by Katie Henry
I say: Nothing.
“So forget this weirdo you met on the bus.” He plucks the phone from my hand before I even know it’s happening, and gently tosses it behind me on the bed. “Okay?”
I think: You’re not really asking me.
I think: It’s not a question if there’s only one acceptable answer.
I say: “Okay.”
He smiles and kisses me on the forehead. I raise the corners of my mouth just high enough. An approximation of a smile.
He checks his own phone. “Shit, I’ve got to go,” he says, springing up from the bed. “I can call when we’re taking a break.”
“No, it’s okay. Go have fun.” Personally, indoor paintball with Kyle and Luke sounds like as much fun as sticking a fork in a toaster, but hey. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs on his coat, then grabs his backpack. “Keep your phone on, though. I’ll text you.”
He leaves without closing the door behind him, and I listen to his footsteps across the living room. A click as the front door opens, then another click as it closes and locks. I sit very still on the bed, counting out the seconds. Sixty for the elevator to come. Thirty for it to travel back down to the lobby. Another thirty for him to walk past the doorman, through the glass revolving doors, and out onto the street.
Five. Four. Three. Two.
I grab for the phone behind me.
Hi Mo! Yes. I’m free.
It’s after seven, and practically my entire wardrobe is spread out on my bed. Skirts and pants and literally every single sweater I own. But nothing seems right. The only thing I definitely can’t wear is my current outfit: a high school uniform.
I throw down yet another pair of jeans and slump onto my bed. This shouldn’t be so hard. It’s just clothes, necessary only to protect against the Illinois winter and a charge for public indecency. This should be simple. I close my eyes and try to picture the perfect outfit, one that has no downsides.
I can’t look like a slut but I can’t look like a nun but I can’t look like a boy.
I can’t look like I’m trying too hard, I can’t look like I’m not trying hard enough, and God, what can I look like? A genderless void? Maybe I’ll make two eyeholes in a bedsheet and cut my losses.
When I open my eyes, my gaze snags on the single item left hanging in my closet. The prairie dress. I strip off my uniform and pull it on.
Alex hates this dress.
It hugs me, loose and warm, like the fleece blanket on my very first bed.
If Alex hates it, everyone else will, too.
It doesn’t pinch at my waist, slip off my shoulders, or scratch my skin.
Alex hates it, because it’s unflattering and unappealing and unapproachable.
I’m wearing it.
“Hey, Mom?” I peek my head in her office. She’s only just put down her bag, but I need to ask now.
“Hey,” she says, starting up her computer. “What’s up?”
“Is it okay if I sleep over at Naomi’s tonight?”
That gets her attention. I haven’t spent the night with Naomi this entire school year. It’s a little risky, since my parents have her dad’s number, but a sleepover is the perfect cover. It means I can stay out as late as I want without suspicion. And when I come home, no matter what time it is, I’ll just say I was feeling sick. It wouldn’t be the first time. Naomi’s dad has low standards when it comes to food safety. And girlfriends.
Mom nods at the coat in my arms, the tote bag at my feet. “Looks like you’re already on your way out.”
“Um—”
“I’m home tonight, you know,” she says, with a twinge of hurt in her voice. “I only have a couple emails to send and I’m done. I thought we were going to have dinner together.”
I think: Well, I thought we were going to have the whole day together, last Saturday.
I think: You promised. I didn’t.
I say: “I’m sorry.”
Her face softens instantly.
“Oh, honey, no, it’s fine,” Mom says. “I’m glad. It feels like you and Naomi haven’t seen each other much lately.”
I nod.
“You aren’t taking a lot,” she notes.
“I have clothes at her place.” That’s true. She still has one of my favorite sweaters, and I think at this point it’s hers. Friend breakups aren’t like regular breakups. You can’t demand they bring over a box with all your stuff.
“Have a good time. Call if you need anything.”
I kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks. See you in the morning.”
The computer screen glows behind me as I sling my bag over my shoulder, and her fingers clack against keys in the office while my boots clack against the hardwood floor to the front door. She’s not worried, and why should she be? She’s never had to pick me up from a broken-up house party or police station or a black-ops field site. She’s never even fielded a call from my principal.
Charlotte always gets my mom scarves for her birthday, and Peter always forgets entirely, but my gift is better, because it’s constant. I give my mom peace of mind. Every second. Every day.
I wonder if she knows it’s a gift.
Alone in the hallway, I reach for the elevator down button, but then pull my hand back. I could still go back inside. Tell my mom I changed my mind. Tell her what’s really going on with me, with Naomi, with . . . everything.
The carpet is soft underneath me as I slide back a step. Just an inch. Just an inch closer to my front door, and my home, where I know who I am. Even if I don’t like her.
What if they don’t like me, either? What if they ditch me? What if I’m not like they thought I would be?
I’m standing there, hand on the door, heart in my throat, when my phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I fish it out to see another text from Mo, but in a group chat with a bunch of numbers I don’t know.
Hey guys I’m starting a new chat with Izzy on it FYI
Huh. She called me Izzy again. I’ve never gone by that, but I kind of like it.
Another text comes in, I’m guessing from Jonah:
Sup, Murder Girl
As far as nicknames go, I vastly prefer Izzy. I’ve never had a nickname, but why shouldn’t I? People pick new names all the time, when they get married or get famous or get on the Most Wanted list. When people’s lives change, their names change, too. So why can’t I be Izzy? Why can’t I choose her?
I whisper the name in my own head, on a loop, until it’s nestled inside of me like it’s been mine all along. Izzy.
I engraft you new.
I push open the door.
Chapter 6
MY TRAIN IS delayed, so I have to run the last five minutes to the venue. I get there on time but panting and sweating underneath my puffy coat.
There’s a sign outside that says the Forest in a Ye Olde English kind of font. And just below that sign stands a bald bouncer approximately the size of a Ye Olde English cottage. Shit. I figured we were going to a bar, but I didn’t think about how I’d actually get in.
Before I can truly panic, Mo materializes by my side.
“Hey,” she says to me, waving the rest of them over with one hand. “You made it.”
I’m so hot I pull off my coat, despite the cold. “No thanks to the L.”
Mo looks me up and down. “Nice dress,” she says as the boys join us.
“Yeah?” The high collar seems tight, all of a sudden. “My boyfriend wanted me to throw it out.”
Mo scoffs. “Might as well throw out the boyfriend.”
That makes me laugh. And then that makes me feel horribly guilty.
“So, which fundamentalist cult are you in again?” Jonah jokes.
Before, that would have made me go red, maybe even tear up. I would have put my coat back on. But not now.
I smooth down my skirt. “We call ourselves the Hipster Mennonites.”
Will chuckles. “Hipster Mennonite. That’s good.”
I’ve never made fun of m
yself before. At least out loud. It felt like an invitation, like if someone like Jack ever heard it, he’d use it to tear me down. But I don’t think they would.
“We already put ourselves on the list,” Mo says. “Did you want to go up tonight? Your time might suck, but they have spots open.”
“I think I’ll just watch tonight. If that’s cool.”
“For sure.”
The boys look like they’re itching to get inside, and I know I can’t stall this any longer.
“Um, Mo—” I sidle closer to her, stealing a look at the bouncer. “I’m sort of . . . not twenty-one.”
She’s unfazed. “I didn’t think you were. It’s fine. Neither is Jonah.”
I look over at Jonah, surprised. He’s a senior in college, and he’s only twenty? He grimaces.
“Skip second grade, they said.” He throws his arms out. “It won’t suck to be the last of your friends legal to drink, they said.”
“That’s a very inappropriate thing to say to an eight-year-old,” I agree.
Mo laughs. “We’ll sneak you both in the back. We’ve done it before.” She nods to Will. “You grab the table. I’ll go.”
IDs in hand, they head for the door, and Jonah leads me around back to an alley that would probably smell like garbage if it wasn’t so cold out. Midwestern winters have their occasional perks. We wait by a green door, shivering and generally avoiding looking at each other.
“Why don’t you have a fake?” I ask finally, desperate to make conversation, but also genuinely curious. Some kids at my school have them, and they’re much less believable as twenty-one-year-olds than Jonah. But my classmates aren’t dying to get into dive bars, anyway. If they want to escape reality, kind as it’s been to them, their parents’ medicine cabinets are much more accessible.
“Well,” Jonah replies, “when you’re raised by super-nice, super-intense Lutherans, you develop this constant, crushing guilt over spending money and also breaking the law.”
I think about this for a moment. “But when you get inside, aren’t you still going to break the law? By drinking?”
“Yes. But having a fake ID means it’s premeditated.”
That doesn’t make much sense, but I nod anyway.
“Why don’t you have a fake?” he asks.
“I . . . don’t get out much.”
“Yeah.” He blows on his hands. “It seems that way.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I expect it to be Alex, since it almost always is, but when I fish it out, it’s Peter.
yo
This is so weird, he never texts me. Why would he? I don’t watch TV shows with explosions or dragons, I don’t follow the Cubs, and according to him, I didn’t “get” Fight Club. Our lives have diverged.
Yes?
what’s this plant called
He attaches a picture of some leaves, which is profoundly unhelpful.
why
is it toxic
WHY
if you only had like two bites will you die
I REPEAT, PETER
WHY
it was a dare
Oh my God. This is what my brother does with his Friday nights? Consumes unknown plants on a frat house dare?
“You okay?” Jonah asks.
“Yeah,” I say as I text Peter, Send a pic of the whole plant please!!! “It’s my brother. He’s in college.”
To Peter’s credit, the new photo pops up right away, and I sigh with relief. It’s just a parlor palm. Common and entirely harmless. They had to sentence Socrates to drink the hemlock tea that killed him, but my brother would probably eat it for twenty bucks and the eternal admiration of all his bros in Kappa Sigma.
it’s fine
you’re fine
thx
Jonah shifts next to me. “That’s kind of a weird way of phrasing it.”
“What is?” I ask, still texting.
you’re welcome
maybe don’t eat plants you don’t know??
k
“You said your brother’s in college.”
I pocket my phone. “He is.”
“Weird way of phrasing it,” he says, staring me down. “Since you’re in college, too.”
Shit.
“Right. Yeah, right.” I take a breath. “That was context. Um. For the next thing I was going to say, which is that my brother texted me because he ate an unknown plant on a dare so it was important for me”—I gulp air again—“uh, for me for you to know he’s an adult man and not a . . . toddler.”
“Got it,” Jonah says, obviously still skeptical.
“If he were a toddler, I would be calling poison control.”
“Responsible.”
“But if he were a toddler, I guess he wouldn’t have texted me.”
“Probably not.”
“God, you know”—I look to the doorway, trying to sound breezy and/or casual, but instead coming across panicked and/or frantic—“it is taking them a very long time. What do you think is taking Mo and Will so—”
But as I’m saying it, the door creaks open, and Mo pokes her head out. “Hey, guys.”
Oh, thank God.
“Right in the nick of time,” Jonah says, and I can feel his eyes still on me.
Mo frowns as I scramble past her, into the bar. “For what?” she asks Jonah.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s my question.”
Whoever named this bar the Forest might not have been super creative, but whoever designed it really knew how to commit to an aesthetic.
I’ve never been in a bar that was just a bar, only restaurants with bars attached, but I’m guessing most of them don’t have walls fuzzy with artificial moss, or chairs and tables that look straight out of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” before she went on that whole destruction-of-property rampage. It’s a small room, barely big enough for the stage on one end, the bar on the other, and the tables crowded in between, but that hasn’t stopped someone from filling it with plants.
Some might be fake, like the vines snaking up on wooden trellises on the walls and what look like maidenhair ferns cascading down from baskets near the low ceiling. But the spiky little snake plants decorating the bar look real enough.
“Sort of dive-y,” Mo acknowledges, pushing an old French fry off the sticky table with the back of her hand. “But it’s a good room.”
“It’s great,” I say. “What other bar has bromeliads?”
“Is that a kind of medication?”
I point them out, on the shelves below the back windows. “It’s those plants, the pink and the yellow ones. It’s a whole plant family. Bromeliads. A pineapple is a bromeliad, but I think the only one you can eat.” Then I remember Peter. “Safely.”
“Huh.” Mo seems to take it in. “So I’m guessing you like plants?”
“I love plants. And flowers, and trees. Really anything that grows.” I pause. “Except mold.”
“I totally get it,” Mo says. “There’s nothing like the smell of fresh-cut grass.”
“Did you know it’s a distress signal?” I ask. “When the grass gets cut, it releases these chemicals. It smells really nice to us, but it’s basically the grass . . .” I clear my throat. “Um. You know. Screaming.”
Mo looks amused. “That’s so weird.”
I try not to cringe. Alex says the same thing, whenever I mention something about gardening or flowers or . . . a lot of things I like, actually. Weird. He tosses the word over his shoulder, without a second of hesitation. Like he doesn’t expect it to hurt. But also like he knows it will.
The phone buzzes on the table with a text. I start to put it in my purse, but before I can, another comes in. And then another. All from Alex, of course.
Hey we’re taking a break
Did you finish Shakespeare stuff yet
Send me a pic or something
I hate it when he asks for that. He says he just likes getting to see me when we aren’t together, but . . . I don’t know. And I definitely can’t ta
ke a picture of myself here.
Just hanging out at home
My camera’s being weird though ugh
“You okay?” Mo asks me.
“Yeah.” I look up from my phone. “It’s just my boyfriend, he wanted me to—um. He likes knowing where I am.”
Mo’s expression flickers. Just for a second. Then she nudges Will. “Hey, Izzy knows the wildest shit about plants.” She turns back to me with a grin. “Go ahead, tell him.”
So I turn my phone to silent, stuff it deep inside my purse, and tell them the weirdest things I know.
“Thank you for the warm welcome,” Mo says. “Just like my student loans, I don’t think I can ever repay you.”
The audience laughs.
“I’ve been in my current relationship for a year now. He’s the most amazing guy.” She squints into the audience. “Okay, so this is my favorite moment, because I get to watch everyone’s brains recalibrating, like, ‘Did she just say her partner’s a man? Is she not gay, because she looks gay, oh my God, am I a bad person for assuming she was gay? Am I a . . . ?” She mimes gasping. “‘Republican? Do I have to burn my Whole Foods canvas shopping bag?’” Mo leans down to speak directly to a man in the front row. She nods at him. “Yes.”
Then she straightens up with a grin. “No, I’m just fucking with you. I am gay, I have a girlfriend, and the only amazing guy in my life is Jesus Christ.” She waits another beat. “I’m still fucking with you! But this is fun, right?”
From the laugh she gets, the audience must agree.
“My girlfriend is the greatest. We are so compatible. She just gets me, you know? Even with all my flaws. We laugh about how competitive I am”—Mo leans into the mic, suddenly intense—“but I laugh more.”
Huh. I’d expected to hear Mo doing the same Broadway riot bit as last week, and apparently so did Will.
“Wait, is this all new?” he whispers to Jonah.
“You know her,” Jonah says. “Can’t stick to a set.”
“It’s so much better than my last relationship,” Mo continues. “My ex-girlfriend had all these super-weird quirks. She hated avocados, which is just . . . not human. And it seemed like she started every single conversation by saying”—she puts on a higher, irritated voice—“‘Wait, have you even been listening to me?’” She pauses for the laugh. “Right? So weird.”