Radical

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Radical Page 14

by E. M. Kokie


  I stash my work clothes in the storage room and walk quickly to the back door.

  “Bex?” Mike leans out from the office. “Where are you going all cleaned up?”

  “Out with friends.”

  “Which friends?” Uncle Skip asks, standing in the doorway to the office. “Girls from out there?” He follows “out there” with a little shake of his head.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say. “See you later.”

  I don’t give him a chance to ask any more questions.

  It takes no time at all to cut across the back field, hop the fence, and get to the service road, then I cross another stretch of grass to the road the church is on. At the curve before the church, a horn sounds behind me, and I turn to see Lucy’s wagon pulling up.

  “Hey, need a lift?” Lucy flips her sunglasses up on top of her head. I get in, put my backpack by my feet, and buckle the seat belt. When I look up, Lucy is rebuckling her seat belt. She would only have unbuckled it so she could reach me. So we could kiss. I start to unbuckle mine again, but she’s dropped her sunglasses down over her eyes and is pulling onto the road, heading west.

  “Where to?” she asks. “Did you eat?”

  “Dinner? No.” I run through the places we could go and not be seen. I calculate the odds of pissing her off if I suggest somewhere no one will know me. “Did you?”

  “Nope. And I feel like pizza. I know a great place.”

  Please not Gino’s. Please not Gino’s. Please not —

  “You don’t mind a drive, do you? It’s about a half-hour away but worth it.”

  My stomach crawls back down into my gut and my heart slows. “I never mind a drive,” I say, smiling at her.

  “Great.” She gives the wagon some gas and changes lanes.

  She starts singing along to the radio, the wind through the windows whipping her hair around, and that confident smile on her face. Maybe I should pinch myself.

  As we drive, my muscles relax. First my legs. Then my arms and shoulders. My neck. We don’t really talk, just comment on things we pass or songs on the radio. I can’t believe I’m here with her.

  “Rough day?” she asks, finally pulling off the highway.

  “No. Why?”

  “You’ve been quiet, and you just let out a big sigh like you were finally shaking off the day.”

  “I didn’t mean to be quiet or, well . . . Did you want to talk? We could’ve talked or . . .”

  “It’s fine. I didn’t mind. I just wondered.” A few turns and we’re in the heart of a small town, on a side street where she pulls up next to a pickup and lines up to park.

  “I don’t think it will fit.”

  “That’s what he said.” Lucy laughs at her own joke.

  She eyes the car behind her and then backs up slowly, cutting the wheel and sliding into the spot. Then she turns around and uses both hands on the wheel to slot the car right in between the other two. She doesn’t even have to correct forward.

  She is so pleased with herself. She’s probably pleased with herself a lot.

  Out of the car, I get a look at her. Another dress, but this one is newer, with little sleeves and pockets. And she’s wearing sandals instead of boots. When she twirls onto the sidewalk, the skirt poofs out a little. Her eyes glitter with mischief. On impulse, I take her hand, but then I see an older couple walking toward us and I let go.

  The place looks like a bar, but Lucy banks left when we walk in, and there are booths and tables, paper place mats with maps of Italy. She slides into a booth near the window. I scan the other tables. No one’s looking at us.

  She quizzes me about how I like my pizza, and I let her order.

  When they bring her iced tea, she dumps in four packets of sugar, takes a sip, adds another packet, sips again, and then nods approvingly.

  “I miss sweet tea,” she says. “That’s about all I miss, but I miss it a lot.”

  “What about your parents?”

  She shrugs. “We text. And I’ll see them in August.” She stirs some more, then takes another sip.

  “Any siblings?”

  “Nope. Just me. No cousins, either. At least unless Uncle Trevor and Dennis decide to get his-and-his matching designer babies.”

  I look at the other tables.

  “But, frankly, I don’t see that happening. They like to travel and party too much. Too much linen and silk and cashmere in their wardrobes.”

  “So he’s . . .”

  “A photographer. And his husband is a makeup artist. They met on some commercial shoot twelve years ago.”

  I look around again. No one else seems to have heard, but I lean in a little closer so I can talk more quietly, so maybe Lucy will, too.

  “Your grandparents are okay with that?”

  “With him not having kids?” Lucy asks, louder than necessary.

  “No. With him being . . .”

  Lucy stares, confused, but she can’t really be. “Gay?” she asks, way too loud. “Now they are. I mean, they’re not all PFLAGed up like my parents, but they’re fine with it. Aren’t yours?” I squirm in my seat. “It’s okay if they’re not.” She looks at me. “Or . . . if you’re not . . . out?” she asks, but I’m not sure it really is okay.

  The pizza arrives before I can say anything, and there is a mess of shifting glasses and napkins and a back-and-forth with the waitress about hot-pepper flakes and more tea, and more sugar, before I have to answer.

  I take a large bite of pizza to buy time, scorching the roof of my mouth, gasping in air, and trying to peel the molten cheese off. I swallow the bite, still scalding and nearly whole, and then gulp my pop, trying to cool my mouth and throat.

  “It really is okay,” she says. “I mean, I just assumed they’d know because . . .” She takes another bite and chews, using her pizza to motion to my hair and the rest of me. “But if they don’t know, that’s okay. I don’t care. Not like some of these dykes who make it all political.”

  I force myself to swallow the pop without choking too bad. I can’t believe she just said “dyke.” Not even whispering.

  She looks at me, and then around the restaurant, and then back at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” I pick up my pizza and take another bite. I chew and swallow, watching her do the same. I glance around. No one is looking at us. No one cares. The pizza really is good. “This is great.”

  “See?” she says, relaxing. “What’d I tell you?”

  The waitress brings us more to drink, and we talk in between devouring most of the pizza. As we slow down to picking at our respective last slices, I realize that at some point I stopped feeling on display. I forgot that anyone else might be listening in. Lucy tells me about North Carolina and her parents and some of her friends. About college and her grandparents. And I forget to be worried. About this. About being seen. About anything.

  I pay, leaving what I hope is a nice-enough tip, and then we’re on the street, walking back to the ice-cream place we passed on our way from the car.

  Inside, the AC is cold enough to raise penguins, and there’s a crowd. We take our place in line and wait. Lucy is bouncing up and down, rubbing her arms, freezing in her little dress. I shrug out of my button-down and hold it out to her. My bare arms prickle up fast, but everything else feels real good watching her shrug on my shirt. She tries to pull it closed across her chest, which is far from happening. We both laugh.

  “I’d be mortified if I wasn’t so cold.” She laughs some more and hangs on my arm.

  I rub my palms on the rough sides of my cargo shorts, and then realize that what I’m feeling is a stare from the right. A couple sitting at one of the few tables is looking at us, dissecting us. Dissecting me. They’re staring at my chest, trying to figure out what I am. Lately, people have been staring at my head instead.

  When I turn to look at the menu board above the heads of the scoopers, I notice the guys up front jostling and laughing, checking out Lucy. They barely look at me, but their girls do. One stares, a disgusted
look on her face. I want to leave, but Lucy is already picking out flavors.

  One of the guys says, “I’ll warm her up,” and the others laugh, loud and ugly. Lucy turns to me too deliberately and says too brightly, “What kind are you getting?”

  She knows they’re talking about her. She knows. “Not sure.” She’s aware of it all. “What about you?”

  “Mmmm,” she says, drawing it out and studying the case now that we’re close enough to see in. “I’m intrigued by the key-lime pie, but that could be a mistake if it’s really fakey lime with bits of cardboardy crust. I could get coffee chip or chocolate marshmallow. I’m not sure.” She takes my hand. “They all look good.”

  I’m afraid to move. Afraid to look at them. Afraid to look at her and let her see my eyes. But I also can’t let go of her hand. It’s like she’s asking me to stand here with her, and I can’t say no.

  “Sick,” one of them hisses.

  I don’t look but I feel the group moving past us, their space pushing at ours.

  “You should ditch that and come with us,” says one of the guys. Without even turning, we both know they’re talking to Lucy. “You can sit on my lap.” Laughter.

  She doesn’t react at all. I stare at the mint chip and brace for impact. If I have to fight, I will. But I’ll have to get Lucy behind me. Maybe the old couple will keep them from doing anything, at least in here. But in here would be better than later, outside. The bell on the door jingles and jingles, and then there’s quiet. Quiet enough to hear the whir of the AC and some music on somewhere in the back. Lucy squeezes my hand and then lets go.

  “The chocolate marshmallow. Definitely. Two scoops?” she says to the girl behind the counter. “In a cup. With sprinkles.” She’s pleased with her choice. “Bex?”

  “Strawberry,” I say, without even thinking about it. “In a cone.” Just like I’m five.

  We stand there in the shop, both taking our first tastes. Lucy makes yummy sounds. I scope out the scene outside, checking if any of those guys are still there. I walk over to the trash can near the door and take my time throwing away a napkin and getting another, and another, scanning the street.

  “Want to walk?” She looks so happy with her ice cream, so at ease. Even the old couple seems to have forgotten about us. “Come on,” she says, moving toward the door.

  Outside, it’s warmer, but Lucy keeps my shirt.

  I scan the street in all directions and look toward where the car is parked to see what’s ahead. I glance back behind us as we start to walk.

  “They’re gone,” Lucy says, and so is her overly bright giddiness. She takes another heaping spoonful, tilting her head to catch the sprinkles falling off her spoon.

  “How do you know?” I ask, still scanning the street.

  “Jerks like that are all talk.” I stare at her, wondering how she knows that, how for sure, and then her serious face breaks. “And I saw them drive off heading out of town in the opposite direction.”

  “I didn’t think you saw them at first.” I lick around the bottom of the cone to keep it from dripping.

  “They were looking when we came in. That’s why their girls were pissed. But then they figured it out.” She pauses to eat a huge spoonful. “They were embarrassed for getting caught looking. The rest was cover.”

  “You don’t seem fazed at all.”

  “I’m used to it.” She takes a seat on a bench. “I had boobs at eleven. By twelve I looked sixteen. You get used to being looked at, to shit being said. When I started dating girls, it got weirder, more hostile. But most of the time it’s all talk.”

  I realize I’m still staring at her chest, and look away. “Most of the time?”

  She takes a big bite of ice cream, works it around in her mouth, swallows. “Yes.”

  She doesn’t want to talk about it, but there’s a slip in her “I’m cool” cover. They did freak her out, more than a little.

  I push the ice cream into my cone with my tongue and start biting around the rim of the cone.

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “Come on,” she says. “You get shit, too. You have to.”

  I shrug and keep eating.

  “Fine.” She tosses the nearly empty cup in the trash, a little harder than necessary.

  “Sure,” I say. “But not like that. Mostly it’s people trying to figure out what I am, sometimes a mumbled ‘freak’ or some guys might drop ‘dyke’ or whatever. But not like that. Not like they’re checking me out or anything.” I finish my cone and get up to throw away the napkins in the can on her side of the bench. “Guys don’t look at me that way.”

  Guys have never looked at me the way those guys looked at Lucy, which is fine by me. Now it seems like it’s always the ones who would stare at girls like Lucy who go out of their way to be nasty to me. I’ve thought I might have to fight before, but that was a hundred times scarier.

  I hold out my hand. She takes it and we continue walking toward the car, hands swinging between us.

  “But the ‘What are you?’ crap sucks,” she says, like she knows.

  “Sometimes.” She gives me a look, like fair’s fair. “Yeah. When it’s a kid or just a double take, whatever, fine. But it sucks when people get mad. Like it’s suddenly my problem that they feel uncomfortable or whatever.” Like my being in the next stall while they pee is dangerous to them. “They act like I’m doing it on purpose just to screw with them. Or like I’m cheating or something.”

  She nods. “My friend Jenny transitioned in ninth. People got really weird about it. Some of the lesbians worst of all. Like a straight trans girl was an affront to everything ever.”

  Straight trans . . . Wait. What?

  “Can I ask you something?” Lucy asks, stopping me before I can get in the car. I feel the heat in my face already. I don’t even understand what she just said, and now she’s going to ask me something I don’t know how to answer and think I’m stupid. “What happened?” She reaches out and touches my cheek where the scrapes were.

  Oh. Okay. I touch my cheek. “It was nothing.” I walk around the car to get in. After she is in, she sits there, waiting for more. “Really,” I say, hoping we can postpone this conversation until later. I have no idea what she would think about Clearview or how much to say. We haven’t really talked about politics or anything that would tell me if she would even understand training, or if it would weird her out. And I still don’t really get if Clearview is supposed to be a secret or not, or how much of it is supposed to be a secret.

  She’s quiet. Not making any move to drive. She’s looking at me like she thinks someone has been beating on me, like I need protection. If only she knew.

  “I would have protected you.” I didn’t mean to say that, but now that it’s said I don’t take it back.

  “From those guys?”

  “Yes.”

  She looks dubious. “From three guys who are bigger than you. And their girls.”

  “Maybe not all at once, but good enough to get us away, or get you away, anyway. I’ve been training.”

  “Training? Like fighting?”

  “Defensive tactics. Hand-to-hand. But, yeah, fighting.”

  “That’s what the bruises and scratches were from?”

  “Yes.”

  She thinks it over. “You’d really have taken them on?”

  “I wouldn’t have started it,” I say. “And if there was any way to just defuse it and leave, I would. I’m not stupid.” She nods. “But if they tried to touch you?” I wait for her to look up from under a curtain of dark brown hair. “Then yes. I would have put myself between them and you. And they would not have touched you.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  I can’t tell if she’s mad or impressed or something else. “I’m sure you can. You did, in fact. But I just wanted you to know that. I was being cautious, making sure they were gone, because I wasn’t looking for a fight. But if they’d tried something, I would have protec
ted you.”

  She takes a deep breath and lets it out. I’m not exactly sure what it means, but it feels important.

  I scoot across the seat, duck under her hair, and kiss her. Just a small kiss, and then another, and then she turns toward me and opens her mouth, and this is where I’ve wanted to be all day, all week. Forever.

  We kiss for a few minutes, just kissing. Last time I was so nervous, and then it was all almost too much, and hours later I couldn’t remember all these things I wanted to remember, to relive. I try to focus on the details of kissing her, how her mouth feels, how soft her lips are, the sounds she makes. I slide my hand into her hair and let my other hand rest on her leg, over her dress, just keeping us connected. I can smell her skin. She touches my arm, holding me close, and we take turns kissing until we both lean back. I know we should go, and not keep kissing in a car, on display here. Maybe she does, too.

  She puts the key in the ignition and tucks her hair behind her ears, smooths out her dress, like she’s trying to make herself presentable. I shift around until my baggy cargos aren’t all twisted and bunched, then fasten my seat belt.

  I love kissing her. And how she smells.

  “Where to now? Unless you need to go home?”

  “I don’t really have a curfew.” Not when Mom’s staying with Aunt Lorraine and Dad thinks I’m out with Cammie and Karen or whoever.

  “My grandparents are out. Won’t be home until late. We could go there?”

  “If they wouldn’t mind,” I say, testing if that’s what she wants.

  “Nope.” She smiles and her face flushes. “They won’t mind.”

  I hold her hand across the seat while she drives.

  Lucy’s grandparents’ house is about as far east of the station as Uncle Skip’s house is west. Like Uncle Skip’s place, it’s surrounded by what used to be family farms, but her grand-

 

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