by Carrie Pack
She picks through the bowl for the half-popped kernels. “No it wouldn’t.”
She’s right. It’s kind of cheesy no matter how you look at it. “At least you have company in your misery,” I say.
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” Jackie stands; I take it as an indication that this line of conversation is over. “You want more popcorn before we start the next one?”
“Sure,” I say.
Jackie pauses on her way to the kitchen. “Tabitha, would you like to go to my graduation tomorrow?”
“I’d be honored.”
Jackie’s mom shows up alone to her graduation, and afterward they step away to talk. Jackie doesn’t bring up their conversation, so I don’t. Instead I focus on our road trip to Six Flags. I made a mix tape for the ride and I’m excited for Jackie to hear it.
Marty somehow managed to get herself invited on our trip, so I’m stuffed into the back seat of Jackie’s car with her. The radio got turned down ten minutes ago when Marty kept shouting over it.
“All I’m saying is, we could talk about how black girls are treated differently than white girls,” Venus says from the front seat.
“But we’re all harassed,” Marty says, leaning forward over the center console. “We’re all girls. Why should race make any difference?”
“See, that shit right there is what I’m talking about,” Venus says, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “A black woman shares her experience and y’all act like it’s not valid because you’ve never experienced it.”
“I’ve never seen it happen,” Marty says.
“I’m telling you it happens,” Venus says.
“This is going nowhere,” Marty replies. She sighs and slams her body against the seat.
“Only because you’re not listening,” Jackie says. “If you’d ever shut the hell up for five minutes, you might actually learn something.”
“I’m listening,” Marty says. “I just think you’re blowing this race thing out of proportion. Why does it always have to be about race?”
Venus turns around in her seat, and if looks could kill, Marty would be the deadest of the dead. “This ‘race thing’? Do you even listen to yourself?”
“I don’t see color,” Marty says. “I see people.”
Venus turns to Jackie. “Would it be considered self-defense if I kill a white bitch for being ignorant as hell?”
Marty looks at me as if she wants me to back her up, but I’m not sure what to say. Maybe Venus is right. I grew up in Decker, where it’s front-page news whenever a black person moves to town. How can I possibly know what it’s like for them?
“I think what my esteemed colleague here is trying to say,” Jackie says, “is that it’s also racist to say you ‘don’t see color.’”
Marty bristles. She always has to be right, and even if she eventually agrees with someone, she won’t admit it.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “I thought that was the whole point—not to see color.”
“Not exactly,” Jackie says. “It’s like saying you’re ignoring the fact that we are black. You see that we’re black and that affects how you perceive us, even if you think it doesn’t. When you ignore our color, you ignore our struggles.”
“Oh my God,” Marty says. “Segregation ended, like what, thirty years ago?”
“Ugh, that is so not the point,” Venus says. “You know what? I think it’s best if we don’t talk any more. We’re going to celebrate my girl Jackie’s graduation, and I’m not going to let you ruin it, Marty.”
“But—”
Venus holds up a hand. “Shut it.”
I grab Marty’s arm. “Just let it go, okay. This trip is supposed to be fun.”
I catch Jackie’s eye in the rearview, and she mouths, “Thank you.” I’m not sure what she’s thanking me for, but I mouth, “You’re welcome,” anyway.
Venus turns up the radio, and Marty pouts the rest of the way to Gurnee.
We’re in line for a giant wooden rollercoaster when Jackie kisses me. It’s only a peck on the cheek, but it sends shivers through me all the same.
“What was that for?” I ask.
“Just for being you. For coming to my graduation and for shutting Marty the hell up.”
I blush. I feel it without having to see my round cheeks turn bright red. Sometimes, I swear I’d like to invent a time machine so I can go back and make sure my Irish grandmother never meets my grandfather. But then I guess I wouldn’t be here. And I also wouldn’t be standing under a sign that says “Your wait time from this point is 60 minutes” blushing like an idiot.
Jackie drops her head and rubs the back of her neck. She’s nervous, too. I reach for her arm, careful to make it as platonic as possible, and she meets my gaze.
“Are we…?” I stop myself. What if she rejects me? What if someone sees us?
“I’d like to be,” Jackie says, her voice wavering. “If that’s what you want.”
I can’t stop the smile that breaks out so I don’t even try. “Yeah, I’d like that.” I resist the urge to throw my arms around her neck and pull her to me.
Jackie must be bolder than me, because she looks around to make sure no one’s looking at us and then threads her hand through mine. She tugs me closer and hides our twined fingers behind my leg, but still. It feels good. I’m holding hands in public with my girlfriend.
My heart might burst from my chest. For more than one reason.
Decked Out No. 6
My feminism is for me—is that okay?
by Kate Goldberg
I thought that maybe being active in social causes was the best thing I could do to forward the cause of women and girls. What I failed to notice was being too active can blind you to protecting the real women and girls in your life.
I think I screwed up big time. I broke a girl’s heart and worse still it was because of a guy. Does that make me a bad feminist?
I wear red lipstick and expensive perfume. I kiss girls and boys. I drink coffee and beer and eat meat. Do those things make me a bad feminist?
I wonder all the time about the things that define us and what they really mean about our feminism and our rage. Is it okay to be angry all the time if it’s in self-defense? Or should I try to be careful with others’ feelings even if they might hurt me? I was raised to be compassionate and empathetic, but do those things fly in the face of modern feminism? Should I be as bumbling and unapologetic as a man? I’m a woman. What if I want to BE a woman? What does it mean to be a woman?
Am I a woman simply because I was slapped on the ass at birth and given a pink blanket? Isn’t there more to it than that?
Where is the “woman” threshold? Is it an age? A developmental stage? A mindset?
Am I me if I dress like a man? If I wear pants and neckties and combat boots do I cease to be feminine? Why should someone else get to dictate my gender or my style? Why can’t I shave my head and call it a day? For once I’d like to throw on sloppy clothes and a baseball cap and only worry about trying to get laid.
Who made these rules? And why do I feel like I have to follow them even when I know I shouldn’t?
Chapter 9
With summer in full swing, Jackie and I have nothing to do so we hang out with each other as much as possible. In many ways, it’s a lot like being with Kate. But in other ways—the important ways—it’s totally different. Kate spent her time educating me and asking me to champion her causes. Jackie spends her time getting to know me and asking me what I’d like to do. Mostly I want to be with Jackie.
I spend lazy afternoons wrapped in her arms as we talk about our dreams for the future. We lay out in my backyard in our bathing suits until our skin burns—mine cherry red, hers a deep, earthy brown. We dance in my room with the music cranked as loud as it will go. We walk hand in hand to Riot Grrrl meetings and cuddle while
Shut Up practices their set. While waiting in line for the movies, we stand as close as we dare without being noticed. We go shopping together and make out in the Sears dressing room with discarded jeans and dresses at our feet. We giggle until our faces ache. We discover our bodies and our hearts. We fall in love. Or at least I do.
“I wish I had the balls to cut my hair that short,” I tell Jackie for the hundredth time. She’s sitting on my bed reading the liner notes from a CD she brought over. I’ve never heard of the group, but the music—an eclectic mix of rap and punk—is growing on me. When she looks up, her soft smile is the same as it has been every time I’ve said the same thing. She strokes my hair gently and tucks a strand behind my ear. “I like your hair,” she says. “It’s soft. Gives me something to play with when we make out.”
I shrug but lean into her touch. “Maybe I’m jealous of your shower-and-go look.”
Her responding smirk is flirtatious and seductive. “Or maybe you like really butch chicks.”
“Stop, you’re not butch.” I lean in for a kiss.
Jackie sits up straighter, and her smile fades. She pulls away from my touch. “It’s not a dirty word, Tabitha. I’m proud of it.”
“I know you are, honey, but I don’t see it the way you do.” To emphasize my point, I brush her breast with the back of my hand. It’s just a tease, and I hope it leads to more. “You’re all woman to me,” I whisper.
She pushes my hand away, and I stare at it in shock. “Jacks—”
“Tabitha, just because someone is more masculine doesn’t mean she’s not a woman. There’s more to me than what I look like. You should understand that better than anyone.”
That hurts. She knows I’m self-conscious about my weight. We’ve talked about it, but she’s never mentioned it before, not like this.
“I know that… It’s just—” I cut myself off because I’m trying not to cry and also I don’t want to fight with Jackie. “I think you’re beautiful and I like that you’re a girl. I know you like being butch, but the world doesn’t accept butch girls.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the rest of the world,” Jackie says. “And I can’t believe you’re saying this. Since when do you care who accepts us?” Her eyes narrow, and the heat from her judgment burns me.
“Look, I’m sorry I said anything.” Trying to coax back her smile, I stroke her cheek and press a soft kiss to her lips. “I don’t care who accepts us. I want you to know I accept you.”
“Well, I’m butch. I’ve even been known to call myself a dyke.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to get used to it.”
“I’m used to it,” I say, peppering her cheeks with soft kisses between words. “In fact, I’m quite a fan.”
She sinks into my touch, but then shakes her head as if to clear it. “You can’t just kiss me every time we disagree.”
“Try me,” I say as I push closer, teasing her lips with my tongue. When her lips part, I know our argument is over.
Later, when our lips are sore and there’s nowhere else to go but further, which neither of us is ready for, we decide to take a break. Jackie lies on my bed with her right arm bent behind her head, and I tuck my head between her left shoulder and elbow to sling my leg over hers. It’s a little too warm to snuggle—my cheek sticks to Jackie’s arm—but neither of us seems to care as we lie there. My eyes drift closed as I listen to Jackie’s even, slow breaths. I’m nearly lulled to sleep by the rhythm.
“What are you thinking?” I say after a bit, still half asleep and completely blissed out.
“About what you said earlier.”
I open my eyes with sudden alertness, but all I can see is the edge of Jackie’s jaw. I can’t read her expression. I crane my neck a little to try to see her face. “Are we okay?”
She angles her chin so we can make eye contact. “I’m not angry, Tabitha,” she says. “I just want you to like me for me.”
I prop myself up on my elbow and look down at her. Her eyes are wide and watery, and her lips form a tentative smile. There is a vulnerability in her expression I’ve never seen before. So I let her words sit with me. I remember feeling that way with Kate. That maybe who I was wasn’t the person she wanted to be with. That she was trying to mold me into someone she could love. It hurts. And the truth is, I love everything about Jackie. I don’t want her to change.
“I do. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
I feel, rather than hear, her breath catch, and she freezes for a second before relaxing into me. Jackie’s fingers trace a gentle path down my back and I close my eyes to savor it, again resting my head on her chest.
“I can’t believe I’m with you,” Jackie says. “I walked in that rec center and there you were, looking like a dazed feral cat, hanging on Kate Goldberg’s every word. I thought you were some kind of groupie.”
I laugh. “Me? A groupie?”
“Okay, I have a confession.”
I lift my head.
“Riot Grrrl wasn’t the first place I saw you,” she says.
Intrigued, I pull myself to a sitting position. I cross my arms over my chest and wait. “Yeah?”
Jackie scoots up toward the headboard until she’s sitting facing me. “It was that Bikini Kill show a few months back, remember?”
I remember the concert, but I don’t remember Jackie. Could she really have been there watching me? Could I have been that oblivious? “Really?”
Jackie nods. “I saw you the minute you walked in. I thought you were cute with your humongous black boots and messy hair. You were with some guy, and you both looked bored by the opening band. So you went to the merch table. You were so shy and nervous. I tried to say hi, but you were busy talking to Kate. So I stood back and waited, but I lost you in the crowd. And then later, I noticed you down front but you were arm in arm with some redheaded girl. I saw the way you looked at her, and I knew you had to be… well, I thought you were gay but—”
“You weren’t far off.”
“Right.”
“So was Riot Grrrl a coincidence then?”
Jackie drops her chin to her chest and covers her face with her hand. “Not exactly.”
I pull her hand away. “Stalker,” I tease.
She’s blushing and trying to hide her smile. It’s sweet.
“I couldn’t help it. I had such a crush from the first moment I saw you.”
“Me? Really?” As much as I know that Jackie is into me, I still have a hard time believing that she’d pick me over someone as dynamic as Kate or as petite and feminine as Cherie or as outspoken as Marty. Next to them I feel like an old shoe—a favorite, comfortable shoe, but still a shoe.
“Yes, you,” she says. “You’ve got such a great smile and you aren’t always trying to get people to notice you.”
“No, I’m usually trying to disappear.”
“But you stand out. You’re beautiful.”
I wave her off and duck behind my hair.
“No, really,” she says, leaning into my sight line. “You have the sweetest little nose, and the prettiest gray-blue eyes. And you’re so…” She bites her lip and gives me a seductive once-over. “Sexy.”
Now she’s teasing. “Stop.”
“I’m serious.”
“But I’m so…” Hideous. Gargantuan. Ugly. Stupid. Lazy. A whale. Flabby Tabby. At least a hundred words fly through my mind in mere seconds, but what I say is, “Fat.”
Jackie smirks. “I’d say ‘thick,’ and it’s one of my favorite things about you.”
It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever considered that someone might find my body type attractive. My thighs chafe if I wear a skirt. I get heat rash under my arms if my sleeves are too loose. There are rolls of fat on my front and back. Whenever I sit down, I have to move the button on my jeans so it doesn’t poke me in the bellybutton. There’s nothing attractive a
bout any of it. I’ve thought someday someone might find me attractive in spite of my size, but not because of it. In this moment, staring at Jackie as she tells me I’m beautiful, I feel my heart practically pound out of my chest. I can’t form words.
“I know it’s not what is usually considered attractive,” Jackie says, ducking her head shyly. “But I’ve never been one to follow the crowd.”
“I–” How do I form sounds into meaningful phrases? “You—”
After I force out a few more single-syllable noises, Jackie places her hand over mine. “You’re really shocked, aren’t you?” The teasing light in Jackie’s eyes gives way to something more serious. “Tabitha, hasn’t anyone ever told you you’re beautiful?”
I try to think. I’m sure my mom has called me cute… pretty even. But beautiful? I don’t think that word has ever been uttered in my presence to describe even a piece of me. I’ve heard it lobbed at models and actresses, Heather and even Molly. My mother has been described as unconventionally beautiful. I’ve gotten the occasional, “Your hair looks nice like that.” But not me. Never the whole of me. I’m just Tabitha. I’m like a muted wallpaper—something to blend into the background and not meant to be noticed. I’m here but I add nothing to the world—a mix of color and pattern with no discernible purpose.
“Do you ever feel so insignificant you wonder if you’re even real?” The words flow from me like a tide, bubbling up and over before ebbing in a hushed whisper.
“You’re not insignificant.” Jackie’s eyes are wide and fixed on mine. “And you’re so real.”
“But you know what I mean?” I choke on a sob. “All my life I’ve felt like I’m floating. Like I’m waiting to feel what everyone else feels.”
“And what does everyone else feel?”
The word catches in my throat. A giant lump of truth that won’t budge. I swallow around cotton. “Human,” I rasp.
“And you? You’re not human?” Her hand caresses mine, but I’m detached from it.
