Ramona Blue

by Julie Murphy

  Freddie grips his shoulder. “Come on, man.”

  “My mom’s gonna make me cover your shift either way.” Adam turns to head to his next class. “You owe me!”

  Still following me, Freddie asks, “So did my list sway you?”

  I stop and turn to him. “Your next class is on the other side of the building. And I will let you know as soon as I know. Chill out, okay?”

  He stomps off like a toddler, but in a half-joking way.

  “What was that all about?” asks Ruth as she emerges from a neighboring hallway.

  I turn to follow her, still laughing at Freddie. “Cute boy not getting his way.”

  “He knows you’re not exactly his target audience, right?”

  I shrug. “Cute is cute.”

  Her upper lip curls. “Yeah. Nope.”

  After school Freddie is waiting for me at the bike rack. I hand him my phone with my text message exchange with Charlie open for him to read.

  “Enjoy your weekend?” It takes him a moment. “Enjoy your weekend! YES!”

  He jumps up and down and yanks me off my feet as he spins me around in a circle. “I swear to Christ, Ramona, you’re my best friend.” When he sets me back down, he pulls my fist into the air as he hums “We Are the Champions.”

  I know he’s probably exaggerating, but the idea that I’m someone’s best friend fills my rib cage with summer.

  TWELVE

  If you head straight west, Baton Rouge is technically a two-hour drive from Eulogy, but we’re making a little bit of a detour.

  See, I told Freddie I could go with him out of town before I gave him my one and only condition: that we take Grace with us.

  Freddie agreed without much hesitation—maybe because he was too high on the idea of seeing Viv or maybe it was he didn’t think Grace would actually say yes.

  But she did.

  That night when I got home and checked my phone, there was a partially clothed picture of Grace waiting for me, with a follow-up text asking me to delete the message after I opened it.

  Now, listen, everyone who pretends they don’t send nudes or partial nudes are either celibate, still use flip phones, or lying. But it was the first time Grace had ever sent me anything like this. After all, we were together all summer, so there was really no need then.

  I took a minute to devour the picture. She stood in front of her mirror with one arm covering her chest and the other holding her cell phone. Tiny gray shorts were slung low on her hips. Her black bob has grown out since I last saw her, and mostly conceals her face. To anyone else, she might be unrecognizable. It was sort of innocent, but just the sight of her made me think I could walk to her house all the way up in Picayune if I had to.

  I’m not this sex-crazed maniac or anything, but I’m a human being. I think about sex. Girls think about sex. Sometimes a lot. I hate this idea that boys are thinking about sex nonstop and girls are thinking about—what? Stationery and garden gnomes? No.

  The second I’d memorized every detail of the picture, I called Grace. I heard her pick up the phone, and before she even said hello, I said, “Are you trying to kill me?”

  She laughed. “I told you I miss you.”

  “What if I said you could see me sooner than you think?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to be driving through Picayune on my way to Baton Rouge. Maybe you could join me? Like, a weekend getaway?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, too quickly. “My parents probably wouldn’t be okay with that, and I have things going on. . . . I have stuff I probably shouldn’t miss.”

  “Can’t we at least try asking your parents?” I hated that I sounded desperate.

  She was quiet for so long I almost checked to see if we’d lost the connection. “Can’t hurt, I guess,” she finally said.

  It took some convincing, and me talking to Grace’s parents on the phone, and then my dad talking to Grace’s parents on the phone, but she said yes.

  And that is why I am sitting in the front seat of Agnes’s Cadillac, begging Freddie to drive faster.

  Freddie is in charge of the music, and his preferences are rap and folksy white guys with acoustic guitars. Two polarizing options, if you ask me. The stereo is so loud; I have to keep my window down to drown it out a little bit.

  The road winds through swampy forest that crawls right up to the edge of the pavement on either side. It’s a scene I’m so accustomed to, but I wonder what it must be like to see something like mountains or giant redwoods every day. At what point does another’s person’s extraordinary become your ordinary?

  Grace’s house isn’t as grand as I’d decided it would be. It’s nice, though. The grass is cut so evenly it looks like someone trimmed it with scissors. She lives on one of those cookie-cutter streets where there are only two or three types of homes, but they all stand apart in a slight way with different colors of paint and bricks.

  Freddie stands a few feet behind me as I ring the bell.

  Grace’s mom answers almost immediately. She rubs her soapy hands down the front of her apron. “Oh, sweet Ramona! Your hair is almost brighter than I remember. We just finished up dinner. I wanted to wait for y’all, but Grace said you wouldn’t have time.”

  I smile. “Good to see you, Mrs. Scott. This is my friend Freddie.” I motion him forward. “We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

  “Oh, how nice!” she says.

  Grace jogs down the stairs behind Mrs. Scott, and I try not to stare at how shiny and smooth her legs are. Her raven-colored hair bounces around her shoulders, and it feels like that moment when you’re seeing a movie in 3D and you put your glasses on for the first time, and the screen jumps right out at you. That’s what’s happening in this exact moment. Life is jumping right out at me.

  She runs past her mom and throws her arms around my neck. “I missed you!”

  “Me too,” I say, hugging her back and trying so hard to look normal. Like two girls who are friends and nothing more.

  She turns back to her mom and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

  “You’ve got that cash I left for you? And all the emergency numbers?”

  Grace nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

  As I introduce her and Freddie, I can hear words coming out of my mouth, but my whole body feels like it’s lit up in bright neon and buzzing with electricity like one of those beer signs.

  We walk down to where the Cadillac is parked on the curb. “Take the front seat,” I tell her.

  “No, no. All yours,” she says as she slides into the back.

  “Or you guys could both sit in the back,” says Freddie. “I’ll play chauffeur.”

  I can’t tell if he’s kidding, but his offer is tempting.

  Grace laughs. “No, that’s ridiculous.”

  As we drive past the THANKS FOR VISITING sign of her perfect little town, she leans forward and begins to braid random pieces of my hair. My eyes catch hers in the rearview mirror, and she kisses my shoulder blade.

  This is too good to be true. This is my extraordinary and I can’t ever imagine it being ordinary.

  Freddie side-eyes me, but I can’t stop smiling. I can feel the nerves vibrating off him as we drive closer and closer to Viv’s.

  We cross the state line into Louisiana, and there’s no real change in scenery. Louisiana’s roads are as shitty as Mississippi’s.

  Freddie’s playlist cycles through twice, and I have to turn around every few minutes to smile at Grace, because I can’t believe she’s right here behind me. I reach back in the crevice between my seat and the door and hold my hand out. It takes a minute, but she reaches forward and squeezes my fingers.

  As we veer off the highway and into the suburbs, I quickly realize that Vivienne’s house is much more like what I expected Grace’s to be. It’s a two-story house that looks more like a three-story. The tall windows stretch from the ground floor all the way to the ceiling of the second floor, with a huge chandelier sending shards of glitter
ing light out into the street. I swallow back any doubt about my clothes or my shoes or not belonging in a neighborhood this nice.

  By the looks of things, Vivienne’s parents are either out of town or in a coma, because the place is dripping with teens under the influence of the substance of their choice. But since her house is tucked far into a cul-de-sac, the noise isn’t nearly as bad as you’d expect. Still, it’s a noise complaint waiting to happen.

  Freddie parks the car down at the bottom of the hill and turns to me. “I look okay, right?” He wears tight jeans that are shredded along the knee and rolled at the bottom, with a fitted blue-and-white-striped T-shirt and high-tops. He looks like a boy who can dress himself, which is a lot more than most boys I know can say for themselves.

  “You look great,” I say. “You remembered her present, right?”

  He nods. Freddie spent what was probably three weeks’ worth of sign spinning on expensive noise-canceling headphones for Viv when she travels on the bus to swim meets.

  Grace and I follow two steps behind him. As we enter the house, it’s clear that Viv and Freddie have bonded over music.

  Freddie turns to us. “I’m gonna go find her,” he yells over the speakers.

  “Well, we should say hi, too,” I say. “At least wish her happy birthday?”

  Grace nods. “Yeah, then we’ll let you guys catch up.”

  He gives us a sharp nod. A few people stop him, giving him drunken hugs. Standing in the foyer is a light-skinned brown girl in a flowing coral-colored maxi dress with a matching hijab loosely wrapped around her hair.

  “Hey! Lydia!” Freddie calls to her.

  Her face lights up with surprise. “Oh my God! I—”

  He interrupts her. “You look great. And I heard about Ohio State! That’s huge. Congrats!”

  “Thanks, dude. Yeah, I don’t know. The scholarship’s pretty small, so I’m hoping for an academic scholarship and maybe some grant money.”

  “You gotta take it,” he says. “Too good of an opportunity.”

  “We’ll see.” She shrugs and peers past him at Grace and me.

  “Oh!” Freddie smacks his head. “I’m sorry. This is my really good friend Ramona, and her girlfriend, Grace.”

  Well, not officially my girlfriend. Yet. I reach for Grace’s hand, but she’s taken a step back with her arms crossed over her chest. She smiles tightly and offers a short wave.

  Don’t overthink this, I tell myself. Don’t overthink this.

  Lydia nods. “Awesome. I like the hair,” she says to me.

  “Thanks.”

  “So you’ve been staying in shape?” Lydia asks Freddie.

  “Um, well, yeah, I’ve been doing some—”

  “Freddie?” calls a voice from above. “What are you doing here?”

  A tall dark-skinned black girl in a short aqua dress rushes down the stairs wearing three-inch heels. She somehow manages to not trip and look graceful.

  “Viv,” says Freddie, turning his back to the rest of us. “Happy birthday.”

  I watch Vivienne’s expression as she tries to piece something together. “I thought you weren’t coming. I told you not to come.”

  Oh God. My stomach plummets.

  Grace reaches for my hand and squeezes tight.

  The moment feels so uncomfortable I can hardly look at Freddie. But at the same time I’m annoyed that he didn’t prepare me for this.

  He grins, but I can see his expression faltering. “I wanted to surprise you,” says Freddie. “I couldn’t miss your eighteenth birthday. Come on, babe.” A nervous laugh comes out.

  His back is still to us, so I can’t read his expression, but I don’t think this is how he expected the night to go. Why is it so much more painful to watch other people embarrass themselves?

  “Hey, Freddie,” I say, gently touching his shoulder. “I think we’re going to grab a drink.”

  Something on Vivienne’s face snaps, like she’s realized there are other people here. “Hi,” she says with a forced smile.

  Freddie sputters for a moment before awkwardly introducing Grace and me.

  “Happy birthday,” Grace offers.

  “I guess we’ll let y’all catch up,” I say.

  “I think that might be good,” says Vivienne, her gaze trained on Freddie.

  I squeeze Freddie’s shoulder before leaving him there with her. If there were a birthday cake at this party, I’d steal all of Vivienne’s wishes and give them to Freddie. I think he’s going to need them.

  THIRTEEN

  We weave in and out of rooms, searching for a corner to claim. Everyone in the living room is grinding their baby-makers together, while the dining room is reserved for drinking games, and all the people on the patio are either passing around blunts or gathering around tall bongs.

  I reach for Grace’s hand as we head into the kitchen, but her fingers slip straight through mine. Ever since we moved past the foyer, I’ve felt her pulling away from me. I know she’s shy and isn’t one for crowds. But no one knows us here. We’re strangers. So I can only assume this has nothing to do with her being shy.

  The counters are lined with coolers of beer and bottles of liquor. I grab us each a beer and we head out past the patio to the pool, where couples are gathering on lawn chairs. It seems to be the most chill place to hang out, with some people making out and others just talking.

  We sit together on the edge of the pool, and Grace opens her purse to show me tons of mini bottles of horrible-flavored liquors. “My dad used to travel for work,” she says. “And he always saved the mini liquor bottles from the hotels.”

  “Whoa.” I didn’t see Grace drink at all over the summer. Not even once.

  She shrugs. “A little liquid courage, I guess.”

  “I think I’ll stick to beer,” I tell her.

  “More for me.” She opens one of her mini bottles and downs it in two shots.

  The moonlight highlights her cheekbones and the tip of her narrow nose. In another world, this could be our life. Both of us in the same town, being together whenever we want.

  She reaches for another mini bottle. “Freddie seems nice.”

  I let my hand fall to her thigh, running my fingers up her leg as I trace constellations onto her skin. “He’s a good guy.”

  She finishes off her second bottle in two gulps.

  “Maybe take it easy on the booze, ya know?”

  She faces me, clearly annoyed. “It’s a party, isn’t it?”

  “You’re right,” I say. I don’t want to argue about something stupid, so instead I lean into her and push the hair off her neck before gently kissing the soft spot behind her ear. She turns to me and laces her fingers through my hair.

  “I missed your hair.” She closes her eyes and lets it tickle her nose. “You’re impossible to forget. Do you know that? I almost hate you for it.”

  And then I kiss her before she can say another word.

  “I’m still with him,” she says, her lips moving against mine.

  “I don’t care,” I lie.

  She responds, parting my lips with hers and not being at all shy with her tongue.

  She is here. She’s here with me. In my arms. Not his.

  Each of our hands roams, pressing hard against the other’s skin, as if the clothing separating us might somehow dissolve with every—

  Grace pulls back, out of breath.

  “Andrew,” she breathes. “I can’t keep hurting him. I can’t lie to him like this.”

  “What about me?” I ask. I don’t mean to say it out loud, but I do. “Have you ever thought that you’re hurting me as much as you’re hurting him? And did you ever think that maybe it’s yourself you’re lying to?”

  But she doesn’t hear me. She shakes her head vigorously and stands up, pulling her feet out of the pool. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here this weekend.” She walks off, leaving wet footprints on the concrete.

  “Grace! Wait!”

  A pothead in a Hawaiian shirt m
imics me. “Grace! Wait!”

  “Fuck off!” I shout.

  I take my feet out of the water and grab her purse, flip-flops, and my boots. Dodging in and out of the crowd, I follow her path to the side of the house and through the back gate.

  And there she is. Grace sits on the curb by the mailbox. I guess she realized she could only get so far without shoes and a phone.

  She stands, steadying herself on the mailbox. “You can’t kiss me like that,” she says. “In front of people.”

  I drop our shoes and her purse in the grass. “Grace, no one even knows you here. And it’s not like I have anything to hide,” I spit out. “What’s the big deal?”

  “I don’t know how to make this any more obvious for you!” Her voice grows louder with each syllable.

  There are two sides to every story and two versions of every person. The version of Grace speaking now is the doubter. She’s the same person who wouldn’t come out to her parents and would only hold my hand if no one was looking.

  She shakes her head back and forth, and her lower lip trembles. “Sometimes I feel like you’re trying to make me into this person—this person that I’m not. You keep talking about me being in the closet like it’s some sin to not know who I am yet! I’m just as confused about Andrew as I am about you.” She pauses. “I’m going through something here, Ramona, and that doesn’t mean I’m hiding. It means I’m learning, and I get to do that, don’t I?”

  I take a step back instinctively. I’ve always known that whatever we were, it wasn’t perfect and it could never quite be defined. But I feel . . . led on. Her phone calls. Her texts. All she had to do was cut me off. Let our physical distance fade into emotional distance.

  Red, searing anger settles in my chest. “Listen,” I say finally, my words clipped. “I’m not making you do anything or be anyone. It’s not like I forced you to make out with me back there.”

  She plucks her purse up off the grass and clumsily puts her flip-flops back on. I can see the two mini bottles of liquor taking an effect now. “It’s all black and white for you. I’m gay or I’m not. I’m with you or I’m not. That’s not real, Ramona. Real life is messy and complicated. I have a whole world—an entire existence—that you’re not a part of.”