by John Cariani
Michelle turned to Justin, who was staring at the glove box. “Do you think I should be sad about it?” she asked.
Justin didn’t say anything. For a while. Because he was trying to figure out what he thought about what Michelle had just told him.
Which made Michelle think that he thought she should be sad about it.
And they sat in the kind of silence that wasn’t comfortable—but that talking would make less comfortable.
A rap on the passenger-door window interrupted the silence. Michelle and Justin jumped a little, and Michelle made sure she didn’t look like she had been crying, and Justin grabbed the crank handle down by his knee and rolled down his window. A large woman in a forest-ranger uniform was peering into the LeSabre. In northern Maine, forest rangers could act as the police. Most didn’t. But this one did.
“Evenin’, kids,” said the forest ranger.
“Hi,” said Justin.
“Everything okay in here?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Justin.
“Okay,” said the forest ranger, and she pointed toward the entrance to Last Gas and said, “No loiterin’, okay?”
“Huh?” asked Justin.
The woman pointed harder. And Justin and Michelle saw a NO LOITERING sign above the entrance. “You’ve been sittin’ out here for long enough that you’re loiterin’. So, time to move on.”
“Oh. Yes, ma’am,” said Michelle and Justin.
The forest ranger rapped on the roof of the LeSabre and headed inside Last Gas for a coffee. And probably a doughnut.
And Michelle started her engine and pulled out of the parking lot and headed north on North Road.
“What was that?” asked Justin.
“I don’t know.”
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know. She was probably just makin’ sure we weren’t drinkin’.”
That’s exactly what the forest ranger was doing.
And they drove for a while, the residue of their earlier conversation sticking to their thoughts.
But they didn’t talk.
Michelle wanted to know what Justin thought of her news.
And she wanted him to be happy for her.
But she didn’t dare ask him what he thought—because she sensed that he wasn’t happy for her.
And he wasn’t.
At all.
He was actually angry at her.
Because she had found someone.
And that made him feel like she wasn’t his anymore. And it made him feel like she wasn’t going to be there for him whenever he needed her, like she always had been. Which meant that he couldn’t rely on her to be his girlfriend like he did in high school so people wouldn’t wonder about him. And he couldn’t tell people in Portland that he had a girlfriend named Michelle so he wouldn’t have to go on dates with the guys and the girls who asked him out.
Because Michelle had a real boyfriend now—someone she loved. And who loved her. And Justin had to face the fact that he and Michelle—in spite of how much they had always loved each other—had never been—and never would be—what Michelle and her new boyfriend were.
And that made Justin feel utterly alone.
Because he didn’t think he was ever going to find someone.
Maybe because he wasn’t sure he even wanted to find someone.
Because he had things he wanted to do with his life. Big things.
And he wished Michelle wanted to do big things with her life, too. And then he suddenly asked her, “Don’t you have things you wanna do with your life?”
Michelle was taken aback—and a little irritated—by the question. And she scoffed. And then sneered and then said, “Yeah, I wanna ‘do things with my life.’ I just told you: I wanna have a baby. And a family.”
Justin didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t understand people whose only goals in life were to find love and have a family.
“And I know I’m supposed to want more,” admitted Michelle, softening. “But right now, I don’t.” Justin didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. “Anyway,” continued Michelle, “I want you to be the godfather.”
Justin winced.
He couldn’t even take care of himself. How in the world could she count on him to be the person she trusted her kid with if anything happened to her and the kid’s father?
And he ignored Michelle’s wish that he be the godfather.
And turned on the radio.
Michelle immediately turned it off. Because she wasn’t going to allow Justin to escape into his music like he always did. She was going to force him to be right there in the real world with her.
“Hey!” she said sternly, glancing over at him. “I just asked you to be the godfather to my kid. Is that something you wanna do or not?”
Justin couldn’t bring himself to answer the question.
Michelle scoffed. “Well, I’d like for you to be godfather. To my kid.” She glanced over at Justin. “And I’d like for you to be happy for me. ’Cause I’m happy!” she snarled. And then she waited for Justin to say something. And he didn’t say anything. So she said, “But it doesn’t look like you wanna be either of those things.”
And then they didn’t talk anymore.
They just thought.
And eventually Michelle turned left onto the Road to Nowhere.
And they passed the observatory at Skyview Park.
And then East’s house.
And then St. Mary’s.
And then Ma Dudley’s.
And then the Moose Paddy.
And Echo Lake.
And, at about 8 p.m., they pulled into Aunt Belinda’s driveway.
And Michelle figured Justin would get out of the car. And they’d never see each other again. Which is exactly what had happened the last time they saw each other, on the night they graduated. Michelle had come over to say goodbye. And they went tooling around one last time. And Michelle told Justin that she didn’t know what she was going to do without him—and that she loved him. And Justin told her to take him home. And she did. And Justin got out of the car and went in his house. And Michelle never saw him—or even heard from him again. Until the Friday night when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen.
But this time, Justin didn’t get out of the car.
He just sat there.
And Michelle thought he was going to say something.
But he didn’t.
So Michelle said something.
“You know, you’re just like everybody else,” she scolded. “You wanna think you’re not. But you are.”
If only she knew how untrue that was.
“’Cause everybody else is gonna tell me I should be sad about this. Like you just did.”
“I didn’t say that you should be sad about it,” muttered Justin.
“You said, ‘Don’t you have things you wanna do with your life?’ Which doesn’t make me think you’re too happy about it. But I am. I’m happy I’m gonna have a baby.”
Neither of them said anything for a while.
And then Michelle said, “And, you know, just because you’re sad doesn’t mean everybody else has to be, you know. And just because you don’t need love doesn’t mean other people don’t.”
Justin didn’t say anything and just listened. And stared straight ahead of him. For a while.
And then finally said, “I don’t know if … I can be a godfather.”
“Sure you can!”
And then Michelle felt like Justin was crying even though he didn’t look like it.
“No. I can’t. I have too much I gotta figure out.”
“Who doesn’t?” retorted Michelle.
“No—I have more. To figure out. ’Cause…” And he emitted a deep, single, heaving, moaning sob that sounded like a couple of decades of untold pain.
“Hey—what’s wrong?” asked Michelle. The sound Justin had made seemed like it came from a place inside him that was farther away than the outer reaches of the unive
rse. And he almost started crying—but didn’t. And pulled himself together. And became his stoic self again. And calmly said, “I don’t think I’m a him.”
“Huh?” Michelle had heard Justin. But didn’t quite understand what he had said.
“I don’t think I’m a—”
“Oh,” interrupted Michelle, understanding what Justin was saying.
“—him,” he finished.
“Okay.” Michelle nodded her head a little too vigorously, in the way that people do when they’re trying hard to be supportive.
And then they sat in a northern Maine silence for a while.
And then Justin said, “But I don’t think I’m a her, either.”
“Okay.” Michelle nodded her head a little too vigorously again. And didn’t say anything else and just looked at Justin and waited for him to elaborate. Which he eventually did.
“I thought I was. A her. When we were little. Because I felt like a girl. More than I felt like a boy. But then I started feeling like a boy, too, as I got older.”
“Okay.” Michelle nodded her head a little too vigorously again.
“And then I felt like both a him and a her for a while.”
“Okay.” Michelle nodded her head a little too vigorously again.
“And I thought that I couldn’t be both. And that I was gonna have to … pick. One or the other.”
“Okay.” Michelle nodded her head, but a little less vigorously.
“But then,” Justin continued, “I figured out that I didn’t have to pick. I could just be what I am. I could just be”—Justin looked at his body and then finished his sentence—“this.” And then he looked over at Michelle and said, “So … I’m just gonna be”—Justin looked at his body again and repeated—“this.”
And then he looked over at Michelle again.
“Okay,” said Michelle, nodding her head, less vigorously still.
“Whatever ‘this’”—Justin looked at his body again—“is.”
“Okay.” Michelle wasn’t nodding her head anymore. And she grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
“And I’ve always known. Deep down. I always knew something was different … but I tried not to know—I didn’t want to know—but I knew I was gonna need to figure it out. But I felt like I wasn’t going to be able to really figure it out till I left.”
Northern Maine can be a hard place to figure out things like what Justin had been trying to figure out.
And Justin thought it would be an easier thing to figure out in Portland. And it was—a tiny bit easier. A tiny enough bit that he was able to figure it out.
Michelle suddenly leaned across the front seat of her LeSabre and hugged Justin as well as you can hug someone who’s sitting next to you in a car.
And that’s when Justin cried.
And Michelle had never seen him cry.
Not when his dad kicked him out.
Not when he got beat up at school.
He hadn’t even cried when he found out his uncle Clair had died.
But he was crying now.
Because Michelle had been kind to him. And he desperately needed kindness.
Michelle held Justin while he cried. And Justin held Michelle.
And it wasn’t long before he was cried out.
And he pulled away from Michelle.
And Michelle moved herself back to over to the side of the car. And then leaned back and let herself slouch down in her seat until her head was where her back usually was and her shins were up against the dashboard.
And Justin collected himself and leaned back in his seat and let himself slouch down in his seat until his head was where his back usually was and his shins were up against the dashboard.
They say the truth will set you free. And it had in this case.
Because Justin and Michelle felt free.
Free from hoping that one day they might love each other the way the world had told them they were supposed to love each other.
Free from trying to be what the world told them they were supposed to be.
And they could just be what they were. And what they wanted to be.
And they could love each other the way they knew how to love each other—as friends.
The closest of friends.
That’s how they were loving each other when they were sitting in the LeSabre in Aunt Belinda’s driveway on the night when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen.
“Whew!” whooped Michelle.
And she laughed. And Justin did, too.
They felt like they had just completed some great physical feat—or had surmounted an insurmountable obstacle—or had just survived a close call of some kind.
And Justin felt a strange lightness fill up his insides. It made him feel like he had a spotlight shining inside him. And like someone had taken a heavy backpack he had been carrying around—for as long as he could remember—and had started carrying it for him. And that backpack had been heavy with a secret—a secret that couldn’t be kept. Because it wasn’t a secret. It was a truth. And, while a secret has to be kept, a truth can’t be. Because when the truth is kept in, it can get heavy. Too heavy to bear. But when the truth is told, it can make the teller feel the lightness that Justin was feeling.
And that lightness can make a person feel like he or she can do anything.
Like go dancing at Country Swing. At the Rec Center. With his best friend.
Justin turned to Michelle. He was smiling. And he didn’t smile very often, so smiling didn’t quite suit him.
“What?” asked Michelle, creeped out by his weird smiling face.
“Wanna go dancing?”
Michelle looked over at Justin and said, “What?!?”
“They got Country Swing at the Rec Center. They had a sign up outside.”
“You saw that?”
“Yeah.”
“I almost asked you to go but thought you wouldn’t wanna, ’cause—I mean, you’re not home to go dancing.”
“I’m not. But Uncle Clair would be happy if we went. And danced. Like we used to.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Justin felt bold. “Let’s show ’em all how it’s done!”
Michelle laughed. Because they would show them all how it’s done.
“Unless you think you don’t have what it takes anymore,” teased Justin.
“Oh, I have what it takes. All you gotta do is follow me,” said Michelle.
“Are you disrespecting following?” countered Justin.
“I am! I have to do all the work, throwin’ you around.”
“Yeah, and I’m not sure you can handle it. You’re pregnant.”
“Barely. And you weigh nothin’.”
Michelle put the LeSabre in reverse and pulled back out onto the Road to Somewhere. She made the old car go as fast as she dared to make it go.
* * *
It was 8:10 when they arrived at the Rec Center. Michelle pulled into the parking lot and found a space in the back between a filthy white minivan and a snowbank.
She killed the engine and looked over at Justin.
He was far, far away.
“You okay?” she asked.
Justin looked at Michelle and said, “I’ll be the godfather. Or godmother. Or godperson. Or—whatever.”
Michelle smiled. “Awesome. Thank you.”
“And—you’re gonna be a really good mom. ’Cause you know how to take care of people. And make them feel okay.” He was speaking from experience. “And,” he added, “I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks,” said Michelle. She was so glad that Justin was happy for her. Because she cared about what he thought of her more than just about anyone. “And just so you know,” added Michelle, “he’s a good guy. Neil is his name. He works at the university—he’s the facilities manager. And he wants me to finish up my degree because he doesn’t want me to give up on my … other dreams.
“And what are those?” asked Justin.
“Um … I don’t
know.”
Michelle just wanted to be a mom. And raise her kids while she was young. And could figure out her other dreams later.
“It’s harder for girls, you know,” said Justin.
“Huh?”
“It’s harder for girls. To dream. Boys have been taught to dream forever. Girls haven’t. I know. I’m kind of both. Being a boy is easier. People expect boys to dream. But not girls.”
Michelle started nodding her head again. And didn’t know if that was true or not. And just took his word for it.
And then Justin took a deep breath and said, “You ready?”
And the old friends got out of the LeSabre and made their way through the parking lot and to the Rec Center entrance.
If they had been in a movie, their walk to the entrance would have been in slow motion.
They trotted up the few steps and pulled open the large brick building’s big brown double doors and were immediately greeted by warm air and some rockabilly music—and Dana Doughty, who was the assistant to Gayle Pulcifer, who ran the Rec Center. Dana was sitting at a check-in table and was wearing more plaid than usual. “Hi!” she beamed. “Welcome to Country Swing! Bean supper’s all done, sorry!”
“No problem,” said Michelle, as Justin said, “That’s okay.” They were not at all sad that the bean supper was done.
“But everybody’s dancing!’” continued Dana. “And Lalaine can give ya lessons on the fly if you need ’em!”
“We’re good,” said Michelle. She and Justin definitely did not need lessons.
“Okay, great, so … two?” asked Dana. She had a roll of tickets in her hand and a gray metal cashbox in front of her on the table.
“Yup,” said Michelle. She was about to pull some money out of her pocket to pay when Justin started backing away from the table and said, “No.” Michelle turned and looked at him and he looked like he was in a horror movie. And he turned and ran out of the building and down the steps and back to Michelle’s LeSabre.
Because he and Michelle couldn’t dance there. Because the people at Country Swing weren’t ready to see Michelle and Justin dance the way they danced. Because Michelle danced what was traditionally the man’s part, because she was the bigger, stronger one, and she could do the lifts and the throws. And Justin danced what was traditionally the woman’s part, because he was the one who was small enough and flexible enough to be lifted and thrown. And that was why that judge had disqualified them at the Rec Center Talent Show all those years ago. And why Justin’s dad hated what he saw when Justin and Michelle danced at the Rec Center Talent Show all those years ago. Not only did his son dance—he danced as the girl.