Follow Your Arrow

by Jessica Verdi

  “What should we do now?” I ask him. “Dog run?”

  I take Abraham’s wagging tail as a yes, and we set off in the direction of Fido Field. Abe doesn’t usually do much at the dog park—he’s always been more for cuddling and belly rubs than athletic activity—but he likes sniffing and watching the other pups, as if to check in with the rest of his species and make sure all is well. It’s about a twenty-minute walk, but it’s a beautiful day, sunny and not too hot, and it will be a good opportunity to post more photos from around the city.

  I’m attaching my phone to my selfie stick at the new statue of civil rights icon Marian Spencer when I hear someone frantically calling my name.

  “CeCe! CeCe!”

  It’s not a voice I recognize. I fold the stick back up in time to see two girls, maybe three or four years younger than me, half running, half speed-walking my way. Their faces are bright and flushed with excitement, as if they can’t believe their luck. They’re both in floral sundresses and denim jackets, with sunglasses on their heads and bejeweled phones in their hands.

  “It’s really you!” one girl says.

  “And, oh my god, that’s Abraham!” the other one adds in delight as her eyes land on my dog, who’s currently sniffing around for a good place to pee.

  “Yup, that’s Abe.” I smile and give the girls a little wave. “I’m CeCe. It’s nice to meet you.” This happens sometimes, people recognizing me out in public. Not every day, not even every week, but every once in a while, a follower and I will end up in the same place at the same time. Usually Silvie is with me, and we can tackle the handshakes and pleasantries together. But I’ve been in this situation enough times to know how to handle myself. And these girls are clearly harmless.

  “We know!” the first girl says. “We’re your biggest fans.”

  “That’s so nice,” I say. “Thank you!”

  “I can’t believe we actually ran into you,” the other says, bending down to take a picture of Abe. “We were literally just saying how cool it would be if we ran into you and Silvie someday, since we live in the same city.” Her face flushes as she realizes what she said. “I mean, not that you and Silvie would be together—I just meant …” She trails off as she catches her friend’s wide eyes and unsubtle head shake.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I know what you meant. And Silvie and I are still friends, so you never know. Maybe someday you will run into us both!” I’m trying to be airy and light, but from the girls’ awkward expressions and the way they aren’t holding my eye anymore, it’s clear we all hear the strain in my voice. I straighten up and redirect, relying on my standby line: “Do you want to take a selfie?”

  “Oh my god, really?” they squeal, almost in unison, and I try to hide my smile as they scurry over to flank me.

  We take about ten shots in quick succession, and I open the app. “What are your handles? I’ll tag you.”

  They blurt out their responses, talking over each other, and I have to ask them to repeat themselves a couple times as I search for them on the app. But in a minute or two, I’ve followed them both and uploaded our selfie to my story, with pretty flower stickers all over it to add to the garden ambiance.

  We part with quick hugs, and this close, I catch a whiff of Dana & Leslie moisturizer. I’d recognize that scent anywhere; one of the girls is wearing it. Unexpected tears prick the corners of my eyes at the sensory assault, a cruel and unfair reminder of all the ways yesterday went wrong.

  But it’s not until Abe and I are out of the garden and the girls are out of sight that I let my smile fall. My face muscles are tight, and my hands are tingling with residual tension.

  “You’re okay,” I whisper to myself, so softly I wouldn’t know what I’d said if I weren’t the one who’d said it. “You did it.” My first in-person encounter with followers without Silvie: check.

  I pick up Abe and walk along the river for a while with him nestled close.

  As we pass the ballpark, music floats our way. A violin, I think. I’m so used to listening to podcasts or Spotify or audiobooks while I’m walking around the city that the ambient sound is a little disorienting. Disorienting, but not unpleasant.

  I round the next curve, and spot the source. The violinist’s eyes are closed, and he doesn’t notice me approach. I stop to listen, because why not. I have no plans.

  An open violin case rests on the ground, and some loose change—not even enough for a bus ride—glints against the blue crushed velvet. A handwritten placard is propped up against a small stack of CDs.

  Joshua Haim, Violin. CD: $10.

  I smile to myself. This city can be so small sometimes. Not that I’d ever admit that to Mom—she’d take it as confirmation that stalkers are indeed tracking my every move.

  Joshua plays with confidence and clear joy. The song isn’t one I’ve heard before, and I’m not the most musical person in the world, but even I can tell Mom was right: He’s talented.

  The piece ends with a long pull of his bow, and his left hand quavers a bit, giving the note some vibrato. The bow lifts off the strings, and for a suspended moment, everything is still, as if all movement and life around us has paused. Joshua’s eyes remain closed, his instrument and bow still poised high.

  As I start to retreat, he opens his eyes, and starts a little when he sees us.

  “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I was … uh, just leaving.” I point my thumb in a random direction and take a step.

  “No, it’s okay,” he says hastily, holding out his bow as if to keep me here. “I just didn’t expect to see you.” His face flushes. “I mean, I didn’t expect to see anyone. People don’t really stop, you know?”

  “My mom did,” I say with a shrug.

  Joshua’s forehead creases. “What?”

  I nod toward the pile of CDs. “My mom bought one of your CDs the other day,” I explain. “Outside Trader Joe’s.”

  His dark eyes dawn with recognition, and it’s the first chance I’ve had to get a good look at his face, without it being half-hidden behind the instrument. He’s not movie-star gorgeous or anything, but he’s definitely more attractive than his stupid CD cover suggests. He’s lanky and tall, with fair skin and lots of brownish-copperish hair. He’s wearing faded, slim-cut black jeans and a soft-looking white T-shirt. Kind of dorky, kind of artsy, but kind of cute too. I’m sure there are people out there who’d be into his whole vibe. Even more reason for him to rethink his marketing strategy.

  “Maggie is your mom?” he asks.

  A laugh pushes its way out of me. Of course my mother is on a first-name basis with this kid. She makes friends everywhere. “Yep.”

  “She was really nice. That was the only CD I’ve sold all month.” He puts his violin and bow down, on top of the coins, and extends his hand. “I’m Josh.” His shirt, I realize now that the violin is out of the way, says I’LL BE BACH. I can’t help but grin at the pun. It takes a very specific, low-key confident kind of person to unironically rock a graphic tee. Silvie is one of those people too. Me, not so much.

  We shake. “CeCe.”

  “Nice to meet you, CeCe.”

  I brace myself, waiting for him to connect the name with my face, and the moment to turn into a repeat of the garden scene of a half hour ago. But he doesn’t. I’m more relieved than I probably should be.

  “And who is this?” Josh drops down to Abraham’s level, where the dog has flopped onto his side, tail wagging so furiously it’s almost blurry to the eye. This guy he’s never met before could well be a dog-napper out for raw materials for the world’s scrappiest fur coat, but if there’s a belly rub involved, Abe is willing to take the risk.

  “This is Abraham,” I say with a laugh as Josh buries his face in Abe’s neck scruff and whispers what a good dog he is. “He’s my incompetent guard dog.”

  “I love you, Abraham,” Josh says, scratching behind Abe’s ears. The expression on Abe’s face says the feeling is mutual.

  “You like dogs, huh?” I say, amused,
when Josh finally extracts himself from Abraham’s charms and is standing upright again.

  “I love dogs,” he says. “We can’t get one, though, because my sister’s allergic.”

  “That sucks. I can’t imagine life without my dog.” The words come out genuine and simple, not at all colored by the fact that I used to be unable to imagine life without Silvie too.

  “Tell me about it,” Josh says. “It especially sucks for her, because she loves dogs too, and she’ll never be able to have one. My dad once tossed around the idea of getting one of those hypoallergenic breeds, but they’re like a zillion dollars and that just feels wrong when there are all those dogs in shelters, you know?”

  I blink, surprised. I was literally just thinking about shelter dogs, back when I should have been meditating. “Yeah. Abe was a shelter dog, and he’s the best.”

  “We have a cat,” Josh says. “His name is Ears.”

  “Ears?”

  He laughs, his whole face lighting up, and again, I’m taken aback—no one smiles like that for someone they don’t know, do they? All open and unfiltered.

  “Yeah,” Josh says. “Sometimes I forget how weird the name is. Gabby—that’s my sister—named him when she was five. She said she was going to name him Whiskers, but he was a special cat who needed a special name. So she picked a different body part.” He grins. “My dad and I had to agree it made a lot of sense. Ears does have cool ears—he’s almost all black, but the tips of his ears are bright white.”

  He’s positively beaming. I can count the people I smile like that for on two fingers. Well, one now: Mom. If I ever get to the point of being able to smile at Silvie again, she’s getting the app smile. A little more staged, a little less unabashed.

  I reach down to scratch Abraham’s head, just to have somewhere to deflect my attention. “You know no one really listens to CDs anymore.” I regret it the second it’s out of my mouth. What is wrong with me? If we were corresponding online instead of in person, I would have been able to delete the words before sending and no one would have been the wiser.

  Josh’s cheerful demeanor deflates a little. “I know,” he says, resigned. “I just like being able to hold a CD or record in my hands. It feels more … real? Complete? My dream is to be able to press some of my stuff onto vinyl, but CDs are a lot cheaper and easier. For now.”

  “I get that. Is your stuff also available on streaming, though?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve been meaning to do that, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  I gesture to the handwritten card in his violin case. “I bet if you put out a sign with your social media handle, people would look you up. You’d build a following. And you could sell songs for download.”

  He toes a crack in the pavement where some grass has found its way through. “Yeah, I’m not really into that stuff.”

  “What stuff?” I ask. “The internet?”

  He laughs. “I’m not totally analog—I listen to music online, and I’m really into podcasts. I just prefer not to be on my phone all the time.”

  “Are you on social media?”

  He laughs again and shakes his head. “Nope. And have no desire to be.”

  I gape at him. This guy is the first person I’ve ever met who was born in this century who doesn’t use the app. Literally—the first one. I’d say that explains why he didn’t recognize me, but I’m not sure he’s the type of person to follow a #fashion influencer even if he was on social media.

  I’m trying to come up with a response that won’t sound too judgy when my phone vibrates. I glance down—one new direct message, from Kathleen Khan, one of the organizers of Cincinnati Pride. Sweat beads at the back of my neck.

  “All okay?” Josh asks, yanking me out of the mental hole of panic I’ve started to slip down.

  “Yeah.” I rub my eyes, remembering too late that I have mascara on. “Sorry. I should be going, actually. It was nice to meet you.”

  “You too. Oh, hey, where do you go to school?”

  “Neil Armstrong High. You?”

  “Delilah Beasley. I’m a junior.”

  I nod. “Cool. I’m a junior too.”

  He hesitates, then crouches down to pet Abe again. “Actually, we just moved here from Florida, so I don’t know that many people yet. Maybe … I’ll see you around?”

  Oh. That’s random. I’m not used to making friends in any offline, non-school kind of way. But Josh seems sweet, and I already feel like a jerk from the CD thing, so I try to keep my answer friendly, if noncommittal. “Um … sure,” I say. “Totally.”

  Giving him a little wave goodbye, I continue on my way, Abe trotting by my side. Unless Josh decides to follow me on the app, I’m pretty sure I’ll never see him again.

  I find an empty bench at the dog park and open my DMs. The second I read Kathleen’s message, I’m gripped by guilt. I should have reached out to the march organizers immediately, to discuss the situation and weigh our options. I hate leaving people in the lurch.

  And the timing of it all really makes me mad. Silvie broke up with me literally minutes after we made the announcement about the march. I know she said she hadn’t planned on dumping me yesterday, but still … we could have avoided all of this! If she was having doubts about us, we shouldn’t have even accepted the offer in the first place.

  And now I have to text her—which I both really want to do and really, really don’t want to do. But we need to figure this out.

  Hey, I type. Did you see Kathleen’s message?

  A few seconds later, her response comes in. No, hang on.

  I wait, not at all patiently.

  Finally her typing bubble activates again. I stare at it with laser focus. Hit send, I plead silently. I hate that I’m so desperate to see her words on my screen. I hate that I have no idea what she’s thinking.

  When it came to Silvie, I used to know everything.

  Hit send hit send hit send.

  When her text comes through, it’s barely two sentences. Not nearly lengthy enough to match the amount of time she took to write it, which probably means she censored herself as she wrote, typing, then deleting. She used to fire texts at me without even rereading, which resulted in some pretty epic autocorrect fails. Once, she invited me over because her mom had made a huge batch of queso dip, but her phone had made it “quest” dip. So naturally I showed up at her house with a sword and a cape.

  Ugh, she’s written now. What do you think we should do?

  What I want to reply is: You tell me!!!! This is YOUR fault.

  What I actually reply is: I mean, obviously the march will still happen if we aren’t there …

  Which is true. There are many other queers and allies in the world, and in Cincinnati, who will be marching for their own reasons and don’t need us. And the event is two and a half months away—that’s more than enough time for the organizers to find replacements for us.

  That’s not all I was going to say, but Silvie doesn’t let me finish my thought. Her reply pops up while I’m still typing, and I’m suddenly even madder.

  Yeah, she’s said. Let’s cancel.

  I delete what I’d drafted, and instead send back, in all caps: NO.

  My number one tenet of influencing is to always be grateful and remember how lucky I am. The income, the internet fame, the free stuff … it’s all bonkers. I know that. I also know that if I don’t take my commitments seriously, not only will a lot of people be disappointed and inconvenienced, I’ll be replaced in less time than it takes to click UNFOLLOW.

  I start to type all this out, but stop myself. Silvie knows. We’ve talked about it many, many times. Just because we’re no longer girlfriends doesn’t mean her memory of our time together has been wiped.

  She also knows how excited I was to be invited to speak at the rally. How much it meant to me to be given this precious opportunity to express myself in an honest, unfiltered way.

  Hoping to nudge her in the right direction, I write, They’re countin
g on us being there.

  No response. No typing bubble. Nothing.

  Abraham finishes his investigative lap around the gravel and comes to sit at my feet, looking up at me with his cloudy brown eyes. I reach down to muss his scruffy head, but don’t take my eyes off my phone.

  I can’t take it any longer. Silvie? I type. You there?

  Yeah. Sorry, she writes back. Thinking.

  What does she have to think about? I know she wants to go to the parade. So all she has to figure out is whether she can stand being there with me. Surely it’s not that hard of a decision?

  I’m not sure it’s a good idea, she eventually texts.

  Where’s the punch-to-the-gut emoji? Because it would be my only honest response right now. Is the idea of being seen in public with me that offensive to her?

  But you should definitely still do it, she continues. It always meant more to you anyway.

  I shake my head as I type. I can’t do it alone. It’s the truth. I’ve always felt more confident with Silvie by my side, and despite how awkward it would inevitably be, that’s a fact that remains true.

  Of course you can.

  She leaves it at that, and I stare at the text, trying to decipher her tone. Does she mean Of course you can! You can do anything, CeCe! You’re amazing! Or does she mean Come on, CeCe. We’re not girlfriends anymore. You really need to stop being so dependent on me.

  Because I don’t know what she meant, I don’t know how to reply. So I don’t. It feels weird to leave a text conversation with Silvie without an xoxo or , but this is not the first weird thing about this weekend.

  I clip Abe’s leash back on, clap my headphones over my ears, and put my favorite song in the world—Mika’s “Elle me dit”—on repeat on Spotify. It’s in French, but I’ve read the translated lyrics so many times, they’re practically stamped on my brain. In the song, a mother tells her gay son to get off the internet, get out of the house, and do something with his life. Ironic, I know. But she says it because she knows he’s special. Because she knows that if he would just take some risks, he could live an incredible life.