world. I didn’t have anyone watching my back. And I knew all
that
because I
knew
my U.S. history.”
“Wait.” Marci touches my arm. I flinch. It’s gonna take a while to get used to her touching me. “What does U.S. history have to do with you coming out?”
“Us—kids—anyone under eighteen? Basically, we have the rights of slaves. As in, no rights. Parents can do whatever they want with us. You parents’ rights rule.”
“Dependency relationships,” she says. “Go on.”
I don’t know dependency relationships from Depend diapers, but I continue, “I felt this urge—to leave. I waved good-bye to Miss Pinkie. I stood up, walked to the cash register, pulled out my wallet and … oh, wow! The guy at the cash register was
so
cute. How’d I miss him? His name tag read ‘Stuart.’ Stuart smiled—at me! And he got even cuter!
“I handed him the money but I couldn’t look him in the eye. He held out my change. I took it and turned to leave. ‘Hey there,’ he said. ‘Wait up a sec.’ I felt it! The beat that my heart skipped. Stuart said, ‘I see you in here all the time and …’ He flashed me this friendly-flirty smile. I was sure he was about to ask me to be his boyfriend. I would have said, ‘Sure,’ because I never say ‘yes,’ only, ‘sure.’ I said, ‘What are you smiling at?’ He looked at me and said, ‘Are you queer?’
“I was so embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say. People didn’t
ask.
Ever since fifth grade …” My voice trails off. I’m getting tired of proving I’m not pink enemy number one.
“Fifth grade,” Marci says. “What was so special about that?”
“The
first
day of fifth grade, I dressed up. I looked
so smart.
Madras shorts, button-up Oxford cloth dress shirt. It was like everyone’s head turned, took one look. ‘Ah,
no.
He didn’t.’ My fashion tipped them off. I landed splat on the Fag Fashion No Fly List. I was naive. I didn’t know. I’d never get off. Coz Fashion = Fag. Social Fail. My bad. I could have faked it.”
“How so?”
“If I just didn’t open my mouth, for one. Tip off number one. I mean,
look
at me: I had facial hair … at eleven! I could have worked it. Hidden myself under another look: Natural Born Terrorist. Maybe, it was more simple. If I’d just worn … less pink. After a while, I just said, ‘Fuck it.’ I wasn’t about to walk around looking …
drab.
Wearing gray. Or, beige. That’s how I ended up leaving school, in that cafe, writing in the blue notebook. Looking back? I should have surrendered. Just worn the straight dude’s headscarf, the baseball cap.”
I shut my mouth. I’m done. I don’t ever want to think aboutbeing called a fag. Or, the color pink. I close my eyes. The fashion flashback’s destroyed me. My nap’s short. Her finger jabs my shoulder.
“What’d you say?” Marci asks. “To Stuart?”
“I thought he was some emo guy who worked in a coffee shop. He knew nothing about me. I paid cash so—”
Thump!
Something hits the van. I jump. Like I’ve been shocked. My left eye twitches. The muscle starts pulling, crazily yanking under the skin. The fast tug-tug-tug prolly makes me look like I’m squinting
really
fast. My body knows. I’m gonna get caught and returned to Serenity Ridge. I reach over her and try to get out. “Move! Let me out!” Marci turns her body. She’s not in my way. I feel trapped but … I’m not. I can leave.
“Pine cone. Then what?”
“Oh.” I look down at my journal for words that (still) aren’t there. I close my eyes. Remember. Where I left off. The German headrest is soft as a rock. Deep breath. In my mind’s eye, I step back, into the cafe, back to that moment.
Chapter 14
“I didn’t think. I said, ‘Yeah.’ Right away, I wanted to bolt. Leave my change. But I didn’t. I stayed. Stuart was too damn
cute.
Funny thing was,
nothing
happened. He didn’t laugh. Nothing. Then he goes, ‘I get off at five. You want to go for a walk?’ I
that
because I
knew
my U.S. history.”
“Wait.” Marci touches my arm. I flinch. It’s gonna take a while to get used to her touching me. “What does U.S. history have to do with you coming out?”
“Us—kids—anyone under eighteen? Basically, we have the rights of slaves. As in, no rights. Parents can do whatever they want with us. You parents’ rights rule.”
“Dependency relationships,” she says. “Go on.”
I don’t know dependency relationships from Depend diapers, but I continue, “I felt this urge—to leave. I waved good-bye to Miss Pinkie. I stood up, walked to the cash register, pulled out my wallet and … oh, wow! The guy at the cash register was
so
cute. How’d I miss him? His name tag read ‘Stuart.’ Stuart smiled—at me! And he got even cuter!
“I handed him the money but I couldn’t look him in the eye. He held out my change. I took it and turned to leave. ‘Hey there,’ he said. ‘Wait up a sec.’ I felt it! The beat that my heart skipped. Stuart said, ‘I see you in here all the time and …’ He flashed me this friendly-flirty smile. I was sure he was about to ask me to be his boyfriend. I would have said, ‘Sure,’ because I never say ‘yes,’ only, ‘sure.’ I said, ‘What are you smiling at?’ He looked at me and said, ‘Are you queer?’
“I was so embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say. People didn’t
ask.
Ever since fifth grade …” My voice trails off. I’m getting tired of proving I’m not pink enemy number one.
“Fifth grade,” Marci says. “What was so special about that?”
“The
first
day of fifth grade, I dressed up. I looked
so smart.
Madras shorts, button-up Oxford cloth dress shirt. It was like everyone’s head turned, took one look. ‘Ah,
no.
He didn’t.’ My fashion tipped them off. I landed splat on the Fag Fashion No Fly List. I was naive. I didn’t know. I’d never get off. Coz Fashion = Fag. Social Fail. My bad. I could have faked it.”
“How so?”
“If I just didn’t open my mouth, for one. Tip off number one. I mean,
look
at me: I had facial hair … at eleven! I could have worked it. Hidden myself under another look: Natural Born Terrorist. Maybe, it was more simple. If I’d just worn … less pink. After a while, I just said, ‘Fuck it.’ I wasn’t about to walk around looking …
drab.
Wearing gray. Or, beige. That’s how I ended up leaving school, in that cafe, writing in the blue notebook. Looking back? I should have surrendered. Just worn the straight dude’s headscarf, the baseball cap.”
I shut my mouth. I’m done. I don’t ever want to think aboutbeing called a fag. Or, the color pink. I close my eyes. The fashion flashback’s destroyed me. My nap’s short. Her finger jabs my shoulder.
“What’d you say?” Marci asks. “To Stuart?”
“I thought he was some emo guy who worked in a coffee shop. He knew nothing about me. I paid cash so—”
Thump!
Something hits the van. I jump. Like I’ve been shocked. My left eye twitches. The muscle starts pulling, crazily yanking under the skin. The fast tug-tug-tug prolly makes me look like I’m squinting
really
fast. My body knows. I’m gonna get caught and returned to Serenity Ridge. I reach over her and try to get out. “Move! Let me out!” Marci turns her body. She’s not in my way. I feel trapped but … I’m not. I can leave.
“Pine cone. Then what?”
“Oh.” I look down at my journal for words that (still) aren’t there. I close my eyes. Remember. Where I left off. The German headrest is soft as a rock. Deep breath. In my mind’s eye, I step back, into the cafe, back to that moment.
Chapter 14
“I didn’t think. I said, ‘Yeah.’ Right away, I wanted to bolt. Leave my change. But I didn’t. I stayed. Stuart was too damn
cute.
Funny thing was,
nothing
happened. He didn’t laugh. Nothing. Then he goes, ‘I get off at five. You want to go for a walk?’ I
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