Kirsten was fun to be around. Wild and crazy, sort of reckless. Unlike me, Ms. Boring and Predictable.
Leah started for the entrance and I caught up. “Are you all right?” I nudged her shoulder with mine. “You seem a little distant, to quote Kirs.”
Leah smiled. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
She opened her mouth, then shut it. Gazing wistfully across the ice, she said, “I miss the old days.”
I frowned. “What old days?”
She looked at me. “When we were kids. Coming here. Skating for hours. Playing tag and keep-away. I’m going to miss all this.” Her arm extended to include more than the lake.
We dodged a bunch of rowdy boys who were dogging these girls ahead of us. Making them giggle and scream. I guess I knew what Leah meant. Life was easier when we were kids. It wasn’t so much about change and choice and moving on. We lived for the moment. Time was eternal.
I linked my arm with Leah’s. “Tell you what. I’ll buy us a banana split with extra whipped cream and two cherries on too. For old times’ sake.”
“In your dreams,” she said. “I’d have to diet for a week.”
***
I was just drifting off to sleep Sunday night when Seth called. My eyelids were lead weights after poring over the same page in Beowulf six hundred times. Not one word had registered. “Is Faith gone?” he asked.
“Yes.” I yawned. “But Neal’s here.”
“I don’t care,” Seth said. “I’m coming over.”
He hung up before I could protest. Not that I didn’t want to see him; but it was Sunday. A school night.
First thing he did after I trailed him downstairs to my room was unzip his jeans. “Jesus, Seth. You didn’t even ask.”
He paused with his jeans around his hips. “Don’t you want to?” he said.
I sighed and plopped on the bed. Scotching up against the headboard, I hugged my knees and answered, “It’s not that. I just…” I stalled.
“What?” Seth searched my face. “What, Holl?”
“Whenever we’re alone, this is all we do.”
He rezipped his jeans. Perching on the mattress beside me, he said, “We don’t get that much time alone, babe. Since you won’t do it in the car and we can’t be together when faith’s here. Now school nights are out.”
I got the message. “Remember how we used to talk? For like hours and hours, we’d just talk. We never talk anymore.”
“We talk every day,” he said. “I see you at lunch, and I call you almost every night. We’re together on the weekends as much as possible.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and dropped my head to my knees. Seth stretched out beside me, snaking an arm around my waist and drawing me close. “We can talk,” he said. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know,” I murmured.
“I love you,” he whispered in my ear. “I know I don’t say it enough. I love you, I love you, I love you. Is that what you want to hear?”
It wasn’t. I aready knew that. “When did we stop being friends?” I raised my head.
He pulled back a little. “We’re still friends. You the best friend I’ve ever had.” He studied me. “It’s different with girls, I know. But don’t you think of me as your friend?”
“Yeah, I do. Of course I do. It’s just…” Just what, Holland? Tell him.
Tell him how you want to go back to the way it used to be. Before the sex, the commitment. Oh, yeah. He’d be stoked about that.
Seth kissed my ear, then my neck, my lower neck. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t respond to him. What was wrong with me? He was great, wonderful, perfect. He was everything a girl could ever want.
Then why, long after he was gone, did I lie awake and ache inside for something more?
Chapter 8
The cold at first. The swelling of lungs. Then the force. Fighting it, straining against it. Harder, stronger. Glide. Kick. Breathe.
Faster and faster. Moving, moving.Away from it. Toward it. Get there.
My inner voice chanted, “Get there, get there, get there.”
Get where? I asked.
No answer came.
Concrete grazed my fingertips at the same time my head burst through the surface of the pool. My chest hurt. Every muscle in my body burned. How long had I been swimming? Too long at speed. My eyes stung. I closed them, hung over the edge until the dizziness evaporated. Then I hauled myself out of the pool and padded to the locker room for a hot shower.
“Holland, hi.”
I jumped. Usually I was alone at this time of day.
“If I had your self-discipline, I could look like your mother. But alas, my fat cells rebel against shrinkage.”
I smiled at Mrs. Lucas. “What are you doing here?” My voice sounded harsh, accusatory. The way I felt – intruded upon.
She didn’t notice, unfortunately. Slipping a sweatband over her head, she answered, “We started an early morning faculty shape-up program. Work those biceps.” She hefted imaginary weights.
I cursed her silently. My only private time. I really needed to be alone right now. To think. To not think. I grabbed a couple of towels from the laundry cart by the door and headed for the showers. Mrs. Lucas followed. “Did you get through all those catalog? Have you decided where to apply?”
“Not yet,” I told her, screeching on the hot water faucet. “I was swamped with homework all weekend.” Which was true. We were only into week two of the term and I was already struggling to keep up. Zero motivation didn’t help.
“Well, don’t wait too long. Most of those applications have to be postmarked by February fist.”
“I know,” I sniped. Calm yourself, Holland. God. “I’ll do it tonight.” I twisted my head and smiled at her. Wished her gone.
“Did you get your invitation?”
I didn’t answer; just plunged into the shower and zoned.
***
Cece was sitting on the floor in front of her locker, poring over an X-Men comic book. Her coffee cup was on the carpet next to her, the box of donuts opened to the world. “You’re going to get fat,” I said before spinning my combination lock out of control. Could I be more surly? I turned to apologize.
Cece hadn’t heard, or was ignoring me. I opened my locker and looked in the mirror. I had to stand on tiptoes to see her. She’d taken a bite of a chocolate donut and was waving it in the air, baiting me.
I smiled to myself. Not to myself. Leaving my locker wide open, I sauntered across the hall and examined the contents of the box. Most of the donuts were broken pieces or misshapen rejects. “These are the poorest excuse for donuts I’ve ever seen.” I squatted and selected a chunk – coconut frosted. “Whatever you paid, you got ripped off.”
She closed the comic book. “Since I didn’t pay anything, I’d say I got a deal.”
“Free donuts?” My eyebrows shot up. “Where?”
“Hott ’N Tott,” she said. “My uncle’s shop. Or as we fondly refer to it – and to him – Hot to Trot.”
I laughed.
She smiled. “I only get them for free because I work there.”
My thigh muscles were seizing up, straining on my haunches like this. Up or down? My knees decided. Curling cross-legged on the other side of the donut box, I asked, “Where is this place? Hot to Trot Donuts?”
She cricked a lip. “Over on Speer and Colfax. By Wash Central.”
I nodded. Still didn’t know where it was. Washington Central was like the netherworld, the other side of the city. The warning bell clanged overhead and I crammed the donut into my mouth. Scrambling to my feet, I darted across the hall.
“Here’s the app,” she said suddenly at my side.
“The what? Oh.” The “Lesbian Bisexual Gay” title jumped off the top line. I took the club application from her and skimmed over it as I slammed my locker.
“When’s your next meeting?” she asked.
“Today, actually.” I slid the app into a spiral. “During lu
nch.”
“Okay.” We stood there for a moment, sort of awkwardly. My heart was racing. I don’t know who moved first, but we began walking down the hall together. Close together. She stopped at the intersection. Or I did. “Let me know what they say,” Cece said. “I’ll see you in art.” She gazed into my eyes, holding me in a trance. When I regained consciousness, she’d retreated. Disappeared into the mist. I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Why did she make me feel as if I was teetering on the brink of a precipice? One false step and I’d plunge into the abyss.
***
To be different, I decided to hold the student council meeting during lunch at the Pizza Hut across the street. Mr. Olander kicked off the meeting by informing us he’d gotten a request from Admin to help organize a leadership conferenced at southglenn in May. We discussed how many rooms to reserve and what topics would be of interest. The details multiplied exponentially as we talked, so I suggested we form a subcommittee. Seth volunteered himself and me to serve on it.
That earned him my most threatening I-wash-you-hadn’t-done-that glare. He knew my schedule was already on overkill.
We divvied up duties for the community service projects, too, before Olander said, “Okay, if there’s nothing else, motion to adjourn –”
“Wait,” I cut in. “There is something.” I dug in my backpack for the application. “I got a new club request.” I’d shoved it inside my Brit Lit spiral, which lay at the bottom of the stack. “Let me find it.”
“What is it this time?” Seth spoke up. “Death Eaters Anonymous?”
A few people laughed. The Goths were the last group to apply for – and be denied – club status, since they couldn’t find an advisor. “It’s a Lesbigay group,” I said.
All the air in the room was sucked up.
“The queers want a club? Forget it.”
Who said that? My head whipped around. Kirsten?
“Let me see.” She snatched the app out of my hand. “Ms. Markenko agreed to be their faculty rep?” She clucked her tongue. “I always figured her for a big dyke.”
“Kirsten! God.” I yanked the form back.
“Sorry,” she said, not sounding it.
“We had this kind of request over at Mitchell, my last school,” Olander said.
“What happened?” I asked him.
“Nothing. Too controversial.”
My blood boiled. “So we turn clubs down because they’re too controversial?”
He looked a little squeamish. “Well…”
“Isn’t that unconstitutional?” I said. “What about the first Amendment? What about freedom of speech, freedom of association?”
Kirsten replied, “The First Amendment doesn’t apply to public school settings, right?” She queried Olander, who looked like he’d rather be pithing a frog than dealing with this.
“Wait a minute –” my voice rose.
Seth reached across the table and squeezed my wrist. “Don’t we come off looking like a bunch of intolerant bigots if we turn them down?”
“Thank you,” I said to him.
Kirsten quipped, “What do you think Zero Tolerance Policy means?”
A few people sniggered.
I riddled Kirsten with eye bullets. “Very funny.”
“Cece Goddard.” Kirsten flattened the app on the table to read it upside down. “Who’s she?”
“She’s new,” I said. “She just transferred from Washington Central.” To the group, I added, “Obviously they’re more progressive there than we are here.”
Everyone lowered their eyes, looking embarrassed. They should be. We should be. My eyes focused on Cece’s name, then below it to the question: Estimated number of members. Fifteen, she’d written. Fifteen? Did we have that many gays at our school?
Kirsten said, “We’re not behind the times, and I don’t think we need a gay club at Southglenn. Just because some radical lesbian want to promote her own agenda, I don’t see why we have to comply.”
I clucked my tongue. “It’s not like that. She doesn’t have an agenda. She isn’t some kind of militant feminist, or whatever you think. She’s cool. She’s great.” Better shut up, I thought, feeling the heat rising to my face.
Kirsten curled a lip.
“What?” I met her eyes. We had a brief star-down before Kirsten shook her head and looked away.
Mr. Olander sighed and glanced at his watch. “We have a few minutes. Read the application, Holland.”
I read aloud, “Their goal is ‘to meet and discuss problems and issues common to the gay community. To socialize. To hold fund-raising events for AIDS and other –’”
Someone murmured, “Next thing you know, they’ll want free condoms in the restrooms.”
Kirsten’s hand shot up. “I’d vote for that.”
Everyone howled. Olander said, “I’ll check into school policy, but if it’s anything like Mitchell, we’ll have to deny the request.”
“Why?” I screeched. A little too loud, even for my ears.
He replied, “It’s too exclusive. If they want a school-sanctioned club, they’ll have to open their membership to anyone who wants to join. Not just a select group, like the one they’ve described. Plus, if they’re not sanctioned, they can’t do any fundraising on the premises.”
Shit. I jammed the app back in my notebook. As we stood to leave, Kirsten asked, “Could we still get the free condoms?”
At the curb, waiting for the crosswalk signal, I cornered her. “Why are you so against this club?”
Kirsten shrugged. “Why are you so for it?”
The light changed and Kirsten took off, not waiting for my answer. Good thing, because I didn’t really have one.
***
“You’ll be keeping a sketchbook to record your daily observations,” Mackel told us, slinging a leg over the stool up front. “Don’t worry about accuracy or realism. I just want you to focus on everyday things, to see them in a new way. I want you to develop your own approach to art as personal expression.”
Personal how? How personal?
My eyes cut to Cece, who was reading her comic book in her lap. How was I going to tell her about the club? Maybe she’d forget to ask. Maybe Harvard would let me in on looks.
Mackel continued, “We’re going to do an exercise today in seeing details the way an artist might.” He directed someone in the front row to flick off the overhead light and lower the white screen. Mackel retrieved a remote control for the slide projector, pressed a button, and illuminated the first slide. “What do you see?” he asked.
Someone called out, “A fence.”
“Duh,” Winslow quipped beside me.
Mackel asked, “What else?”
“Snow.”
“And?”
“The void, utter wastelands of our minds,” Winslow piped up.
Mackel chuckled. “Better. Let’s not make value judgments on others, though. Concentrate on what you can see. Really look. Squint of you have to.”
Shadows, I thought. Someone yelled, “Shadows.”
“Good.”
Lines, spaces, shapes, contrast, rough surfaces, smooth surfaces, cold. “Holland,” Mackel called my name.
I flinched.
“What do you see?”
“Um…” I gulped a grapefruit, then voiced my observations. He clicked to the next slide. Was I right? I caught Cece peering back at me and smiling. Guess so.
We continued this exercise for another fifteen minutes until Mackel ran out of slides or we ran out of enthusiasm. As the lights came back on, he said, “We’re going to repeat last week’s assignment. My fault for not giving you more direction. I haven’t taught Drawing I in a few years, as you can probably tell.
“Again, choose a single object in the room to sketch. Focus on the form. Examine the object carefully, more closely then you’ve ever looked at anything before. Feel free to wander around and get inspired. I’ll play some music. Hopefully it’ll stir the creative juices.” He set a boom box on the s
tool and punched a button Classical music streamed out.
It was soothing. I never listened to classical. Seth called it snooze muse. He hated country, too.
Okay, pick something. A chair, the door, a pottery vase on the shelf. Not very intriguing. I scanned the room a few more times. The only thing my focus kept returning to was the back of her head. There was texture there. Form, movement, interest. I flipped open my sketchbook and began to draw.
***
She was waiting for me in the hall after class. Great. Motioning her to an enclave by the drinking fountain, I said, “The rejected it.”
“No.” She slapped her chest. “What a surprise.” Looking off into the distance, she narrowed her eyes and said, “This place makes me sick. I really hate it here. It’s like all the homophobes were exiled to this school.”
“No they weren’t.” There might be a couple.
“Nobody’s even out here. Haven’t you ever wondered why?” Cece’s eyes met mine.
“I, I guess I didn’t think we had any gays.”
She let out a short laugh. “Holland, open your eyes.”
I did, and only saw her.
She shook her head. “What was their reason for rejecting us?”
“They didn’t reject you. Mr. Olander said it wasn’t inclusive enough. Official clubs need to be open to all the students.” I pulled out the form. “Maybe you could add –”
“Straights.” Cece’s head bobbed. “A Gay/Straight Alliance, right? Gee, I’ll have to up the membership to sixteen.” She snatched the app from my hand. “Sorry. We don’t want a GSA. At least, I don’t. Straights don’t understand what we’re about, what we’re going through. We can’t talk about stuff that really matters, like coming out. Like dealing with harassment. Like sex.”
My mouth went suddenly dry. “Okay. That makes sense. I’ll try again.” I reached for the application.
Keeping You a Secret Page 5