every house but this one was draped in twinkling white lights like snow and ice. I had only seen snow twice before we moved, and it never snowed in Georgia. It was very cold, though, which was nice. When it was cold outside I could wear thick boots, thick jeans, sweaters, scarves, and hats. I could cocoon myself so that the only visible parts of me were my nose and my eyes and a few strands of brown hair. Nobody could tell if I was a boy or a girl.
“Well, hello,” a voice called from the yard. I paused my game and looked up. A girl a few years older than me in black leather boots strode down the garden path toward the porch, waving. She was tall and long-legged, with a cloud of natural hair bouncing with every step. I put my handheld away and stood, tucking my hands under my armpits. “Are you new? I can’t really tell.”
“I am,” I said. Even my voice was sexless when filtered through my wool scarf. “New, I mean. I haven’t been here before.”
“Good!” she said, beaming. She unlocked the front door and motioned me in. The front room was uncomfortably warm, but I didn’t want to leave my cocoon yet. “I’m Virginia, by the way. Cof
fee?”
“You don’t have to make me anything,” I said. “I’ll just get water.”
She brought me to a kitchen that looked like something out of the 1940s, all white and blue tile and high windows. I sat and sweltered while she ground coffee beans.
“Listen,” she said, “by all means wear whatever makes you comfortable, but it’s hot as Santa’s butt crack in here and I just know you’re cooking in there. I promise, whatever you’re hiding, in this place, what we see is what you know you are inside.”
I stood blankly for a second and then took off my hat. My hair was damp and stringy with sweat. I unwrapped my scarf, the scratchy wool pulling at my skin like a Band-Aid.
Virginia smiled. “See? You’re gorgeous.”
She sat beside me and took my hands in hers. The size of her hands was the only thing that might have given her away, but next to my bony, pale fingers hers were beautiful and dark and alive. “Listen, a lot of the people you’re going to see tonight are pretty … rough. Don’t let them scare you off, okay?”
“Okay,” I whispered.
“But don’t treat them like freaks either,” she said. “Just open your eyes and see them the way they really are. They’re all beautiful, okay?” I nodded. She squeezed my hand.
I heard the door open and close, and voices drifted in from the front room. A short, round man with smooth, beardless cheeks and spiky blond hair swaggered in. Virginia introduced him as Boone and he waved with a grunt. He was followed by a girl with long, straight, shiny black hair and a ratty, patched overcoat that went past her knees. Virginia introduced her as Moira, but if she heard, she didn’t say anything. The girl looked at her feet while she walked, and I wanted to tell her I understood, but part of understanding was knowing that telling her that would only make her nervous.
“Where’s Wanda?” Virginia asked. She sat forward in her chair, elbows tucked in and hands cradling her mug.
“Couldn’t get a sitter,” the man said. His voice was high and raspy. “Who’s the kid?”
“What is your name, actually?” Virginia said, arching an eyebrow.
“Andrew,” I said. My rib cage started to collapse. My heart thumped in my ears.
“Is that your real name?”
A woman with broad shoulders and a faint shadow of a beard under her makeup entered next. She looked strong and stout, but the longer I looked the more I saw the beauty in her—here a light step, here a brief touch of the hair, here a wide, open smile. Boone said, “Evening, Rhonda,” to greet her.
“Amanda,” I said then. “It’s … I mean it’s not my name, but I always wanted it to be. So, Amanda, I guess.”
“Would you like it if we called you that?” Moira asked. Her dark-ringed eyes bore down on me, but the corners of her mouth turned up in a faint smile.
“I’m not sure,” I said. My chest felt tight but warm and my breathing was shallow. “I think I want that.”
“Well, then, I would like to introduce my friend Amanda to everyone,” Virginia said, squeezing my hand and smiling. My eyes burned suddenly, and when I rubbed my cheek, my hand came away wet. I tried to remember the last time I had been able to cry.
6
Anna insisted on giving me a ride to the party Saturday night. Dad and I had been avoiding each other for most of the week, but he actually looked like he might smile when she picked me up in front of the apartment complex in her family’s green minivan. Maybe the religious bumper stickers stuck all over the van’s backside like wallpaper reassured him I was making friends with the right people.
We pulled up to the house as the setting sun limned the western mountains in red and purple. The house was white and ranch-style and looked like it could be on the cover of Southern Living. A garden overflowed with flowers in full bloom. I knew all of their names: Indian pinks, white rain lilies, Stokes aster, false indigo. Mom had taught me them years before, until Dad found me gardening, and they fought.
Inside, music rattled the floors and kids were packed together tightly, red Solo cups in hand. A keg stood by the entrance to the kitchen, a line snaking around the corner. Chloe and Layla waved us over as soon as we walked in, giving us both hugs. In the last week I’d been given more hugs than in my entire life combined. I was anxious about anyone touching me and my reflex was to tense up and jump away, but once I took a deep breath and relaxed I found that I actually enjoyed it, that momentary contact that said you weren’t alone.
Chloe directed me toward the kitchen, telling the other girls we’d get them drinks—beer for Layla and water for Anna, who didn’t drink. I started to say I didn’t drink either, but then I remembered I had gotten high two days before, and suddenly a beer hardly felt adventurous at all.
When it was just the two of us, Chloe leaned in close. “Thanks again,” she said. “For Thursday.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I told her with a smile.
She tapped her red cup against mine. “You know everybody here talks about how much other people talk,” she said. I was pretty sure that was more words together than I had heard her use all week. “But the more they talk about how shameful it is, the more they do it.”
Behind us, Layla and Anna were fiddling with our host’s iPhone and speakers. They shrieked happily as a new song came on.
“If you ever want someone to talk to,” I told her, “I know how to keep a secret.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later I sat on a countertop staring out at the sea of people filling the house. Anna, Layla, and Chloe were all talking to other people, so I tried to look busy as I sipped gingerly from my red plastic cup and tapped my heel in time with the Top 40 hits blaring over the speaker. I was unimpressed with beer—it tasted like stale bread and water, and it wasn’t making me feel any different.
“Um … hey,” a deep voice called, almost drowned out by the music and the crowd. I looked up and saw Parker standing a few feet away, a nervous expression on his face.
“Hey,” I said, trying to act nonchalant. Something about his heavy-lidded gaze always set me on edge. “Congrats on the game the other night.”
“We lost.”
“It was still the most fun I’ve ever had watching sports,” I said, shrugging. “Seems like there should be a prize for that.”
“Oh,” he said, looking away. His cheeks flushed red and it occurred to me that he was nervous. I felt guilty all of a sudden, as if just by existing and talking to him I was leading him on. It gave me a strange sense of power, and not one that I liked.
“Can I get you a beer?”
“I already—” I began, but he said, “I’ll go get you one” abruptly and disappeared into the crowd. I let out a long sigh as I watched him go.
Only seconds had passed when Grant appeared in front of me. He wore a heather-gray T-shirt and well-worn jeans, looking completely at ease, his jet-black hair tousled like he’d stuck his head out a car window on the freeway.
“So, hey,” he said, giving me a mischievous smile. “I might be confused, but the idea of a party, generally, is to have fun.”
“I’m having fun,” I said, taking another sip of beer.
I had rehearsed this encounter all afternoon as I got ready. In the shower, I pretended I barely knew he existed, looking cool and aloof. As I blew out my hair, I threw caution to the wind and flirted mercilessly with him. While I got dressed, I gave innocent and naïve a shot. No more plans came to me when I got around to putting on makeup, and now that he was actually in front of me, I realized I didn’t even have to try.
“You’ve been staring at the ceiling for the last ten minutes.”
“Well, then you’ve clearly been staring at me.”
“Can you blame me?” he said, shaking his head and laughing. “I just really wanna make sure you have a good time.”
“I’m having a good time, I promise.” I was starting to feel a little dizzy and realized the beer was finally having an effect. “I like this song a lot! It’s, um, my favori
te.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt anything by Kesha is your favorite.”
“It could be!” He stared me down, plastering a maddeningly neutral look on his features. I broke in seconds. “Okay, fine. I only really listen to techno.”
“Come with me then,” he said, gesturing as he headed across the room. My head was buzzing pleasantly as I hopped down and followed him.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught Parker emerging from the kitchen, a red cup in each hand, craning his neck to look for me. The crowd parted at the other end of the room to reveal Grant swiping through the iPhone, his eyes intent on the screen. I tried to peek over his shoulder but he tapped the screen one last time, turned, and smiled at me triumphantly. The familiar, tinny beat of Daft Punk hit my ears, barely audible at first but quickly building. Grant bit his lip and bobbed his head in time with the music. I finished my drink, set the cup on the table, and joined him.
The vocals kicked in, a digitized voice commanding me to work harder, become better, faster, and stronger, reminding me my work was never over, and I felt so good, all of my fear gone somewhere else for the night. Grant took my hands, and I didn’t shrink from his touch. Our fingers were the same length, I noticed, but his were much wider and stronger. He led me into the crowd, and when we took steps our feet moved in time with the beat, my hips following suit. Bodies pressed and swirled around me, but I didn’t mind. I always avoided crowds instinctively, but tonight the crush of bodies actually felt comforting. Dancing with a boy for the first time in my entire life, I felt like a part of the people around me, like another cell in a healthy body instead of a hidden disease.
The song ended abruptly and I realized I was dizzy and a little nauseated. I squeezed Grant’s arm, smiled, and jerked my head toward the corner, trying to indicate that I needed a moment to breathe. He nodded, ran his strong fingers through his wild hair, and grinned.
Crushed by the crowd, I navigated to a back wall, leaning against it. As I took long, even breaths, trying to slow my racing heart, my eyes were drawn to a photo on the mantel, of a dozen young boys roughhousing on a log. One of them must have been our host, but the one on the far right was clearly Grant, and his arms were wrapped around a smaller, light-haired boy I found myself staring at. They both had sunburned cheeks and dripping-wet hair, their faces wide with huge, earnest smiles. I wondered who the other boy was. Did Grant have a brother I didn’t know about yet?
If I Was Your Girl Page 4