And She Was

by Jessica Verdi

  He clearly doesn’t understand where I’m going with this, but he plays along. “Uhhh … flown in an airplane?”

  “That’s true. What else?”

  “Gotten an A on a math test.” He smirks.

  I roll my eyes. “All right, show-off. What else? Think bigger.”

  He stares at me and shakes his head. His eyes shine prettily in the light of the neon. “Just tell me what you want me to say.”

  I sigh. “You’ve tried beer, right? Gotten drunk?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You know I have. There’s nothing else to do in Francis. Everyone has—” He stops himself.

  “Right. Not everyone.” I nod. “You’ve also had girlfriends, who you made out with and did other stuff with.” A blush warms my face. I don’t like to think about how Sam is much more experienced than I am in that arena. “You’ve stayed out all night. You got to go on the school trip to Montreal, when I had to stay home to train.”

  “Yeah, but those things aren’t as spectacular as you think they are,” he says. “Dating can be awkward. Drinking too much makes you sick. Staying out all night makes you feel like crap. I had to bunk with three other guys on that Montreal trip—you have no idea how bad that room smelled.”

  I pin him with my gaze. “Do you regret any of it?”

  He looks down. “No.”

  “Exactly. So why shouldn’t I get to experience all the normal parts of being a teenager too? The good and not-so-good stuff.” I push my hair back from my face.

  “Because you’re special, Dara. You have something the rest of us only wish we had.”

  I scoff. “And I’ve given up almost everything to get it.”

  “Wasn’t it worth it?”

  “Of course. But … yesterday was fun, eating junk food and looking at art and jumping on beds. It was like a break in the shitstorm clouds. And I don’t really see what’s so wrong with making the most of this … adventure, like you called it.” I think for a moment. “I’m hoping finding my family will mean finding myself, right? The me I never knew about?”

  He nods.

  “Maybe this is part of that. And I’d like to do it with you, before you go away.”

  Our eyes lock. Finally, he breathes. “Come on; I’ll buy you a drink.”

  I squeal and throw my arms around him. “Thank you.”

  His arms snake around me and pull me in close. He feels good. Warm. Strong. Protective. I had no idea how much I needed a hug until now.

  I pull away and rub my eyes with my knuckles.

  “Actually, let me go call my mom first. She texted me this morning asking me to check in. You go ahead and order. Whatever you want, on me.” He smiles. “You gonna be okay here by yourself for a few minutes?”

  I nod.

  “Be right back.”

  I watch him through the window as he paces the bar’s front porch, talking to Niya. I wonder what’s going on at home. If anyone knows yet.

  Stop thinking about Mellie. Today is not about her.

  I spin on my heel, and go up to the bar.

  The bartender, a big guy with a leather vest and a greased-back ponytail, raises an eyebrow at me. “You lost?”

  I take off my cardigan and straighten up, showing off my defined shoulders and arms. “Nope. I’m exactly where I want to be. Two beers, please.”

  “You got ID?”

  Crap. I didn’t think a place like this would card. I stare at him, racking my brain for a believable reason why I wouldn’t have an ID that says I’m twenty-one. “I, uh …”

  Sam slides onto the barstool next to me and hands a driver’s license over. “Here you go,” he says smoothly. “She doesn’t have hers because she locked her keys in the car with all her stuff inside. We’re waiting for the guy to come unlock our doors for us.” Saving me again, just like in third grade.

  The bartender looks at the ID and then up at Sam, and back at the ID. My heartbeat tumbles like I’m in the middle of spinning class. Then he shrugs. “What kind of beer?”

  I try not to exhale too loudly.

  “Whatever’s cold,” Sam says, taking his fake ID back and tucking it into his wallet.

  The bartender plunks two pint glasses in front of us and leaves to serve another customer.

  Sam leans toward me. “Two beers, huh? I actually wasn’t going to drink—someone’s got to be sober enough to deal with the tow truck guy and drive us out of here.”

  I ignore that. There’s no way I’m drinking my very first beer by myself. “Where did you get a fake ID?”

  He smiles my favorite smile. “Jake Houston was selling them before the end of the year. I hadn’t had a chance to use it yet, though.”

  “My hero.” We clink glasses.

  Two hours later, I think I’m finally understanding what it feels like to be drunk.

  At first I wasn’t sure I liked beer. It has kind of an earthy taste, with a bite to it that I wasn’t expecting. I thought it would be … I don’t know, sweeter? But now, three pints in, I think it tastes pretty good. Or, more to the point, it doesn’t taste quite like anything anymore. I wonder if being drunk changes your taste buds somehow.

  Sam is feeling it too—I can tell because his cheeks are flushed and he’s got a permagrin on his face. But he’s still pretty together, if the fact that he keeps forcing me to drink water in between sips of beer is any indication. Even so, there’s no way either of us is driving us out of here any time soon.

  He spins on his stool and takes pictures of the bar as he goes around. Every time the camera points my way, I make a stupid face and he clicks the shutter release. I grab the camera from his hand, throw my arm around his shoulders, kiss him on the cheek, and take a selfie of the two of us.

  “Did Niya say anything about Mellie?” I ask as we separate.

  He shakes his head. “She said she actually hasn’t been able to get ahold of her. She’s not answering the door, and she’s not picking up her phone.”

  Normally, I’d be concerned by that news, but I finally checked my notifications after that second beer—there are three unread emails from her. I know she’s fine. “She’s avoiding her,” I say.

  “Probably.” He pauses. “Can I say something?” His tone has changed, and his body language is screaming, I’m not sure you’re going to like what I’m about to say.

  “What, are you going to tell me you’re transgender too?” Apparently, beer makes me so funny.

  That makes him smile. “No.”

  “Are you going to tell me you have a completely different identity and have been lying to me my whole life?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to tell me this whole trip is a bad idea and that we should turn around and go back to Francis?”

  He hesitates. Don’t ruin this for me, I plead silently.

  But then he says, “No.”

  Good. “Then go ahead. My threshold for surprise has been raised quite a bit these past few days. I’m not fragile.”

  He nods. “The whole transgender thing … Do you really know anything about it? Not just with Mellie, but in general.”

  “I know everything I need to know.”

  He frowns. “But—”

  “Therapy time is over. Thanks for playing.” I straighten up and down the rest of my beer. Sam does the same. The glasses are still frosty, even with nothing in them. We must have finished that last round pretty quickly.

  I slide off my stool and march over to the jukebox. The song titles are fuzzy, and I have to squint in order to read what they say. It’s mostly country and some rock, and I don’t recognize many of the bands. I’m not sure if that’s because I don’t know much about country and rock, or if these bands are old and that’s why I’ve never heard of them, or if they’re new and I’ve been so out of touch from anything that doesn’t have to do with the tennis circuit and that’s why I’ve never heard of them. In the end, I choose a few songs at random, and dance back to the bar just as Marla—that’s the waitress’s name—brings us the p
late of mozzarella sticks we ordered.

  “I love you,” I tell her.

  She laughs. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  I grab a mozzarella stick and take a bite. This place’s food is legit. The cheese is hot and gooey, and oozes out of the tube of fried goodness. I catch the dripping cheese with my tongue and swirl it around, collecting it all in my mouth.

  “God, that’s good.”

  I pick up another stick to offer to Sam, and catch him watching me. It’s the same look he was giving me when I sank my teeth into the cheesesteak for the first time. Now I recognize it: It’s the kind of look guys give girls who are not me. The kind of look Sam gives girls who are not me. It’s a lost-in-his-imagination, that thing you’re doing with your mouth is turning me on look. It makes me excited and uncomfortable all at the same time.

  Could I possibly look sexy when I eat this kind of food? Could I look sexy at all?

  My head is pretty muddled, and before I know it the look is gone and Sam’s taking another sip of beer, and I think maybe I imagined it completely. Being drunk makes you feel really good and really loose and really fun, but it also makes things not quite so clear. The clock seems to be skipping entire minutes altogether.

  “Want a stick?” I ask Sam, thrusting the fried mozzarella toward him.

  He shakes his head. “No thanks. I think you need the food more than I do right now.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Everyone needs mozzarella sticks.”

  “I’ll order something in a little bit. You eat.”

  “Sam! I demand you eat this mozzarella stick right this second!” I push it toward his mouth, but he keeps his lips tightly sealed. “Do it!”

  He shakes his head in defiance, but I can see the laughter in his eyes.

  I switch tactics. “Please, Sammy?” I say sweetly, putting on my best puppy-dog face. He snaps a picture. “Pretty please? Try the mozzarella stick? For me?”

  Finally, he rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He opens his mouth and takes a bite. “Jeez,” he says after only a couple chews. “That’s really good.”

  I jump around in triumph. “I told you.”

  I feed him the rest of the stick; he doesn’t try to take it from me to put it in his mouth himself. His eyes are full of mirth, and I have a feeling mine are too, and we don’t break our gaze until the mozzarella stick is completely gone. I lick the grease off my fingers, and he watches—like the mozzarella stick didn’t quite satisfy his hunger.

  There’s that look again. I know I’m not imagining it this time.

  We’re only about a foot away from each other—Sam’s on his barstool and I’m standing. Something is happening. I can’t think clearly enough to name it, but it’s like the fun, happy beer clouds surrounding each of us join forces to form one snug, fun, happy beer cloud. And we’re in it together.

  Right now everything feels like a good idea. Everything feels like the best idea I’ve ever had.

  I just want to keep feeling good feelings. No Mellie, no flat tire, no reality.

  I open my mouth and words come out. They’re entirely unplanned, and even I’m curious what they’re going to be. “Are you having a good time?” I ask Sam.

  He nods. “I am.”

  “I’m glad you’re here with me. Are you glad you’re here with me?”

  “Very.”

  “Isn’t having fun better than being serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to trust that I know what I’m doing from now on?”

  He grins and holds up his hands in complete surrender. “Definitely.”

  Suddenly, the cozy beer cloud around us vanishes, replaced by something more like a giant rubber band. Moving toward Sam is easy. Moving away from him is very, very hard. So I take another small step closer, and smile.

  “Good. Because I’m wondering if you’d like to help me check another item off my ‘never done that’ list.” Where did that come from?

  “What’s that?”

  I want to kiss you. I don’t say it.

  But his gaze travels to my mouth, and then back to my eyes, and I know his thoughts are in the exact same place as mine.

  It’s so weird. This is Sam Alapati. My best friend. My neighbor. I’ve never kissed anyone before, and he knows it.

  I’m not thinking this through, but that’s just it—I don’t want to think. I don’t want to talk anymore, either. No discussions, no cutting through the drunk haze to find the words to articulate what’s happening, to weigh the benefits and risks and be responsible about it all. I want to just do.

  So I keep moving forward. With each inch, the rubber band seems to shrink, pushing us even closer together.

  “Just one friend helping another out, okay?” I ask.

  Sam nods.

  “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

  He nods again.

  I try to move slowly, to give Sam the opportunity for an out. He doesn’t take it.

  And then he apparently decides that slow isn’t going to work for him, because he leans forward and crushes his mouth to mine.

  That first instant of connection takes me by surprise. Not the action itself—that was inevitable—but the sensation that comes with it. I feel like sparklers have ignited under my skin. Sam’s lips are strong and confident and tender. I move mine with his, perfectly happy to let him lead.

  I have no idea what I’m doing, but oh my God, I’m kissing a boy. I’m kissing Sam.

  He wraps his arms around my waist and tugs me closer, so I’m nestled between his legs as he sits on the barstool.

  Kissing is way better than beer. It’s even better than mozzarella sticks and Philly cheesesteaks.

  Kissing is the best kind of delicious.

  Sam pulls back first. “Whoa.”

  I wipe the extra saliva off my bottom lip with my thumb. It’s kind of hard to focus on his face; I take a step back and squint to make my vision adjust.

  Once he’s not all fuzzy, I grin. My whole body—limbs, tummy, mouth—is wired, sizzling and crackling on good-feelings overload. “Another beer?”

  “I think maybe we’ve had enough …” he says tentatively.

  “What? The night’s just getting started! Or day—what time is it, anyway?”

  Sam looks at his phone. “It’s two thirty in the afternoon.”

  I pause for a moment, trying to comprehend that, and start to laugh. So much has happened since we stepped foot in this bar that it doesn’t seem right for anything less than days to have passed. But then again, I should know by now how drastically your life can change in no time at all.

  I try to sit back on my barstool, but I only catch the very edge of the seat, so my butt slides off and I stumble a little.

  Sam reaches out to steady me. His face, so open just a moment ago, closes off. “Yeah, we’re done.”

  “No way.” I do a little dance to show how great I am, and signal the bartender. “More beer, please!” I sit on the stool more carefully this time. Success.

  “Dara,” Sam says evenly, “I know what you’re feeling right now. I’ve felt it before too. I was even feeling it up until a minute ago. You’re in that place where everything feels amazing. But—”

  The bartender slides two more full glasses in front of us. Before Sam can say anything else, I take a long gulp, and smack my lips.

  “Now you.” I point at his beer.

  “Dara …”

  “Sam.” I try to mimic his buzzkill tone. We stare at each other, a standoff with no real conviction.

  It only takes a few seconds, as I knew it would. For all his posturing, his decision-making skills aren’t much better than mine right now. Obviously. We wouldn’t have made out like that if either of us were in our right minds.

  He sighs and takes a sip.

  Just then my phone, lying faceup on the bar, lights up. The flat-tire guy is calling. I tell him we’ll be right out, hoping my voice sounds normal.

  “I’ll go,” Sam says, placing two hands lightly o
n my shoulders as if to keep me in place.

  I don’t argue.

  “Just …” He glances around the bar. “Don’t talk to anyone.”

  “Except Marla,” I say.

  He laughs. “Except Marla.”

  I grab my credit card from my bag and hand it to him.

  “Thanks.”

  Once he’s gone I click my phone on again and pull up Mellie’s emails. I’ve got a pleasantly detached floaty thing going on right now, and confronting her messages doesn’t feel quite as weighty as it did a few hours ago.

  To: acelove6@email.com

  From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

  June 20 (10:59 PM)

  Subject: The start

  Dear Dara,

  I haven’t told you much about my family. One reason for that you already know, though the details were vague: My childhood was very difficult, and after I left home, it was too painful to revisit that place, even in my mind. But the other reason was because if you knew about my family, you’d surely discover the gaps in the life I’d so carefully constructed for us, and that would have been dangerous. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  My earliest memory is from when my mother was pregnant with my brother Lenny. He’s the fourth and final sibling, after Ronald, Joanna, and me. It was 1981—around Easter. To this day, the smell of vinegar egg dye always transports me back to that afternoon at my mother’s kitchen table. I don’t remember the beginning of the conversation, but I do know it was a “where do babies come from” talk, abbreviated for a three-year-old. My mother must have told me that my little sibling was in her belly, and that I had once been in there too, that the mother’s belly is where the baby is put together and grows strong enough to be born. My memory kicks in just as I’m processing this new information. I remember touching her middle, looking up at her, and saying clearly and urgently, “I need to go back in.”

  She laughed and ruffled my hair. “You can’t go back in, baby.”

  I shook my head. She didn’t get it. “I need to go back in and get fixed.”

  Her smile faded and little lines appeared on her forehead. “Fixed how, sweetie? You’re already my perfect little boy.”

  But I didn’t know how to tell her what I meant. I didn’t have the words yet. I just knew I wasn’t the way I was supposed to be. Everyone thought I was one thing because of how my outsides looked, but I was really something else. How is a three-year-old supposed to explain something so complex? And back then it was mainly a feeling—a strong feeling, yes, but not a conscious, articulated thought.