“Daisy?” His mouth crinkled at the corners. “Isn’t that all they’re asking you to do?”
“Shoot my mouth off?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Um.” I tucked my hair behind my ears, thinking. “I mean, this is an interview. So yeah, talking will be involved.”
“You’ve got this, then. Stop freaking out.”
I must not have looked like I was taking his advice, because he sighed.
“Just think about Hannah. How much she means to you.”
I managed to nod.
“Good.” He started the car. “Let’s take a break from driving. We’ll try again another time.”
He’d given up. Harrumph. Yeah, okay, I was the one who’d insisted we stop the lesson, but Adam was supposed to urge me to try again and he didn’t.
“Thanks for the lesson,” I grumbled as we reached my house.
To which he answered, “You’re welcome,” with no apparent irony. Then he parked the Jaguar, got in his racer-striped sedan, and smoothly, elegantly drove away.
It wasn’t until that night, after replaying and dissecting our conversation no less than twenty times, that I was able to process the silver lining in my afternoon with Adam. He’d given me a new mantra.
“It’s just talking,” I chanted to myself, panic swelling and ebbing in my chest. “I know how to talk.”
Having gotten through Monday morning without heart palpitations, I headed to lunch with renewed confidence. I’d planned to have a prep session at the now semi-official Alliance lunch table, but as I was nearing the cafeteria, a text came in from Hannah.
“Lunch today? Meet you on the stoop?”
My phone did a happy dance in my hand as I texted back a quick “Yes!” But a second after I hit SEND, I wished I could take it back and write something a little less exclamation-pointy. We’d eaten there for the past two years without the need for invitations or planning, and now I was elated to even be asked.
By the time I’d bought my lunch and emerged outside to stretch my legs against the cement steps, my mood was in serious need of boosting. I gazed out to the faculty parking lot and watched as the noonday sun danced and glittered against a field of windshields. It was such a calming sight that it took me a few seconds to realize that Hannah was standing behind me. I startled, then laughed and scooted over to make room for her, wondering how long she’d been there.
“It’s Taco Monday,” I said, showing her my tray. “I got you one.”
“It’s okay,” she said, sitting down.
I held it out, confused. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
This was a first. Was she suddenly watching what she ate? Did I need to be worried about her? Skinny though she was, something told me this wasn’t a food thing. More a her and me thing—worrying in a completely different way.
“Sorry about Friday night,” I said. “I tried to get you on Saturday, but—”
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I was . . . yeah, it was a crazy weekend.”
“That’s cool,” I said. And then we sat in silence, like now that we’d run out of tiny apologies, there was nothing left to talk about. I drew a determined breath. “So I have an idea.”
She raised her eyebrows, her eyes locked on the parking lot. “Okay?”
“Sleepover night!” I tucked my legs under me. “It’s been forever, right? Things are a little nuts right now with homecoming, but once it’s done, my place—UNO, popcorn, Triplecross marathon.”
Hannah was too studiously unwrapping her gourmet sandwich to reply. Was she really this pissed off? I’d failed to return one phone call. In five years.
“Friday after homecoming?” I tried.
“I can’t.” She looked away, unscrewing her water bottle with intense focus, while the two inches between us solidified into Plexiglas.
“You can’t because you’re busy, or . . . ?”
“It’s not appropriate, Daisy.” Hannah finally turned to me, her face flushed with exasperation. “I mean, dinner’s dinner, but sleeping over? I have a girlfriend.”
I coughed an incredulous laugh. “Is she jealous? She knows I’m straight, right?”
“Yeah, but . . .” Hannah’s brow relaxed. “Okay, so think about it this way. How would you feel if QB had a sleepover with a platonic friend who was a girl? It would be weird, right?”
It took me what felt like a year to realize what she was talking about, why she would think QB’s weekend plans, however odd, would affect me one way or the other. Then it hit me so hard it knocked the wind out of me.
“You think I’m dating QB.”
“Aren’t you?”
I stared at her. “I would tell you something like that.”
“Oh. Well.” She picked at her crust. “There’s a rumor.”
“So why didn’t you ask me about it?”
“I’m asking you now.” Hannah’s eyes flicked to mine and then away. She knew exactly how ridiculous this conversation was. “Anyway. We’re too old for sleepovers.”
I balled my napkin into a marble in my clenched fist. She took a tiny bite of her sandwich.
“What about when we’re roommates?” I asked. “Is Natalie going to find that inappropriate?”
“No.” Hannah sighed, mussing her hair. “I mean . . . there’s no point in thinking about that now. Who knows what’s going to happen, right?”
My breath stopped, my heart stopped, traffic stopped.
Meanwhile, Hannah shrugged, lifted her sandwich to her mouth, put it back without taking a bite. This was a simulation of a meal. A simulation of a friendship.
She didn’t mean that the future was unclear for her and Natalie. She meant us. Our plans for college and everything that followed, sitting in sorted stacks in the corner of my bedroom, untouched as promised, gathering dust.
While I sat staring at the rusted bumper of my history teacher’s car, too wounded to find any more words to offer Hannah, she pepped back up like a toy with its battery replaced.
“Listen, I wanted to talk.”
I guess talking’s on the appropriate list, I thought, turning my attention to my lunch.
“I heard about Kyle.”
And the taco in my mouth turned to dust. I swallowed.
“Awful, isn’t it? He’s pretty banged up, but he’ll be back in school tomorrow.”
I figured that was safe—a way to tell the truth while still keeping my promise to him. Then I caught the wince creeping into Hannah’s smile. I noticed the Moleskine in her hand, her thumbnail anxiously flipping the corners of the pages. And I knew what was next.
“Are you sure all of this is a good idea?” A cloud shot across the sun and the parking lot went dull. “I mean, I know I told you it was too late for you to back out, but I think maybe I was just feeling trapped that day and frustrated and . . .”
I focused on the dead horizon, trying to steady myself enough to talk, while she kept going in her Hannah-rambling way, so familiar and so alien at the same time that it made me want to scream.
“. . . It’s just such a big thing and it’s junior year, right? We should be worrying about our grades and our futures, not, I don’t know, politics. Especially this kind.” She swallowed. “Don’t you think they can take it from here? Without you?”
She blinked. Set the Moleskine aside, so I guess she’d come to the end of her poorly reasoned speech.
“I actually have a question for you.” My voice was so low that I barely recognized it. Hannah raised her eyebrows. “Why is it that the only time you want to talk to me these days is to discourage me from doing something? Or tell me how unreliable I am?”
“Whoa.” Her cheeks went rosy, two pink circles. “That is not what I’m—”
“Then what?”
Hannah huffed.
I put
my tray neatly aside. “My mistake, Han. Finish what you were going to say.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like. For them.”
“For you, you mean.”
She raised her chin, an acknowledgment.
“Well, I’m trying!” I threw my hands in the air. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m putting everything into trying to understand. And to help. But I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t matter, now that you’ve got Natalie.”
Hannah scrambled away until she was standing. “Leave her out of it.”
“She’s doing a fantastic job of leaving herself out of it.” I stood to face her, crackling. “I haven’t seen Natalie at any of our planning sessions. Or you, for that matter. We have strangers across the country writing in, donating money, traveling here to show their support, but what do I get from you? Nothing. Just constant . . .” I racked my brain for a nice way to say this, but came up empty. “Whining. Why?”
“It’s just . . .” She sighed. “I know you.”
“Screw you, Hannah.” I picked up my tray and Hannah’s taco rolled off, so I had to race to retrieve the biggest bits of it before storming away, my eyes blurry with tears. It gave me just enough time to utterly lose my composure, spin around, and blurt out, “Have fun with your resting bitchface girlfriend. Maybe I’ll see you at the huge event that I’m throwing because I fucking care about you!”
And some sophomore girls chose that exact moment to open the doors to the stoop and stand gawking at me while the entire cafeteria went dead. Silent.
Raina motioned to me from the Alliance’s table, face clouding at my outburst. I swiped my eyes and turned away. No prep today. I was done. My nerves were too rattled, from the upcoming interview, the mounting crowds surrounding us, the lie I was holding on to, the fact that I’d just full-on fought with the one person I never fought with. The person who knew me better than anybody—and didn’t believe in me. To know me, apparently, was to doubt me.
I had an interview in six hours, so I had no time for doubt. Just talking.
Like Adam said, I could do that much.
22
Dad picked me up from school, which didn’t help my nerves. By the time we pulled onto our street, my knuckles were white, glued to the backpack in my lap.
“You okay?” Dad watched me instead of the driveway, clipping the curb with two tires.
“Yeah!” I faked a smile. Then I did a double take. Dad was pastier than me. “Are you okay?”
He let out a shuddering sigh. “I’ve been ordered to take the night off.”
“No gaming?”
He shook his head.
“Mom?”
A feeble nod.
“Oof.” I rested my hand on his shoulder. “When this is done, I’ll play two player with you. And I’ll try out mage.”
That cheered him up enough to get us both into the house.
The Evening News crew was already inside, Mom buzzing around, for some reason asking everyone if they wanted lemonade. As Dad dragged a kitchen chair into a distant corner and hid behind a magazine, I waved a quick hi to all the strangers and ran upstairs to change, barely dodging Zelda, who’d been trying to blend into the carpeting.
She hissed. I hissed back. No one seemed to notice.
Once I’d slipped into my Cal-approved outfit, a bright blue long-sleeved T-shirt and khakis, I gave my hair a brush and swiped on some concealer and blush, hoping it would be enough. But when I got downstairs, the on-site producer paired me with a makeup artist.
“Let’s just wash this off,” she said, and was so sweet and quick about my makeover that I only had about five seconds to feel offended before she handed me a mirror and left me gazing at myself in wonder. So this was what makeup was supposed to do.
I considered calling Adam to meet me after the interview so he could see me all spruced up, but felt immediately idiotic. What would he care? Besides, he’d see me on TV in a few minutes . . . along with millions of total strangers. A gorgeous African-American news icon, Shawna Wells was the most popular anchor in the country and, according to the producer who’d been sent to coordinate my part of the interview, they’d been “plugging” my appearance all day long.
I wondered if Hannah would watch. The thought of her made my throat clench.
This isn’t about her, I told myself. It’s about America and other gay students who are not Hannah and the tide of . . . history? Or something?
“You pumped?” Cal asked as he came into the kitchen.
“Does ‘pumped’ mean ‘about to pass out’?”
He laughed. “Let’s get you into place.”
From far away, the corner of the living room looked like an art installation. The Evening News crew had taken various objects from our house and rearranged them inside the framing of the shot as if they’d always been there. In place of our coffee table—currently on the front lawn—were a camera and tripod, alongside a bunch of lights so hot that the makeup girl had to jump in and de-shine me after about thirty seconds.
Mom was relegated to standing in the hall, wringing her hands, and asking everyone who passed her, “Nobody for lemonade? It’s organic! Locally sourced!”
“Could I get a Coke Zero?” I asked. She pretended not to hear me.
“Five-minute warning,” one of the PAs said.
I closed my eyes, feeling my breath grow shallow.
No big deal, I told myself. She’s going to ask some questions and I’ll answer very positively and then it’ll be over and America will be in love with me and they’ll love gay people a little more and maybe the crime rate will drop and aliens will decide not to attack and we’ll have a huge spontaneous musical number . . .
When I opened my eyes, Cal was staring down at me.
“You weren’t kidding about the passing out, then.” He crouched to pat my shoulder. “You’re ready, Daisy. It’s a point-counterpoint. Stay positive, stay on message, like we talked about, and refuse to engage with her.”
“With Shawna?”
How could I do an interview without engaging with her? Was I confused about what “interview” meant? My face began to prickle.
“No . . .” Cal’s brow furrowed, but before he could answer, the makeup girl dove in to pat me down with powder yet again, and then one of the assistants started counting, so Cal backed away, mouthing “Good luck!” and the monitor opposite me lit up, and I blinked and there was Shawna Wells staring from the screen as if we were having our own, personal, one-on-one conversation.
Every viewer in the country felt that she was talking to them. It was what made her successful. But in this case, she actually was about to start talking to me.
Oh. Gah. No. Holy . . .
I could hear the last sound bites of a news story through my earpiece—about us?—and then some sort of countdown on Shawna’s end. Before I could catch my breath, she began to talk.
“Thank you, Roberta.”
My name is Daisy. Should I correct her?
That’s probably the reporter’s name. Oh dear God, someone help me.
Behind the cluster of news producers, I could see both Cal and my mother mouthing “Smile!” then demonstrating.
I obliged.
“We’re here with Daisy Beaumont-Smith to learn more about her efforts on behalf of the Palmetto LGBTQ Alliance . . .”
My face appeared on the screen. And hey, I was in my living room! And I was smiling too much. I frowned and saw myself frown, then smiled again. This was torture.
“. . . and we also have with us Palmetto School Board member Cindy Beck, who in the past week has been vocal in voicing her concerns about the event.”
Another box popped up. And in it was Natalie Beck’s mother, blond hair curled prettily, wearing pearls under a Chanel-collared blouse.
My grin locked in place as my brain swam, scrambling
to connect the three faces on the monitor. I heard Mrs. Beck drawl, “Thank you for having us, Shawna!”
Not to be left out, I cut in, “Yeah, thanks so much!” like a total idiot.
The point-counterpoint hadn’t even begun and I was already losing.
“Daisy, let’s start with you,” Shawna said, turning toward my hovering image as if I were a hologram in her studio. Maybe I was. That would be crazy.
“Tell us how this event got started—your alternative Palmetto homecoming.”
I saw Cindy’s smile ossify, like she was already preparing her legal attack against us using the school district’s trademarked name. But I lifted my chin, ready to answer. Thank you, Cal!
“Actually, Shawna, we’re now calling it America’s Homecoming. Because, as you know, it’s struck a chord with people all over the country in the past few days, and we want to open it up to anybody who’s felt left out of their high school experience. This is a chance to cheer on every teenager who’s had the courage to admit to their communities who they truly are.” I took a breath. “It all started because of a simple request. I asked the school board to allow same-sex dates to school dances, and knowing the legal ramifications of refusing, they took the cowardly step of canceling the homecoming dance entirely—”
“Shawna, if I can just interrupt.”
Instead of gasping at her rudeness, Shawna Wells politely pivoted toward Mrs. Beck’s floating head.
“We wanted to have a homecoming dance. It’s a tradition that’s gone on for fifty years, I’m proud to say.” Cindy smiled graciously, taking credit for the last half-century. “But when someone comes in and threatens a lawsuit, our hands become tied. For us, it’s a question of preserving tradition for the vast majority of students who want to have a good time at their homecoming. It’s that simple.”
Stay positive, Cal had said. Don’t engage with her—that’s what he’d meant.
“You know . . .” Mrs. Beck used my moment of indecision to let out a helpless laugh. “I appreciate you having us on here, Shawna, but most Palmetto students that I’ve talked to are disgusted with all of this media attention! Their goals are simple—get good grades, play on their athletic teams, support their school, and enjoy that traditional high school experience. But their needs are being ignored because of a very vocal minority.”
The Inside of Out Page 19
