by Robin Talley
“Oh.” I hadn’t even thought about how much that guitar must have been worth. “Poor Señor Suarez.”
“I think he’s just relieved his daughter isn’t so broken up anymore.” Dad patted the envelope, making sure it was still there. I did the same thing whenever I put something in my pocket. “I understand you had a lot to do with that.”
I smiled. “Juana’s awesome. I’m going to miss her.”
“I think she’ll miss you, too.”
I took a breath, then launched into my question.
“I did some research,” I told Dad, trying not to sound nervous. “It turns out there’s a thing where youth group members can petition to be junior delegates to the convention. They can’t vote, but they can go to all the events and hear the speeches and stuff.”
Dad smiled and sipped his coffee. “That’s true.”
“Do you think maybe I could go? As a junior delegate, I mean?”
Dad’s smile widened. “Junior delegates need to be elected by their congregations.”
“Then maybe I could run for it, or whatever? The thing is, I want to know more about how this stuff works. I mean, not only at church, but in the world. Especially when it comes to things like foreign aid and health care. I’ve been thinking—I have some free time now that I quit my music lessons, so maybe I could do that. Help out a group that’s working on that stuff. Maybe I could help them start a new project to work with immigrants. Or I could start my own group, maybe. Oh, and I’m going to start paying better attention in Spanish class, so I can learn to speak it for real. Maybe I could come back down here next summer to volunteer on my own. Or I could go somewhere else where I could help.” I took a breath. “I don’t know. I guess I need to figure it out.”
Dad took another sip of coffee. “I think those are all fine ideas, Aki.”
“The thing is, I want to do something. You know? Not just talk about it.”
He nodded. “You may want to think about exploring a career in public health policy. A friend of mine from college got his master’s in that. You’d also be an excellent doctor. Or a lawyer or a politician. And you’d certainly be a fine community activist. Quite a few of those jobs involve making speeches, and we know now how good you are at that.”
I smiled and tucked my hair behind my ear. “Doesn’t everyone hate doctors and lawyers and politicians?”
“You’ll change their minds.” Dad tugged on one of my braids. I squirmed and pulled away. “By the way, sweetheart, I know you were upset when you didn’t get into that school, but I hope you won’t give up on music altogether. You can still enjoy it even if you don’t want to make it your career. I remember how happy you used to look when you sang in the youth choir at church, and I know the choir directors miss having you there, too.”
Wow. Dad had almost made it through the whole summer without guilt-tripping me about that.
I nearly said something sarcastic, but then I stopped myself. He’d been so nice about me coming out. The least I could do was answer him for real.
“I still love music.” I thought carefully about how I wanted to explain this. “I don’t think I want to major in it for college or anything, but when I get home I was thinking about playing guitar again. Just for fun. I guess I could think about choir, too, but no promises. I think I need to try different things instead of obsessing over just one the way I used to do.”
Dad nodded. “Fair enough. Anyway, sweetie, you know you’ve got plenty of time to decide on all of that. No need to be thinking about college majors yet. For now, though, when we get back home, I’ll show you the forms to fill out to apply to be a junior delegate. Then if you get accepted, you can come to the conference with me and see exactly how exciting all of this voting and speech-making can be.”
I grinned. “Am I totally a dork?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell your brother.” Dad set down his coffee cup. “Now, I wanted to tell you about my own plans for the conference. I’ve made some decisions about these resolutions.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this. If he was voting against health care—or, worse, against gay marriage—that was going to hurt. “I thought it wasn’t up to you. I thought the church committee had to decide and then you’d vote whichever way they picked.”
Dad nodded. “Well, that’s true, but I can make a case to the committee. They’ll take what I have to say into consideration.”
“Oh.” I wondered why Dad hadn’t told me that before. “So what are you going to tell them?”
“A lot of different things, on a lot of different resolutions. There are far more of them than you covered in your debate last night, of course. But there was one I’d been wrestling with before we came down here, and that was the international health care plank. I knew we should support people in developing countries, of course—that was part of why I wanted us to make this trip. I’d still been uncertain about the resolution, though, because there are so many folks back home who need our support, and we only have so many resources to go around. But your speech last night, sweetie—well, you convinced me. You really did. Everyone on the planet is a child of God, not only the people in our own neighborhoods. So I’m voting yes.”
At first I didn’t think I’d understood. “Because of what I said?”
“That’s right.” Dad smiled so big I worried his face might break.
“But it was so obvious! I didn’t say anything new.”
Dad chuckled. “It’s obvious to you, because that’s how you see the world, but it’s not obvious to everyone else until you persuade them to look at it that way, too.”
I felt another tear forming in the corner of my eye. God, how embarrassing.
“By the way, I’m voting yes on the marriage resolution, too,” Dad said. “I’d already made up my mind on that one, but if I hadn’t I certainly would have after what you’ve told me this summer.”
“I—” I didn’t know what to say. “I didn’t make a speech on that one.”
“You didn’t have to. You being you is enough.”
I hugged him, moving so fast I nearly spilled his coffee. He hugged me back, his hand thumping on my shoulder.
“Also?” I said, while he was still clasping me tightly. “That photo you carry around of Uncle Andrew? I was wondering, could we maybe put it up at home somewhere? To remember him better?”
Dad released me partway, his hand still holding my arm. His eyes were bright and locked on me. “Well, sweetheart, if that’s something you want, we can talk about it when we get home.”
“Okay.” I swallowed at the thought of going home.
“I’m glad we got to spend some time together down here.” He let go of my arm and took a step back. “We’ll have a lot to tell your mother when we see her tonight.”
“Will we ever.” It was strange to think I was going to see Mom so soon. I wanted to see her—I wanted to see my room and my friends and my cat, too—but I was so used to life here now. To hot chocolate for breakfast. To talking about church politics as though my opinion mattered.
Most of all, to seeing Christa’s smile.
Dad looked at his watch. “You’d better get a move on with that packing. The bus will be here any minute.”
“Oh, right. Crud.” I put down my mug and jogged into the church. Dad was right—nearly everyone else had already finished packing. My pile of stuff was alone in the middle of the floor. Someone had wheeled my suitcase over to it. On top of my suitcase was a piece of paper, folded in half. I opened it and read the note.
I went to help Rodney pack stuff up outside. See you on the bus!
Christa
She’d drawn a little heart by her name. I was so happy to see that heart I didn’t even mind that she’d gone off somewhere and I wouldn’t see her until the bus ride.
Except...when we got on the bus
, this was all over.
Oh, well. I guess it already was. Standing next to each other while we packed wouldn’t have meant much.
Still, though. Every minute, every second even, counted for something.
I shoved my stuff into my suitcase and my duffel, not bothering to pay attention to what went where. I was tying the duffel closed when I heard the sound of the bus crunching on the gravel outside. There was no avoiding the inevitable.
I hauled my stuff out and joined the throng. Lori was at the edge of the group, loading her suitcase into the bottom of the bus. I joined her and put my stuff next to hers.
“You doing okay?” Lori was the only person I’d told about the arrangement Christa and I had made.
I shrugged. “It’s only the worst Sunday of my life, is all.”
“Sorry.” She hugged me. “Want to sit together on the bus? We can play Candy Zone the whole time. You can’t be stressed when you’re playing Candy Zone.”
I was really, really glad Lori and I were friends again. It wasn’t the same as it had been before—it probably never could be—but that didn’t mean I didn’t need her. “Sure.”
Even though things were different between us now, in some ways, they actually felt more natural. As though we’d become better friends now that we were being totally honest with each other.
It felt that way with Dad, too. And Drew, actually.
And Christa. Her most of all.
I’d started this summer wanting to do something. I thought that meant an experiment. I’d wanted to have my own little separate world with Christa. But that had been impossible until we’d stopped hiding parts of ourselves.
Now, though, Christa and I really did have our little world, and it was amazing. The truth was, though, Lori and I had a world of our own, too. We had years of history, of understanding each other, that no one got but us.
Dad and I had our own world now, too. We understood each other in a different way than we had before. It was the same with Drew. And it was even true, now that I thought about it, with Jake, and some of my other friends.
Except—
I didn’t want all of those worlds to be separate. We were all in one big world, together. It was a lot more fun that way.
Lori and I climbed onto the bus behind a group of guys who were yelling out a countdown until they could go to the airport McDonald’s. On my way down the aisle, I passed Aunt Miranda. She was trying to shove someone’s Hello Kitty backpack into the tiny overhead rack.
“Um, hey.” I leaned over so she could hear me. “Thanks, you know, for what you said that time. You were right, it turns out.”
Aunt Miranda leaned out from behind the backpack. Her hair was frizzy around her sweaty face, but she smiled. “I’m so glad to hear that, honey. Remember, anytime you need to come talk to me, even once we get back home, you do that.”
“Okay. Thanks again.”
I found two seats for Lori and me near the back and slid in by the window. I tossed my jacket onto the seat next to mine while Lori stuck her purse in the overhead rack. Before she was done, a shadow appeared over me.
“Hey, um, can I sit with you?” Christa pointed to the seat I’d saved for Lori.
“Oh. Um.” I stared up at her. We’d agreed that once the bus left Mudanza, our fling was officially over. If we sat together on the bus, what did that mean?
The thing was—I didn’t really care what we’d agreed. Or what it meant.
I wanted to sit next to Christa on this bus ride. I wanted to get as much Christa time as I could out of this life.
I glanced at Lori. She mouthed “Go for it!” and gave me a thumbs-up behind Christa’s back. I managed not to laugh.
“Okay.” I nodded. Christa slid into the seat without another word, glancing at me with a split-second smile and reaching into her purse for her headphones.
We didn’t talk during the ride. All we did was listen to music, separately. It was cold on the air-conditioned bus, so I spread my blanket out over my lap, but Christa stared out the window, not even glancing in my direction. I tried to play a game on my phone, but I gave up after half an hour and settled for staring out the window, too.
It was a constant struggle not to cry.
This was it. These few hours were all we’d ever have again.
The bus was rolling into the outskirts of Tijuana when I felt it. A slight pressure on the inside of my wrist. Sliding up to the top of my hand.
I was so startled I nearly yanked my hand away. Instead I looked down.
Christa was still staring out the window, but her fingers were stroking mine. Lightly. Under my jacket.
We weren’t supposed to be doing this. Even where no one could see.
Had Christa forgotten the plan? Would this make it even harder when we had to walk off the bus and act as though we didn’t know each other?
Whatever. Screw it.
I slid my hand into hers, linked our fingers together, and squeezed. Christa turned toward me, biting her lip. She squeezed back.
This time I didn’t bother to wipe my eyes. There would be more tears where these came from.
After ten minutes of hand holding and silent tears, the bus turned onto the airport ramp. The chaperones yelled for everyone to stay in their seats until the bus stopped, but no one listened. I scrubbed at my face with my free hand and tried to breathe deeply so the tears would stop.
I waited for Christa to pull her hand free from mine. She didn’t. She was crying, too.
We sat still and silent while everyone around us clambered to their feet and gathered up their stuff, the bus buzzing with excited conversation.
Aunt Miranda yelled that we should all assemble at the departure boards right inside the terminal while the chaperones got our suitcases. Everyone moved forward except Christa and me. I waited for the separation to come, for the forward momentum we couldn’t avoid.
“I’ve been thinking,” Christa whispered. I could barely hear her over all the shouting and talking. I leaned in carefully. “And I think I... I don’t...”
“You don’t what?” Even through my whisper, my voice shook.
“I don’t want this to be over. Not today. Maybe not ever.” She squeezed my hand again. “But only if that’s what you want, too.”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t know the word for what I was feeling right then. Elation? Relief?
Love, maybe?
“That’s what I want, too,” I said. “That’s so completely and totally what I want.”
Without thinking, I leaned in to kiss her. But she was thinking, and she leaned back.
“I’m sorry.” I wanted to sob.
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I—I can’t do that. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”
“Okay.” I squeezed her hand. “But I have to.”
Christa didn’t say anything at first. Then she nodded.
“I get it,” she said softly. “I wish I could, too.”
“But we can be together. I mean, it’ll be hard, but I want to do the hard stuff if that’s what it takes.”
She squeezed my hand so tightly I thought it might burst open.
I slid my free hand into my bag and pulled out a marker. It was one of hers. I’d lost track of how many things that I thought of as mine now were really Christa’s.
“I need your help.” I told Christa what I wanted her to do. When I finished explaining, we were both laughing, and brushing away tears at the same time.
“Okay.” She dropped my hand to reach for the marker. “Hold still.”
It only took a minute—which was a good thing, since Aunt Miranda was glaring at us from outside the bus—but when it was done, I realized I was terrified.
“You’re really going through with this?” Christa popped the cap on the mar
ker and tucked it back into my bag.
I nodded. “I care so much about you. I want everyone to know that, but if I can’t tell them, then at least I want them to know me.”
We were the last two people off the bus. Christa walked in front of me. My heart was pounding harder than it ever had in my life as we climbed down those steps into the throng of people.
They were going to see it. Everyone was going to see.
The first person I spotted looking our way was Jake. His eyes locked on me, and his mouth dropped open. Then he grinned.
Someone else, one of the guys from his church, saw Jake looking and followed his gaze. He nudged the guy next to him and gestured toward us.
Soon everyone was staring at me, pointing, whispering. I looked around for Dad but he was bent over grabbing stuff from under the bus.
People were starting to walk toward the terminal, so we walked, too. Christa drifted into the crowd, smiling at me as she went. I smiled back, the nerves rolling under my skin.
On the front of my T-shirt, Christa had drawn a tiny rainbow. Below that she’d written, in letters so big no one could miss them, “HI! I’M BI!”
I saw Lori as I approached the sliding glass doors. Her eyes widened. Then she came up to walk alongside me. My nerves started to cool down the tiniest bit.
When we passed through the glass doors, every eye in the group was fixed on me. Drew gave me his patented half grin. Most of the others were smiling, too. Jake and Rodney and Sofía and Gina and everyone—everyone I’d ever known, it felt like. Even Dad was there, glancing my way with a soft smile and a bemused nod.
I could see Christa up ahead, standing in front of the destinations board. I went up to join her, Lori on my other side, looking up at the ten-foot high screens listing what seemed to be all the places in the world. Sydney. São Paulo. Honolulu.
I glanced over at Christa. She glanced back at me, still smiling. Then I turned to read the names. All the places I could go someday.