The Summer of Impossibilities

by Rachael Allen

Sky’s blue eyes fill with tears and she whispers, “That fucking bastard.”

  Amelia Grace

  My angel costume is giving me a rash. Either that, or I stepped in some poison ivy when I was hiking yesterday. I tug at the costume where it scratches against my rib cage. Not sure how the poison ivy would have gotten that high though.

  Under layers of itchy white fabric, I am wearing jean shorts. Because I am pathetic. Because jean shorts mean pockets, and pockets mean a place to put my phone, and two weeks ago I emailed the girl I’ve been in love with for four freaking years, and no, she hasn’t emailed me back on any of the past fourteen days, but what if today is the day and I don’t have my phone? So, like I was saying, pathetic.

  I tap, tap, tap my foot against the wooden black stage they built right over where the preacher preaches on Sunday. I’m not usually so impatient, but something about waiting in both literal and metaphorical darkness gets to me.

  Mrs. Bellcamp turns around and whispers, “Who’s tapping?” Only, her eyes narrow in a way that makes it sound like she’s really saying, Stop fucking tapping. Not that Mrs. Bellcamp would ever say fucking. She’s too “nice” for that.

  I stop and take a step backward, pressing myself against the back wall of the stage. I can hear people acting on the other side of the curtain, but the angels don’t make their appearance until the grand finale. Also part of the finale: the children’s choir I helped teach this year. I’m so excited for them. They’re pretty much the only reason I’m willing to wear this costume. And then my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  HOLY CRAP, MY PHONE IS BUZZING IN MY POCKET.

  I pull it out, and my heart does a backflip when I see the Gmail icon. I unlock it with shaking fingers. Mrs. Bellcamp gives me a dirty look when she notices the light, but she can deal with it. I’m already spinning fantasies of what might be waiting for me in my inbox when I see the message from Change.org. Do I want to sign a petition because Windex is doing some kind of evil thing? Um, no. And I’m grateful for the work that gets done there, really, but just because you sign one petition against oil pipelines on native lands does not mean you want to sign EVERY OTHER PETITION EVER. Especially on days when you’re expecting an email from the most wonderful girl in the entire world.

  I hike up my angel skirt and slip my phone back in my pocket. Then I think about clawing off all the skin around my midsection, because holy crap, these angel costumes. If real angels had to wear these, they’d decide to become fallen within a day, I’m certain of it.

  Carrie Sullivan leans against the wall, next to me. “They’re pretty awful, huh?” She smiles sympathetically.

  I smile back. “The worst.”

  Carrie and I do all the church stuff together—Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights, lock-ins on the weekend, camps over the summer, workdays to assemble nonperishable items whenever there’s a natural disaster somewhere. She gets this smile on her face whenever she’s helping someone, and I think it’s really cool. Other than that, we couldn’t be more different. Carrie has long blond hair and looks a lot like Princess Aurora from Sleeping Beauty, minus the resting bitch face. She’s tiny and perky and a cheerleader, and she wears these adorable little owl pendant necklaces. And I’m . . . well, the opposite of that.

  Maybe that’s why there aren’t any emails for me.

  Carrie inches closer. “Amelia Grace?”

  Mrs. Bellcamp turns and attempts to shoot lasers at us out of her pupils. Then an iPhone flashes from the other side of the stage, and she hurries off to heckle a different pair of angels.

  Carrie rolls her eyes and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh. Sure.” I nod like that’ll make it true.

  “You look sad.”

  Her sympathetic smile is back. It makes me feel seen though, not pitied.

  “I—” Am I really going to tell her this? “I have this friend that I really like.”

  “Like-like?” Carrie asks, her voice singsong.

  My face flushes. “Yeah. Something like that. Only, we’ve been friends forever, and we used to be really close, and, like, email each other every day and stuff. But I just emailed two weeks ago, and I haven’t heard anything, and I’m scared that we’ve grown apart. I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t like me back.” My heart stops. “I mean, he.”

  My cheeks are so red, I just know it, and I hope like anything that Carrie can’t see them in the darkness, and the seconds stretch out like hours, and then she gets this tiny smile on her face.

  “It would be okay if it was a she,” she says.

  I gulp like a cartoon character. “It would?”

  “Uh-huh.” And then she steps closer, so close that her breath is tickling my ear, and she whispers, “And I think she’s stupid for not liking you back.”

  And then Carrie Sullivan is kissing me.

  Gently, like she’s trying to send me a message without words: I think you’re pretty great.

  So I hold her hand in mine and kiss her back. I think you’re pretty great too.

  Her lips taste like strawberries and self-discovery. Maybe that’s what all first kisses taste like, I don’t know. I feel this overwhelming sense of rightness, and the very air seems to shift around us. No, wait. The air is actually shifting around us. All of a sudden, my skin feels hotter, and the insides of my eyelids change from black to orange. I realize what has happened even as I open them.

  The curtain has gone up.

  And all hell has broken loose.

  The stage lights make my eyes burn, and I’m pretty sure I can hear the collective gasp of the congregation from all the way up here. Carrie and I jump apart, but it’s too late. Everyone has seen. Well, everyone except the guy playing the prodigal son at the front of the stage and the man playing his father. They soldier on through the last scene, while Carrie and I scurry to our places and try to act angelic.

  Is Carrie out? Because I had no idea. Heck, I’m not even out, not really. My stepdad, our small town, and our church were the three biggest reasons why I figured I wouldn’t come out until college. I’ve just told a few people: our youth minister, my best friend, Abby, and this guy Grayson, who, to my knowledge, is the only other gay person at Ranburne High.

  I know my mom and stepdad are in the crowd, but I can’t see them through the lights, which is probably a blessing. And then it’s over. The curtains go down, and we make our way off the risers and through the set pieces of past plays backstage, into the hallway. Which is, thankfully, empty. All the angels go straight to the girls’ dressing room, which is usually the room where Carrie and I have Sunday school.

  I wonder if any of them saw us. They would have been facing the crowd.

  “Is Amelia Grace your girlfriend?” asks Jamie Marlowe, a fifth grader who pretty much follows Carrie everywhere like a puppy.

  Uh-oh.

  Carrie blushes, but before she can say anything, Mrs. Bell-camp pulls off her halo with a particularly shrewish frown. “When my girls are older, I’m going to make sure they know to set a proper example for the younger girls.”

  It feels like a slap.

  “There’s nothing wrong with—” Carrie begins.

  “There is, and you know it. You need to get your life right with God before you come back here.”

  Carrie’s lips disappear inside her mouth. I’m fixing to say something terrible to Mrs. Bellcamp—I don’t even know what, but I can feel it bubbling inside me. Carrie must be able to see it too, because she touches my shoulder and shakes her head. Then she runs out of the room.

  Mrs. Bellcamp stares right at me in a way that makes me feel like I need a shield. She opens her mouth, but I am not about to listen to a lecture from this woman who just made Carrie leave in tears. The terrible thing bubbles to the surface again, but all that comes out is “I don’t think God is who you think He is.”

  She blinks at me. I tear off my angel costume and throw it on a chair before she can say anything back. Then I run out into the hallway and hope I�
��ll be able to find Carrie.

  A few people are milling around, including my mom, but her back is turned so she hasn’t seen me yet. Each step in her direction feels like a step toward fate. This isn’t what I imagined coming out to her would be like. I always figured I’d wait till college, once I found someone I was really in love with (well, someone who loved me back). Then I’d sit her down and tell her, and maybe it would be a little awkward, and she wouldn’t know what to say, but she would definitely hug me, and that’s how I’d know everything would be okay.

  “Mom?” My voice doesn’t crack but only just.

  She turns. Her face isn’t at all how I pictured. Her eyes look a little weepy, but her lips are a hard line. She holds her arms tight around herself like it’s the only way she can keep it together.

  She does not hug me.

  “We should go,” she says, her voice anxious. “Jay’s pulling the car around.”

  Is that all she’s going to say? I wait, but no, that’s really it. Nothing else is coming.

  “Okay,” I say softly. For the first time, I want to cry. This isn’t who my mom is. She’s supposed to tell me she loves me or maybe that she had a feeling all along. That’s what people do on TV, right? I know she’s really religious. I’m really religious. But I thought we felt the same way about God’s love. I want to grab her arm and say, Why aren’t you hugging me right now? But I don’t. Maybe because I’m scared of what the answer would be.

  My stepdad is waiting for us at the curb, as promised. He doesn’t say anything to me when I get in the car. It’s when he’s quiet that you have to be really scared. I buckle my seat belt, and he pulls out of the church parking lot. We cruise past Jake’s ice cream shop and an antique store. The silence hangs, heavy and uncomfortable. Jay keeps a stranglehold on the steering wheel. Mom picks at her cuticles until they bleed.

  I try to distract myself by checking my phone for emails (nothing), and for the first time tonight I feel a little guilty. I always imagined my first real kiss would be with someone else.

  We’re farther away from the church now. Jay sighs, and the stranglehold relaxes an eensy bit. Mom must decide this means it’s safe to talk, because she clears her throat delicately. “I was thinking of making pot roast for dinner tomorrow night.”

  His favorite.

  He grunts in reply.

  Mom looks down at her hands.

  A few minutes later, she tries again. We’re passing the multiplex, and she says, “Oh, look, the new Avengers movie is playing. We really liked that last one, didn’t we?”

  He says yes, and she beams at him like he invented toilet paper.

  “I thought we did. What’s the name of that actor that plays Captain America?” Her voice takes a particular tone when she asks it, but I feel like I’m the only one who hears it.

  “Oh, that was that guy. Chris, um, Everett.”

  Mom winces.

  “No, Evans. Chris Evans.”

  She beams again and touches his arm. “I knew you’d know it.”

  He smiles, and it’s smug.

  I want to throw up.

  But at the same time, I don’t know. If he’s smiling this soon after what happened, does it maybe mean I have a chance? I start to feel cautiously/haltingly/marginally hopeful. Then some kid pulls out in front of us from the Walmart parking lot.

  “What the fuck!” My stepdad slams on the brakes so hard my head whacks Mom’s seat in front of me. “WATCH WHERE YOU’RE FUCKING GOING, ASSHOLE.”

  He doesn’t just say it. He screams it.

  “Fucking teenagers. Think they can do any goddamn thing they want.”

  He hits the gas and zooms around the kid, flipping him off as we pass. Mom has to grab the door handle to keep from slamming into the window.

  Things are not going to be okay.

  Jay goes at least twenty over the rest of the way home. Mom no longer tries to make conversation.

  As we pull into the driveway, her phone rings, a chipper Bon Jovi ringtone that feels out of place.

  “It’s your aunt Adeline,” she says. “I’ll call her back later.”

  Aunt Adeline isn’t really my aunt. She’s one of Mom’s best friends from college, and she hasn’t called us in forever, but I kind of have bigger things to think about right now. I keep my head high as I walk inside.

  I will not apologize. I will not apologize. No matter what happens.

  My stepdad heads straight to the fridge and cracks open a Coors Light. “They have camps,” he says. “For people like you. I’ll ask Pastor Mike. They sent one of the deacons’ sons there a couple years back, and it straightened him out.”

  I know I’m supposed to have God’s love in my heart for everyone, but sometimes I think I hate him.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me to fix.” I meet his eyes and don’t look away. I wonder how I will pay for this later.

  A muscle in his jaw twitches, but when he speaks, his voice is even. “It’s not up for discussion.” He disappears into the bedroom.

  “We care about you so much,” my mom says. “We just want what’s best for you.”

  I stare at her across the kitchen, and my anger turns into something else.

  “Please don’t send me away.” My voice quivers.

  Mom crumples. “Did you have to do it in front of everyone?”

  “Is that what bothers you, Mom? That I’m gay, or that I was gay in front of everyone?”

  She kind of wrings her hands, glancing back and forth between me and the bedroom.

  “Mom, please.”

  My tears spill over. Mom cries too—sobs and tears and snot and blubbering—and she finally gives me the hug I’ve been waiting for. I let myself slump against her soft body, feel her arms around me, holding me to her. Maybe everything will be okay.

  “I love you so much,” she whispers into my hair. “I’m going to do everything I can.”

  I can’t sleep, so instead I press my ear against the air vent in my room and listen to them fight. It’s an endless loop of him saying they’ve got to get me out of this town. It’s the only way to fix me. And then Mom tries to stand up for me, but she’s so out of practice, it’s easy for him to knock her over. Not physically, only with his words. Words can be enough though.

  This is your fault. You’ve always been too easy on her.

  We can’t let her stay here, not after that.

  Hate the sin, love the sinner.

  I curl into a ball on the floor and tell myself that I don’t need to be fixed. I’m a good person. God loves me. It would be a whole lot easier if there was someone else to tell me.

  Ellie

  I don’t usually leave the house with it. Better to keep it in the box under my bed. Safe. Hidden. Today felt like the kind of day that needed the extra magic. Today, I have plans.

  I wait until Momma’s car is all the way out of the parking lot. I don’t think Momma would be angry exactly that I have it, but she might not be pleased that I went through her stuff and read her journal. I pull the friendship bracelet from my duffel bag. Its threads are every shade of ocean and sky. I make sure no one is watching before I put it on. Attempt to put it on. Several times. Turns out bracelets are really hard to put on by yourself. See, Ellie? This is why you need friends.

  I finally get it to clasp. Then I walk into tennis practice and spot Riley tying her shoes.

  “Hey, girl,” I say, sitting next to her.

  “Hey.”

  My shorts go tight around my legs as I stretch. They don’t fit because I’ve gained weight. No, I correct myself. They don’t fit because I have more muscles now, and muscles take up space. I ignore my shorts and turn to Riley.

  “Can you believe how humid it is today? My hair hates me.”

  She laughs. “I know, right? Like, why do I even bother blow-drying it in the morning.”

  This talking thing is going really well. Thankfully, Emily Rae isn’t around. She’s the ringleader, and she scares me a little. Maybe I should just go for
it. I touch the bracelet on my wrist for courage.

  “Hey, so, my mom has a bunch of errands to run today. Think you could give me a ride home after practice?”

  Riley pulls her legs into a butterfly stretch. “Sure.”

  “Cool, well, I’m gonna go fill up my water bottle, but I’ll catch you after practice.”

  NAILED IT.

  I knew the bracelet would work. I found it in our attic when I was eleven years old in a box of my mom’s college stuff. That box taught me everything I needed to know about friendship. Namely, that I needed to find three best friends as quickly as possible so we could forge a lifelong sisterhood and make pacts that change the world.

  That part has proved trickier than I’d thought.

  But today? Things are happening. Me, Riley, Autumn, and Emily Rae. It’s gonna be perfect. The three of them are already really close, and they wear the cutest tennis gear, and they’re always doing Instagram-worthy stuff after practice. And, okay, sometimes they make fun of people more than I’d like, and I’ve seen other girls try to be part of their group and fail, but the challenge only makes them that much more interesting.

  I smile at Emily Rae as I square up across from her on the court during two-minute drills. I’ve been killing myself trying to make first court since I started at the academy a few months ago. I slice the ball at her, and she slams it back. She’s ahead and then me and then she’s saying one of my shots was out even though I kind of thought it was in. There can’t be much time left. I make a spectacular serve. And then another. Holy wow, I just might—

  The whistle blows.

  Yes! I am made of electricity and muscle, and my racket is an extension of my body. And I am screaming “YESSSS” at the top of my lungs. And I am running around in circles and pumping my hands in the air. And I am yelling, “First court! Hell yeah!” And I am remembering that there are a lot of other people here and now some of them are watching me.

  Oops.

  Sometimes the winner’s high hits me a little hard, and I can’t be held responsible for my actions. Oh well. If anyone will understand, these girls will.