The Inside of Out

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  And there he was, my ace reporter—not fidgeting, not slumped, wearing a tuxedo with such aplomb that I wondered suddenly whether he’d been a spy all along, sent here to report on me and defend my life if necessary.

  Adam’s hand slipped into mine, keeping me from flying away.

  “You came,” I said.

  Adam laughed. “Kudzu Giants are playing, and that’s what you want to say?”

  “Your brother. He’s in Kudzu Giants. I cannot believe I never made that connection.” I blinked up at the stage, where they were strumming the opening bars of the lead single from their last album. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He swallowed. “You seemed to find me interesting. And everybody always finds Eli interesting. I didn’t want that to change.”

  “Yes, you’re interesting, Adam.” I laughed. “You’re completely insane! You did this.”

  He grinned. “I did do this.”

  I started to tear up. He grabbed my shoulder, but I shook my head, smoothing my crinoline skirt. “I thought you were done with me. Now that the story was over.”

  Adam winced. Then he shrugged, and in the tuxedo, the movement looked quite rakish.

  “On the one hand,” he said. “A journalist must never get involved with his subject. And on the other hand . . .”

  His still ink-stained fingers rose to tuck my newly bobbed hair behind my ear. The gesture rendered me immobile.

  “On the other hand,” he finished. “There was no way in hell I was going to miss your song’s world premiere.”

  I was so dazed by his sudden appearance, and the rather impressive appearance of his appearance, that I nearly missed that last part.

  “World premiere? What are you—”

  The lead singer spoke into the microphone. “This next song goes out to Daisy Beaumont-Smith!”

  Everyone at the dance started looking around for me. I gave a feeble wave.

  “Not only was she the force behind creating this awesome party—she’s also turned out to be quite the songsmith.”

  My breath caught. I grabbed Adam’s lapel.

  “You didn’t.”

  He flashed a wicked grin. “I did.”

  There came a strumming from the stage, a sort of flamenco sound, and then a plaintive whistle from the lead singer—a tune I recognized as well as my own heartbeat.

  “Out on the sea, you see the flag, the flag of Bloody Stede, and you know your fate is sealed as tight as a basket of woven reeds.”

  The band erupted. It was “The Ballad of Bloody Stede,” my ballad, but so much better, jolted to life, every instrument dancing around the tune, teasing it, illuminating it instead of just playing it. My stupid song was now an actual song, a viable one, and everyone was dancing to it. Something I’d made up in the shower!

  Adam dragged me into the fray. “Come on, Daisy. This is my first high school dance. We’re not gonna sit it out.”

  His hand found its way to the dip in my back and pulled me close and it suddenly became incredibly difficult to focus. The biggest band in the world was singing my song, and Hannah was jumping up and down next to me, shrieking, “I cannot believe they’re playing ‘The Ballad of Bloody Stede’!” and Adam was just looking at me, a smile flickering over his face like light on water.

  And before I knew it, the strangest thing was happening. Everything else faded, sunk, disintegrated. I could hardly even hear the song anymore, because this was real. Not a daydream or a delusion. This was the moment. We were here, pulling closer and closer in a riptide.

  And then, connecting. His lips were warm, firm against mine and then parting them, his hands were in my hair and mine in his, then lower, tracing my shoulder blades, my waist—and holy wow, did I know who I was.

  I was me. Daisy Beaumont-Smith. And I liked boys. But no, not all boys—this one—specifically and exclusively. Kissing Adam was terrifying one second and so perfect the next that my body forgot what terror even meant.

  When I came to several hours later, only a few seconds had passed, and we were grinning at each other, Hannah and Natalie gawking at us in happy shock.

  “Happy homecoming,” Adam said.

  36

  We got to the Moonlight Coffee Shop just after midnight, once we’d thanked all the vendors and volunteers and staggered out to find some sustenance, our bodies still too giddy to go home.

  A few booths were closing out their checks, but the reporters who’d swarmed the place were gone—probably off filing their stories or heading home, ready to find the next scoop, the next big hashtag movement.

  Not Adam. As we settled into a corner booth, he announced his unofficial retirement from journalism.

  “I’ll stick with the major, but I might add in something like poli sci.”

  I frowned, tucking my feet so Natalie and Hannah could fill in opposite. “But you’re such a good writer.”

  “Thank you.” Adam squeezed my hand, then let his fingers linger against mine, more steady than I’d ever seen them. “Here’s the thing, though. I thought I was cut out for journalism because I was so objective. I could remove my personal feelings from any situation. But it turns out I’m not as neutral as I thought I was.”

  I batted my eyelashes.

  He laughed. “About any of it. Anything important, anyway. I can stay neutral about cat boutiques.”

  “So what’s the career plan now, Mr. Journalism-slash-Poli Sci Major?”

  “Cal Montgomery gave me his boss’s business card? Said to call her firm when I graduate.” Adam shrugged, turning the card over in his hand. “Sounded interesting.”

  “You could try it out.”

  “For a little while. And then maybe archeology.”

  “See, you’re kidding, but I think that sounds like a perfectly good plan.”

  Adam put his arm around me and my voice sputtered into a pleasant nothing as I nestled against him in the booth.

  Hannah watched us, her mouth twitching with the effort not to grin like a goon. She lifted a plastic menu as a distraction. “The usual?”

  “I love the usual,” Jack said, craning his neck from the next booth over. “What is it?”

  “Mozzarella sticks, chicken fingers, and a salad,” Natalie recited. “And I’m gonna add onion rings if nobody objects.”

  She looked at me, eyebrows raised in challenge, but I smiled. How could anybody object to onion rings?

  “How dare you,” Hannah said, grabbing Natalie’s face. Natalie matched her grave expression for a half second, then darted in for a kiss. They smiled, still lip-locked. Hannah whispered something to Natalie and I cast my eyes away, happy for the opportunity to finally mock them for a glaring example of PDA. Not tonight, though. First thing tomorrow.

  My fingers slid back between Adam’s.

  “I think I’ll go for pie,” he said. “What was that one you got the first time I interviewed you?”

  “Coconut cream,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder. “It was excellent.”

  Hannah raised her eyebrows, taking in the fact that Adam and I already had a history to reference. It was Hannah’s turn to let somebody else into our carefully calibrated routine. I had a hunch she’d handle it a lot better than I had.

  “So.” Adam pointed at me with a spoon, his face taking on a stern edge. “Tomorrow. Driving lesson.”

  I whimpered.

  Hannah clapped. “Are you finally learning?”

  “Stick shift.” Adam leaned back like he was already behind the wheel. “We might even try some defensive driving maneuvers.”

  “I don’t think you’re appreciating the magnitude of the challenge before you,” I said.

  Adam smirked. “Give me a month. You’ll be ready for Formula One.”

  Incredibly, I could picture it. Daisy Beaumont-Smith, idling at the starting gate of the Monaco Grand P
rix, giving a gloved thumbs-up to the bespectacled hottie in the pit, narrowing my eyes through my helmet, revving the engine as the first flag waved. Tonight, I could picture just about anything.

  The booths quickly filled with GSA members and friends, the now-frenzied Moonlight waitresses bustling in and out of the kitchen with our orders, everybody buzzing from the concert, the game, the magnitude of what we’d pulled off.

  “Today went well,” Raina said, perched on her knees in the booth behind me. Her voice was back to business but hoarse from screaming at the dance. “I think we should all start brainstorming next steps.”

  Sean, Sophie, and Kyle groaned in harmony.

  “What?” She glanced around. “This isn’t the end. We can leverage this, make even more of a difference.”

  “Prom?” Sean suggested, wincing more than smiling at the prospect.

  “We’re off the hook,” Jack said, arms stretched grandly across the booth like he owned the place. “Before we left, Principal Zimmer told me same-sex dates are a go. I don’t know if the school board got tired of reporters chasing them around Publix or what, but he said they’re planning to officially cave at the next meeting.”

  We all fell into relieved silence at that news.

  “Also,” Jack said. “He and Prof Hélène are probably boning as we speak.”

  “Nasty!” I shouted. “Yeah, they probably are.”

  “He’s not gay?” Kyle rubbed his temple.

  Jack offered him a fry as consolation. “Even the experts are wrong from time to time.”

  “Next steps? Can we focus?” Raina capped her question with a noisy slurp from her strawberry milkshake, then scowled as everybody laughed. “What?”

  “I’m up for it,” QB said, interrupting his conversation with Diego about the relative merits of European vs. American football. “Whatever it is.”

  Whatever it is.

  I cleared my throat.

  “If we’re looking for a way to make an impact on local youth,” I started. “I might have a suggestion.”

  The Alliance turned to look at me, alert, ready for the next great challenge.

  I smiled. “How do you guys feel about public art?”

  And I could see this too, so beautiful, illuminating a once bleak, barren space—a grand ocean-scape teeming with life, a majestic temple, a fallen statue, an entire continent waiting to be discovered.

  I mean, okay—not an entire continent. A glimpse of one, Messy strokes, flawed perspective, amateurish execution and yes, probably a random whale—I still had a perverse attachment to that whale—but still, ours. Days of working side by side. Jack and Sean keeping a laughing catalog of our mistakes. Me and Raina squabbling over whether the columns should be Ionic or Corinthian (obviously Corinthian). Sophie in the corner doodling fairies, which don’t even belong in Atlantis but are absolutely lovely too. Natalie getting chartreuse paint on her face, this being my fantasy and all, Adam distributing shreddie fries and Hannah snapping photos and QB talking sporty-sport-sports with Kyle, and the lacrosse boys flirting with the drama girls, everybody adding a stroke to that wall.

  The end result would be bright and hopeful. At the very least, bright. Neon. Blinding.

  I leaned back in the booth and started to drift, picturing it. But then I blinked and focused. Here was reality: the curling corner of Adam’s lips, laughter rippling through the air, a jagged, peeling crack in the royal blue plastic tabletop, friends (plural!) in every direction—like Kyle, his cheek faint green where the bruise hadn’t completely faded, Natalie, whose eyes clouded whenever she glanced out the diner window toward home, and Hannah, drawing her back with clasped fingers and smiling whispers.

  Tonight couldn’t last forever. They’d walk out to face a different kind of reality from the one in here—not just joys and hopes and first dates and triumphs, but parents waiting in darkened living rooms, hurtful, tossed-off jokes, a hundred microaggressions a day, wounds I couldn’t understand or even hope to heal. After all, I’d turned out to be a pretty crappy champion, hadn’t I? But as Becky approached, sliding a massive plate of mozzarella sticks in my direction, I realized there was at least one thing I could offer.

  Crisp. Golden. Its own kind of miracle.

  It was a start.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  . . . In which I fall far short of conveying the depth of my gratitude to the people who brought this book to life.

  First, to Jessica Garrison, an editor so wise, kind, and funny that she magically draws out the same qualities in everything she works on. Thank you for seeing the book of my heart underneath those early drafts and for having faith in me as it made its way onto paper.

  To Katelyn Detweiler and the rest of the Jill Grinberg Literary team, who support me like we’re family.

  To Donna, Charlotte, and Pam, who do the same (although we actually are family—lucky me!).

  To Mary Frame and Kim Liggett for your notes and encouragement when this story was in its earliest iterations, and to Lexi Beach, the Fearless Fifteeners, and everyone else in the book community who made my debut year (AKA the year I wrote this book) so memorably warm and vibrant.

  Many thanks to the team at Dial and Penguin Young Readers Group, especially Regina Castillo, who made this book make sense; Dana Chidiac and Kristen Tozzo, who kept the trains running on time; Dana Li and Danielle Calotta, who must have found a mystical portal into the world of the book, because those cover models are my characters; Mina Chung, for her lovely design; Lauri Hornik and Namrata Tripathi, inestimable champions; the wonderful Lindsay Boggs, who, aside from all her publicity magic, makes me feel cooler just from knowing her; and Doni Kay, along with the rest of the PYRG Sales, Marketing, and Publicity departments, for all their hard work and dedication.

  Finally, thank you to Lexi and Connie, Mike and Jeff, Mary Ann and Lisa, Ashley and Jen, and countless other swoontastic couples I count myself blessed to know. Thank you for letting me appear as an occasional comedic guest star in your love stories.

  And to Rob, Ollie, and Henry, of course, for making my own story a love story too.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jenn Marie Thorne graduated from NYU-Tisch with a BFA in drama and realized she was having more fun writing plays than performing in them. What followed was her acclaimed YA debut, The Wrong Side of Right. Jenn lives in Gulfport, Florida. Find her on Twitter @juniperjenny.

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