by Carrie Pack
One Wednesday afternoon, we’re all sitting on the floor in Marty’s basement listening to a Heavens to Betsy tape Cherie brought. There are a few good songs, but I’m distracted. Kate is wearing a black ribbon as a choker and she smells like something fruity. I’m acutely aware of her presence, even without looking at her, and it makes the hairs on my arm stand on end. I try to keep my body contained in as little horizontal space as possible. I sit with my back uncomfortably straight and lean on the side of the couch, but we’re sitting close to each other so we don’t have to turn the stereo up. Marty’s dad works nights, and, if we wake him up, there’ll be hell to pay. Eventually my left leg falls asleep, and I have to adjust. I lean to one side and release my foot from under my thigh. My toes tingle with pinpricks as the circulation returns. As I flex and stretch, Kate’s thigh grazes mine. It’s completely accidental, but it thrills me nonetheless. I think I might actually explode. I’m suddenly very aware of my own breathing and how close Kate’s hand is. I want to grab it, but I don’t. I’m not gay. I have a thing for Mike. Or maybe he has a thing for me.
I try to focus on the lyrics of the song that’s playing.
Eyes closed, Cherie taps along with the bass line. Marty is focused on a notebook in her lap and the stack of mail addressed to Riot Grrrl. When the song ends, Cherie gets up to turn the tape over. It’s quiet, and then Kate drops a bomb on us.
“I think I might be into chicks,” Kate says. Her expression is nonchalant despite the nuclear reaction she’s just unleashed. In fact, she doesn’t even look up from the issue of Sassy she’s thumbing through. My face reddens. Can she read my thoughts?
“What?” My voice is hoarse, so I clear my throat. “Like, like them like them?”
“Yeah, why not?” she says with a shrug. “I mean look at Winona Ryder.” She holds up the magazine and shows me a photo of the actress pouting. “Have you ever seen someone so brooding and… I don’t know, cool?”
I think about it. Sure. Lots of girls are brooding and cool. And some of them are super cute too, like Winona. I’ve admired her before, and, of course, Heather made fun of me for it. But that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to them. Does it?
I think of Mike and his dark eyes, his tan skin, his dimples and his lips pursed tightly around a cigarette. My stomach flutters. I look at Kate and it flips again. Maybe I’m getting sick.
“So what? Lots of people think Winona’s cool,” Marty says. “Doesn’t mean we’re all lesbians.”
“I didn’t say I was a lesbian,” Kate says.
I look at her sideways, trying not to seem too obvious. I sit on my hands to keep them from shaking.
“Oh, so you’re bi now?” Marty asks, her words soaked in disdain.
“So what if I am?” Kate retorts. “I don’t have to fit into some neat little box for you, or anyone else.”
That makes me smile. I like the thought of someone being attracted to more than one gender. It’s tinted with infinite possibilities. Plus, Kate’s confident in a way I can only dream of being, and that makes me oddly protective of her.
“I think it’s cool if you’re bi,” I mumble. Please let it be cool with everyone else, I think.
Kate smiles at me and my stomach flips. “Thanks, Tab.” She throws her arm around me and glares at Marty. My heart beats faster.
“Whatever.” Marty shakes her head and goes back to the pile of letters our tiny Riot Grrrl chapter has received. Cherie pushes play, and Kate and I turn our attention back to the music. Cherie paints her toenails.
“Hell, yeah!” Marty shrieks. “We got a new place to meet, girls. Bigger, more visibility and most importantly, no nosy moms or sleeping dads.”
“I thought you liked hosting,” Cherie says. She blows on her now sparkly blue toenails.
“I’ll still technically be hosting,” Marty says with an air of self-imposed authority. “Just on a grander scale.”
Kate rolls her eyes, and I laugh. Marty is so very Marty sometimes.
“Where is it?” I ask, hoping it’s still within walking distance. My mom has failed yet again to come through on the car front and my bike’s had a flat tire for over a year.
“The community rec center on Collins.” Marty’s face is buried in the letter. “Says we have to set up and take down—like we don’t already—and organize a roadside trash pickup once a month.”
“That’s not so bad,” Cherie says. “Beats the hell out of paying for a space like my church wanted.”
“Exactly,” Marty says. “Looks like we can start using it next month. Anyone want to go with me to check it out?” She stands up, places her hands on her hips and stares at me and Kate.
“Right now?” Kate asks.
“No time like the present.”
Kate looks at me and back to Marty. “We wanted to finish listening to this tape, and Tabitha’s got to be home in an hour.”
Marty rolls her eyes. “Cherie?”
Cherie looks at her toes and the bottle of polish still in her hand. “I— Well, I guess I could if—”
Marty cuts her off. “Great. Let’s go and leave these two to their… whatever. Just make sure you guys lock the door when you leave. My mom won’t be home until six and she’ll flip if the place isn’t bolted down like Fort Knox.”
Cherie reluctantly follows Marty upstairs, and I hear Marty whisper-shout, “I’ve got flip-flops, for fuck’s sake, Cherie!”
Kate and I giggle, sharing a moment of camaraderie about our predictable friends. Marty gets so frustrated with Cherie’s overt femininity; she insists makeup is profoundly anti-feminist and never misses an opportunity to tell us so.
Kate rewinds the tape. “I think we missed most of that song,” she says.
I nod, and Kate returns to her spot on the floor next to me. She leaves the magazine open but doesn’t continue reading it.
By the time the last haunting notes of “Paralyzed” fade out, I’m hyperaware of how close Kate and I are sitting. My heart races as I try not to move and burst our private bubble.
Kate reclines on the thick shag carpet and folds her hands behind her head. “God, I want to sing like that.”
I lie down beside her and turn my head in her direction. “I bet you could.” My voice is barely above a whisper; we’re lying so close.
She waves me off. “Nah, I sing like a dying cat, but you’re sweet for saying it.” She gives me a sideways glance and a soft grin that sends shivers all the way down to my toes.
I focus my attention on the ceiling. There’s a tea-colored stain directly over our heads. “Do you really like girls?” I swallow. “Like that I mean.”
I mostly feel her nod rather than see it. “I’ve been questioning it for a while, but yeah, I think I do.” She turns her head toward me. “What about you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “How did you know?”
“How do you ever know you like anybody? It’s different for everyone, but for me it was getting turned on at naked girls in movies. Then I realized I used to have this huge, fat crush on Cherie.” She laughs. “That lasted about a hot minute. She’s far too straightlaced for me. And just plain straight.”
I giggle. Actually fucking giggle. Dork.
Kate props herself on her elbow and looks at me. “Are you questioning your sexuality, Tabitha?” It sounds very after-school special to me, but Kate is dead serious.
“I uh… Well…”
“It’s okay,” she says. Her smile has turned into a smirk. “I have an idea. You don’t have to answer. Just close your eyes.”
My heart is about to beat right out of my chest, but I comply. I don’t have a choice. My body is acting on its own. I no longer have free will. I’m only doing what I’m told. I can feel Kate coming closer, but I don’t move, not a muscle, not an eyelash. I am frozen in time, waiting. For what I’m not sure.
Then her lips bru
sh mine. Softly at first and then more firmly. My whole body is feverish as she cups my face in her hand. I don’t know what else to do so I try to kiss back, but she’s gone. When I open my eyes, she’s still hovering over me; her hand covers her mouth. She’s blushing, too.
Neither of us says anything, and Kate stands up and takes the tape out of the stereo. “I should probably get this back to Cherie.” She looks at me lying on the floor. “I gotta pee. I’ll meet you outside.”
She climbs the stairs, and I lie there like a dumbstruck statue. I bring my hand to my lips, but they feel unchanged. And yet something is completely, irrevocably, unavoidably different. Something so life-changing, I don’t know what to do with the information.
Plain and simple: I have a crush on Kate.
Decked Out No. 2
Have it Your Way…Or the Other Way
by Kate Goldberg
It seems like so many girls are bi these days—or pretending to be. I can’t walk through the mall without bumping into at least six girls who want to hold hands and share chaste kisses with other girls. Where are all the girls who aren’t afraid of being called a lesbian? Where are all the girls who want to drool over Claire Danes AND Jared Leto?
I am bisexual. Completely. Fully. I think boobs are hot. I used to dream about this girl in my 10th grade English class. Her name was Danielle and she had the most gorgeous body. And her smile. Her smile always made my day better. I tried to be her best friend but she already had one, a girl she had known since kindergarten. So I shelved my crush. Disregarded it as a need to be part of the cool group.
Later I dated this guy named Steve. He was edgy-skateboarder hot. He had long, shaggy hair and wore his pants low around his hips. We made out, and I let him feel me up because he gave me the same swoopy feeling in my tummy that Danielle had.
I kissed a girl the other day and it happened again—the swoop. Her name is Tabitha. She has the prettiest grayish-blue eyes, and I am smitten.
RULES FOR GIRLS IN THE ‘90s
1. Wear makeup.
2. Don’t wear too much makeup.
3. Speak your mind.
4. Don’t raise your voice.
5. Stand up straight.
6. Don’t stick out your chest.
7. Dress modestly.
8. Be soft and feminine. Boys don’t date tomboys.
9. Don’t be too girly. Boys won’t take you seriously.
10. BE WHATEVER YOU WANT TO BE THESE RULES ARE ARBITRARY!!!!!!!!!
Of Mice and Menses
by Cherie Wong
The masculinization of my period makes me want to bleed all over corporate America. I watch girls twirl around as their skirts magically become tampons that have white strings for tails like tiny cotton mice. Why do these advertisers think we all want to dance and leap while we are bleeding from our nether regions? Instead I dream about clear blue liquid floating away on the wings of a pad.
Who decided wings were something pads needed? Has anyone in product development every really worn these things? If you’re lucky they stick to the side of your leg, but most of the time the little tabs just bunch up and pull out your pubic hairs. But no one talks about that because pubic hair is off limits. Sure, you can rip it out with your poorly designed maxi pad wings, but you can’t f*cking talk about it, no.
And why the HELL is it called a sanitary napkin?
We have to dance and twirl and be happy about our periods while the blue liquid flows from a test tube because our uteri are commodified. Our bodies are for male consumption, not for bodily functions. Breasts are for ogling, not for feeding. Vaginas are for sex, not for giving birth. But wings are for birds and girls with small thighs. Tampons are for thin, pretty dancers who are quiet as mice. Periods are “that time of the month.” I am bleeding and you want me to be happy?
I am not happy. And even if I am it’s not your business. Why is my body your business? My body is NOT a business.
Chapter 4
I don’t tell Mike about Kate. I’m not sure why, but it feels like a betrayal. I mean, he knows we’re friends, but if I tell him she kissed me, it won’t be a secret anymore. And I don’t know how Mike feels about me. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“You okay?” he asks. “You seem distracted.”
I hate that he can see right through me. When did that happen? I don’t remember us getting this close. What happened to hanging out behind the convenience store? I remember our almost-kiss and I shudder. How I feel about Kate is unrelated to how I feel about Mike, but right now the two seem inextricably linked.
“I didn’t sleep very well,” I lie. It’s Sunday. I slept like a lazy housecat and didn’t wake up until noon. He knows that. I do the same thing every Sunday.
Mike nods as if he’s silently agreeing to believe my story even though he knows it’s a fabrication.
“You’ve been hanging out with those chicks a lot lately.” The way he says the word “chicks” sets my teeth on edge. It’s as though he’s using it as a curse word, as if he’s judging me.
“So?” I am barely containing my anger. Mike’s judging me and he’s judging my friends. Any affection I may have had dissipates in defense of my fellow Riot Grrrls.
“So nothing. It’s just an observation. Jesus, you’re in a mood today.” He stamps out a cigarette and kicks the curb. The black scuff marks are still there from when I first wore my boots—an angry smudge that proves my existence, and yet I feel invisible. Mike doesn’t see me for who I really am.
“Sorry.” The word squeezes out through my sneer. I’m not sure why I’m apologizing. It’s okay for me to be angry. Isn’t it? I’ve always been a peacekeeper, though, and I simply want things to go back to normal between us. Before that almost-kiss that made me question the last year of my friendship with Mike. Before Kate kissed me and turned my world upside down. Why can’t Mike just talk about music the way we used to? Or not talk at all? When did we start discussing our moods? I don’t want to be here anymore. I ache for the solitude of my room and the pseudo-earthy smell of potato chips and the sticky tang of pop.
Mike breaks the silence first, but the tension stays. “Look, I’m gonna go. Why don’t you call me when you’re…” He trails off, the unsaid words hanging in the air between us.
“When I’m what?” I challenge.
“I don’t know,” Mike says. “Less angry. More Tabitha.”
“This is me. Deal with it.” I’m not sure where that came from but now that I’ve said it, I realize it’s true and I walk away.
Does he know this is it for us? I won’t call him. Things have changed. The Tabitha who needed Mike’s friendship is gone. The Tabitha seeking refuge from Heather’s ire has grown up and moved on in the span of one girl-on-girl kiss. Her brief and misguided crush has gone up in smoke along with the tobacco in his cheap menthols. The new-and-improved Tabitha has better things to do. She has Kate.
Kate links her pinky with mine as we enter the rec center. It’s our first Riot Grrrl meeting as a “couple,” and I’m nervous. What will Marty say? Will Cherie approve? Have they read Kate’s zine?
Marty’s on us before we’re two steps inside the door.
“Look at the love birds!” Her hair is the color of grape Kool-Aid and smells like it too as she rushes up to give us a bear hug. My stomach lurches at the memory of my soaked gym clothes.
Kate must sense my tension because she squeezes my wrist. It’s as comforting as she intended. Maybe more so.
“I can’t believe you guys made out!” Marty looks like she just opened presents on Christmas morning. Okay, so she’s definitely read Kate’s zine.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.” Cherie’s pout is insincere. She gives Kate a crushing hug, and our hands are tugged apart.
“It’s not that big of a deal, guys.” Kate’s a pro at pl
aying it cool, but my palms are sweaty. I wipe them on my jeans in case Kate wants to hold hands again.
“We didn’t exactly make out,” I mumble.
Ignoring me, Marty says, “I didn’t know you played for the other team.”
Kate jabs her with an elbow. “Rude.”
“What? She walks in with you on her arm, and I can’t call her a lesbian?”
“No, you can’t,” Kate says, her nose in the air.
“I don’t mind,” I mumble. It doesn’t matter that Marty thinks I’m gay. Right now I want the attention off me and on something else. Anything else.
Kate turns to me and smiles. “Babe, only you can choose your labels. Don’t let other people put you in a box, okay? We talked about this.”
I take a deep breath. She’s right. These girls won’t judge me. Marty and Cherie are not Heather and Molly. Besides, I’m too busy soaking in the fact that Kate called me “babe” to care what anyone thinks. I clear my throat. “I guess I like girls,” I say, barely loud enough for Marty to hear.
“Well, hallelujah!” Marty shouts. “Tabitha speaks.”
I’m not sure why, but I’ve gotten a reputation as the shy one. Truth is, though, I rarely feel that way. Sometimes I just like to listen. I speak when I have something to say. Kate seems to have figured that out, but Marty is a bit more bullheaded. Kate’s responding eye roll gives me courage.
“Oh, shut up, Marty. Just because I don’t comment every time a bird farts doesn’t mean I don’t have a voice. Some of us know when to shut the hell up.”
Kate squeezes me close and laughs. “See? My girl can stand up for herself.”
Babe. My girl. I don’t even know what Marty says in response.
As we’re starting to stack the chairs, the doors to the rec center swing open, and three girls walk in. One of them is wearing a studded leather jacket. Her hair is pulled into tight rows of braids that fall halfway down her back. The tallest of the trio has legs that seem to go on for days and a loose afro that bounces when she walks. The third has a downturned mouth and bright, friendly eyes. When she catches me staring, she raises an eyebrow. Her buzzed hair makes her look butch and fierce. The rich and varied tones of their dark brown skin make me suddenly aware of how fair-skinned our group is.
