Who's That Girl

by Blair Thornburgh

  “Wow.” I stopped unwinding a chunk of my now-raven hair from Mrs. Kozlowski’s hot rollers and attempted a wolf whistle. “Damn girl, ya look good.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Tess said, but she was grinning. “It’s pretty boss, right?”

  She curtseyed, to the extent that she could in the skintight skirt. The package from Va-Voom Vintage had arrived yesterday, along with a number scribbled on the invoice that was now programmed into Tess’s phone as Hot NYC Vintage Girl.

  “Totally boss,” I agreed. “Also, you’re welcome for saving those business cards.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said. “I mean . . . um. Thanks. By the way.” She nodded at the phone in my hand, where I was checking the GoFundYourself I’d set up for the OWPALGBTQIA on my phone. “What’s the latest?”

  The Pixstagram post had been an instant viral success. Within hours, my face and statement were all over the internet, and although I sort of wished I had taken my selfie somewhere other than my aggressively pink bedroom, I knew the end result was worth it.

  “Five,” I said.

  “Dollars?”

  “Thousand.”

  “What?” Tess whooped. “Holy crud, Nattie! You’re amazing! You’re the best treasurer we’ve ever had.”

  “Hardly.” I twisted a dark strand of hair nervously. “I still feel bad I didn’t, like . . . treasure very well. And about everything in New York.”

  Tess gave me a little frappe on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Nattie.”

  I waited. Tess rolled her eyes.

  “Okay, and I’m sorry, too. About everything. And especially about not talking you into buying that mermaid dress, even though I was totally righter than you about it.”

  “Pushy,” I said. “You were pushy.”

  “Fine, fine,” Tess said, and waved her silver-manicured hand in the air. “We both know I’m working on not bossing people around, okay? And I mean it when I say I’m sorry, because honestly, there is no way I could’ve done this without you. Money or no money.”

  “Really?” I was genuinely shocked, because besides taking terrible care of the spreadsheets, and literally almost dying in order to get Sebastian to play the dance, what had I done to help?

  “Really. You’re my best friend, Nattie, and I don’t give out superlatives lightly. You are literally the best at being my friend.” She frappe-d me again, but in an affectionate way this time, then straightened the hem of her jacket.

  “Now, are you ready for this?”

  I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. Are you?”

  Tess gave herself one last look in the mirror. “In the words of honorary lesbian Joan of Arc, I was born to do this.”

  Downstairs, after taking a few pictures in our dance outfits, Tess squared her shoulders and ordered Dr. and Ms. Kozlowski to stand still.

  “Actually, sit. You’ll want to be sitting for this.” She waved her hands, and they sat, looking a little confused. Tess took a deep breath, or as deep a breath as her tightly tailored jacket would allow, and when she glanced back at me, I gave her a tiny thumbs-up.

  “Mom,” she said. “Dad. I’m a lesbian. I’ve known pretty much my whole life, but I wanted you to know, and I wanted you to know today, because this dance is very important to me, and I’ve been working very hard to make it not just an inclusive event for every student at Wister Prep but also a celebration of my own orientation.”

  It was amazing. She said it all in one breath, like she’d written it down beforehand, which she probably had. There were a few long seconds of silence, and even though I desperately wanted to rush in and stop it from being so, well, quiet, I knew I couldn’t. This was Tess’s time.

  Her parents looked at each other, then back at Tess. Then they got up off the couch and hugged her.

  “You’re not . . . mad?” From inside her parental embrace, Tess’s voice sounded extraordinarily thin. “Or disappointed?”

  “Shh,” her mom ordered, in a very Tess-like way. “No. Honestly, we did suspect, honey.”

  “You did?” Tess cried, back at full volume. “Then why did you keep asking me stuff about boys?”

  “We were trying to give you the opportunity.” Her dad—who was basically a male, middle-aged version of Tess, especially around the eyebrows—smiled, with a full set of impressively white orthodontist teeth. “A chance to correct us, maybe. But we didn’t want to push.”

  “We knew that if you wanted to tell us, you’d find a way. A very big way,” said her mom. “And we could never not be proud of you, Teresa.”

  Then there was some crying and some head-patting and lots of whispery Kozlowski things I couldn’t hear until Tess finally pushed her way out of her parent sandwich.

  “Okay, okay, let’s not mess up my makeup.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye with an elegant finger, sniffing, and took a deep breath. “Phew. Okay. You guys can take tonight to figure out how involved you want to get in the advocacy side of my life. No pressure or anything, but I’ve left some PFLAG literature with the takeout menus.” She turned to me. “What time is your heterosexual Prince Charming going to arrive with our carriage?”

  “He said six thirty,” I said. “And it’s—”

  “Six thirty,” Tess said.

  She fluffed my curls with her fingers.

  “Gorgeous,” she said. “You’re going to give that nice West boy a heart attack.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said, but looking in the mirror over the mantel, I had to admit, I did look pretty great.

  I was still totally, utterly grounded for the whole New York incident. But Mom and Dad had made an exception for Operation Big Gay Dance Party, partially because Tess had reminded them that, the events of this week notwithstanding, I had been a very responsible if slightly incompetent treasurer of the OWPALGBTQIA, and partially because, on the way back from the hospital, Zach the Anarchist had very politely asked their permission to take me.

  The doorbell rang, and Tess stomped off.

  “It’s for you,” she called. I followed, slowly, trying not to wobble on my heels.

  “Hi, Nattie.”

  Zach West was wearing a suit. Zach West looked very nice in a suit.

  “You changed your hair,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Um, yeah. I just wanted to be . . . different. A little. From all the . . . stuff that happened.”

  “It looks fantastic.”

  “Thanks.”

  Zach West was smiling. Zach West was holding something out.

  “This is for you. It’s a corsage. I don’t know why, but they put it in a plastic box like it’s a tuna sandwich or something.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Though a tuna sandwich would’ve been fine, too.”

  “Beep beep!” Tess had already marched herself to the Volvo and had stuck her head out of the backseat window. “Some of us need to be there, like, now!”

  “We’re coming,” Zach yelled over his shoulder. “Do you need help putting it on?” he said to me.

  But I’d already popped open the box and slid the flowers over my wrist. “It looks great.”

  “Great.”

  “It is great.” I pursed my lips and fished around for my phone. “Can . . . Do you mind if we take a quick picture? I promised my parents. And Sam. I won’t put it online or anything, if you don’t want.”

  “It’s okay,” Zach said. “You can, if you want.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, smile.”

  We smiled, and the picture looked pretty great. Zach didn’t even make a face. We got into the Volvo, and as Zach backed us out into the direction of the Woodlawn Museum of Art, I realized I was actually incredibly excited about this dance. And I didn’t care if that was lame.

  I never heard from Sebastian again. I mean, maybe it was premature to say I never heard from him again, but I was fairly confident that after nearly killing me with his poison-strawberry spit on our second date—if you can even call it a date—he probably wasn’t coming back for more
. And that was perfectly fine with me. Yes, I’d listened to their new single—which was, without a hint of irony, called “Déjà Vu”—but it was just okay. Nothing really special. And the Young Lungs was a really dumb name for a band.

  “It’s here!” Tess clapped her hands to her chest and spun around. The museum ballroom was bedecked with shiny streamers and a gaggle of balloons and little light-up centerpieces on every white-clothed table. On the back wall was a giant banner that said “OWPA WINTER FORMAL” in a distinctly Alison-y script.

  “Yup,” I said.

  “I mean, technically, we’re here,” Zach said. “The museum hasn’t gone anywhere.”

  “You guys.” Tess stopped spinning and looked at us. She blinked a few dozen times, then started to fan herself. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m not going to cry and ruin my makeup. But you guys. We did it.”

  “Yup,” I said. “Powered by sugar cookies.”

  “And pumpkin chocolate chip.”

  “And vegan pies.”

  “Gross.” Zach made a face.

  “Shh,” I said, and pointed out to the dance floor, where Chihiro, in a beautiful sequined black dress, and Alison, in jeans, were already slow dancing. Bryce was standing off to the side, looking confused as always, and drinking a cup of punch. Cross-country guys clustered and chatted around the table with the drinks—probably so they could hydrate efficiently—and a gaggle of terrified-looking freshperson girls giggled and whispered under matching flower crowns. The theater tech kids were all wearing black tops and black pants, irrespective of gender, and the girls of knitting club all seemed to be in matching scarves. There were even some A Cappella kids—the ones who hadn’t gotten busted, anyway—and when Sam Huang spotted me, he actually broke rank to come over.

  “Hi, Sam,” I said. “Nice tie.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Sam held up the tie, which had a music-note print and which I was pretty sure was actually Dad’s. It definitely did not match perfectly with the rest of the group’s ties, that’s for sure. “This dance is really cool.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It is. I’m glad I’m ungrounded for it.”

  Sam Huang stared at the middle of his tie.

  “No, no, I mean . . .” I shook my head. “I’m not mad. About you telling on me. I would’ve done the same thing, if I thought you were going to get hurt.”

  Sam smiled. “Cool. Um, well, there’s one thing. . . .” He glanced back over his shoulder, to where the A Cappella kids were huddled in a perfect circle. It was like they couldn’t not stand in formation. “That song you heard me singing? We’re not doing it.”

  “You mean ‘Na—’” I caught myself. “That one song?”

  “Yeah.” Sam leaned in closer. “I cut it from the list. We’re doing a Hamilton medley instead.”

  My jaw actually dropped. “Sam Huang. Did you just break the embargo on A Cappella repertoire reveal? For me?”

  Sam raised his eyebrows and shrugged in that Sam way of his, and I frappe-d him on the arm, because that’s what sisters do. I think.

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  Sam headed back to his place in the A Cappella cadre just as Zach My Date sidled back up to me. It was weird: I’d stood next to Zach West probably a thousand times in my life, from picture day to the cafeteria line, but this felt different, like there was a little spark crackling in between us. And not in a bad way, either.

  “So,” Zach said. “Do you—”

  “Friends!” Tall Zach jumped in between us. “Nattie! Your hair! Zach! Your . . . shirt that’s not a T-shirt!” He beamed, then frowned. “Oops. Wait. Did I ruin a magic moment?”

  “This whole dance is a magic moment,” Tess said rapturously. “Look! The balloons are all rainbowy!”

  “You’re fine,” I told Tall Zach, but he wasn’t listening. He and Tess had put their heads together, having some quiet conversation I didn’t need to hear. When it was over, Tall Zach threw his arms around her neck and whispered something in her ear. Zach the Anarchist gave me the tiniest smile.

  I cleared my throat. “So, um, not to be the absentee OWPALGBTQIA member, but, uh, how did we end up pulling all of this together? How’d we get music without . . . you know?”

  Tess nodded to the front of the ballroom, where Endsignal was bopping between two speakers, pushing buttons and holding half of a pair of headphones to his ear. “We couldn’t exactly book anyone on short notice, but fortunately our dear mop-topped freshman friend stepped in and offered to spin for us.”

  I wasn’t really listening, though, because I had noticed someone off in the corner. Meredith White was in a floor-length blue gown, alone, holding a cup of punch and nodding to the music. While everyone was busy discussing the successful details of the dance, I slipped away.

  “Hey! Nattie!” Meredith brightened as soon as she saw me. “You look freakin’ amazeballs.”

  “Thanks,” I said, trying very hard not to care that she’d just said amazeballs. “So do you.”

  “Thanks!” Meredith fingered a lock of hair, which was falling everywhere in frizzy ringlets. “I did the hot rollers myself.”

  And even though her hair didn’t look super great, and you could kind of see her underwear line, and her lipstick was a totally mismatched shade of pink, the thing I noticed most about Meredith at that moment was that she was smiling. And if she liked the way she looked, then so could I.

  “I just wanted to say that, um,” I said, almost shouting over the music, “we should definitely hang out more.”

  Meredith beamed. “That’d be awesome! By the way,” she added, “you and Zach make a really cute couple. I totally knew you were going to end up dating.”

  “You . . . we . . . what?” How come I couldn’t have figured that out? But before I could say anything else, someone had grabbed me by the shoulders.

  “There you are!” Tall Zach said. “Okay, get excited, becaaaaaause . . . I have a surprise for you!”

  “I hate surprises,” said Zach the Anarchist, who had trailed after him.

  “Not you, Other Zach. You, Nattie.”

  “Uh, ditto,” I said. “I’ve had enough surprises to last me until college at least.”

  “You’ll like this one,” Tall Zach said. He turned to the DJ stand and gave Endsignal a thumbs-up, which he returned.

  “So . . . do you want to dance?”

  Zach barely had a chance to get the words out when the familiar, cringe-inducing chords started up out of the speakers. I could practically feel the blood drain from my face.

  “Tall Zach,” I yelled. “Zachary Bitterman! Please don’t do this!”

  “What?” Tall Zach held a hand to his ear. “I can’t heeeear you!”

  Recognition dawned slowly over Zach My Date’s face.

  “Do you want to go outside?” he said.

  “I . . .”

  But instead of cutting to the verse, the opening chords of “Natalie” kept playing. Then, after a few measures, they started to stretch, and sound a little more . . . funky, like they’d been run through a weird filter or something. Then a beat kicked in—not the ordinary drums from the song, but something electronic and syncopated. Then the words started.

  “She’s too tough.

  She’s too cool.

  She’s too tough.

  She’s too cool.”

  The voice didn’t sound like Sebastian’s at all. It sounded angular and robotic and totally different.

  “What is this?” I said.

  “No idea,” Zach My Date said.

  Tess, who had somehow insinuated herself into the center of the dance floor, waved wildly for us to join her.

  “You wanna?” Zach asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s.”

  We slipped past a bunch of people in long skirts and shiny dress shoes and started to move: me kind of awkwardly, and involving a lot of elbows, Zach My Date with a lot of head-bobbing, and Tess shimmying like crazy. The song crescendoed to a chorus, but not any chorus that I’d ever heard.

 
“Oh Na-a-a-a-a-a-ttie.

  Oh Na-a-a-a-a-a-ttie.”

  “This is amazing!” I said.

  “I know,” Tess said, and grabbed my hand to spin me. “How’d he do this?”

  Tall Zach reappeared and shrugged his giant shoulders. “He’s always up to something on his laptop. Who knew?”

  “Not me,” I said. “Not me at all.”

  We grooved and shimmied and spun, and when the song finished, we burst into applause. At first it was just us, the Acronymphomaniacs, but slowly the rest of the room got into it, and the sound of claps and cheers was deafening. Louder than it had ever felt at a Young Lungs show, that’s for sure.

  “Thank you!” I yelled over the din.

  “That was awesome!” yelled Tess.

  “Nice drum line!” yelled Zach My Date.

  “Why are we clapping?” yelled someone from behind us—Bryce, I saw.

  “We’re clapping because Nattie McCullough-Schwartz is amazing,” said Tess, “and so is Endsignal. So is everyone. So is this whole party! Dance, you beautiful people! Dance!”

  And we did—for what felt like hours. I jumped around with Tess and attempted to jitterbug with Tall Zach and, when a slow song came on, held hands with Zach My Date and swayed quietly against him.

  “Ahem.” Tess came up to us, hands on hips. “As Nattie’s best friend, I think I deserve to cut in.”

  “Yeah, well, as Nattie’s date, I think I deserve to not let you,” Zach My Date said, and tightened his hand around my waist a little.

  “As Nattie herself,” I said, “I think I deserve to make my own decisions. And I will dance with you, Tess, later.”

  I thought she’d be pissed, but Tess didn’t even flinch.

  “Oh, Nattie. I love you. Not in a gay way. Well, yes in a gay way, because I love everything in a gay way. But you know what I mean.” She pinched my cheek. “You’re my best friend.”

  And then Tess did something extraordinary: she smiled with her teeth. They were beautiful teeth, of course, thanks to all the free orthodontia, but it was more the gesture that counted. And it counted a lot.

  By the night’s end, we were exhausted. Zach My Date had loosened his tie, Tess had kicked off her heels, and my corsage had wilted against my arm. We had to stay late, of course, for Tess to boss around some underlings vis-à-vis cleanup and Endsignal to pack up all his DJ stuff into Tall Zach’s car, but that didn’t take forever, and soon we found ourselves slumped around one of the tables, too tired to move.