You Know Me Well

by Nina LaCour

  Brad stands beside me and looks.

  “I’m going to miss this piece,” he says.

  I turn to him. His face is pure sincerity.

  “That’s the best compliment you’ve given me.”

  “Is it?”

  “Brad. You called my paintings quaint.”

  “Not this one,” he says.

  The door swings open, and in rushes the city noise, and then a tall, handsome man.

  “Well, look,” I say. “It’s the manufacturer of my fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “That fame is not going to be so fleeting,” Garrison says. “I swung by the night of the show just to say hello. I didn’t find you here, but I did find this painting. I couldn’t stop looking at it.”

  “Thank you,” I say. It comes out a whisper—I mean it so much.

  “What for?” Brad asks. “He’s getting a painting he wants and you’re not getting a dime from the sale.”

  But it isn’t about the money. It’s about what I know is true. Because I’m looking at this bright red storm of color on a canvas, at all my delicate lines and passionate brushstrokes. I’m looking at something so urgent and true, so far beyond what I thought I was capable of making.

  I’m looking at what happens when I let go and trust myself, and the vision of it thrills me.

  * * *

  The cashier at the de Young ticket booth tells me she can’t sell me a ticket this near to closing.

  “You only have fifteen minutes,” she says.

  “That’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s worth it.”

  This is where Violet told me she’d be. She offered to meet me outside when she was finished, but I can’t wait another fifteen minutes. I need to see her now.

  “There’s the observation tower,” the woman says. “It’s free and open to the public. You still have time to go there. But there’s no food allowed.”

  “Oh, this?” I say, holding up the artichoke I bought on my way over. “It isn’t actually food. At least, not in this context. It’s a flower.”

  “Put the flower in your backpack, please.”

  * * *

  I text Violet to meet me in the tower and find my way to the elevator.

  She’s looking out over North Beach when I find her. So many people are up here, taking in the panorama of the city through the glass walls, but there are things I need to say that can’t wait. So much is clear to me now.

  I touch her shoulder. She turns to face me.

  “Hey there,” she says.

  “The Exploratorium yesterday. The de Young today. Is this a museum tour?”

  “It’s just a habit, I guess. It’s always easy to find the museums, and that way you’re guaranteed something good to look at.”

  I smile.

  “But somehow I don’t think you’re here to discuss my habits,” she says. “You look nervous. What’s wrong?”

  A chime sounds, and then a recorded voice tells us that the museum will be closing in ten minutes. So I rush in and say, “I think I never really wanted to meet you. That’s why I ran away from Shelbie’s party.”

  Hurt flashes across her face, but I keep going.

  “The idea of you kept saving me, over and over. Every time I felt worried, all I had to do was think of your name and I would be calm again. All of my paintings were about you, but they were also about the idea of another world, another life, one that might feel better than the one I’d been inhabiting. You were my escape. I needed you to keep being an idea to me.”

  She shrugs, which is not what I’m after. I have to push through this part, though, to get to what I really want to say.

  “All those stories Lehna told me about you. I survived on them. I was destined to be disappointed and then what would save me?”

  She looks away, but I take her hand.

  “Wait,” I say. “This time I’m not finished. Then something happened: I met you. It didn’t matter how much I managed to mess things up in order to prolong the dream of you—you showed up anyway. And you were—you are—better than the dream. And I’m realizing now that your job isn’t to save me, and I’m okay with that. All I need for you is to be in my life, and I’ll figure out the rest of it.”

  “Be in your life?” she says. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  “More than be in my life,” I say. “Much more than be in my life. I mean I want to be your girlfriend. I want to see you every day. I want to wake up to texts from you that say good morning and I want to kiss you whenever I want to. I want to kiss you right now.”

  She laughs.

  “You really know how to worry a girl,” she says. “I mean, a little warning next time would be good. Something like, ‘I’m going to say a bunch of things that sound like rejection, but in the end I’ll turn it all around and say something good.’”

  “I was just being honest!” I say. “The opposite of elusive!”

  “Right,” she says. “Good. I very much prefer honesty.”

  “I almost forgot!” I reach into my backpack and pull out the artichoke. She looks confused for a moment, but then I see her remember. She takes it from my hands.

  “So can we kiss now?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  It’s entirely different than it was on the street. Her mouth is still soft, but just as I relax into the kiss she bites my lower lip. I yelp in surprise, but I don’t pull away. I can feel her smile. The bite is a warning. It’s a Don’t think I’ve forgotten, a Don’t you dare pull anything like that again. And now her hand is on my neck, and she’s pulling me even closer, and ohmygod we need to get out of here. But even though I know this is taking PDA one step too far, I can’t stop kissing her. So we become the exhibit of us. One more spectacle in a museum packed with things to see. We breathe each other in. We tune the world out. Our kiss builds walls around us, until—

  “Ah-hem!”

  An elderly white-haired docent is standing a few feet from us, looking more amused than stern.

  “Museum’s closing,” he says.

  “I’m sorry!” I say, but the joy in my voice betrays how immensely far from sorry I am.

  Violet takes my hand. She grins at the man.

  “My girlfriend and I got carried away,” she says, and he laughs, and we cross the tower to the elevator, and before the doors slide shut we’re in each other’s arms again.

  SATURDAY

  THURSDAY

  FRIDAY

  SATURDAY

  21

  MARK

  We walked through the future and felt we were borrowing it.

  Some of the people around us were famous. Some were only locally famous. None of them were teenagers.

  But there we were, wandering through a mansion on Russian Hill, unclear whether we were playing a joke on them or they were playing a joke on us or if it was possible that none of this was a joke, that one day our lives would be like this, and at this moment we were getting an early glimpse, all because of a photographer I’d met at a club.

  It was unclear who had money and who didn’t. It was unclear who’d been invited and who’d crashed. It was unclear what we were celebrating, other than the celebratory fact that we’d made it here, that we were in this moment. The only person who seemed completely at home wasn’t a person at all, but a cat named Renoir.

  I looked around and saw the constellations, the multitude of versions of the kind of person a person could be. The alcohol and the lateness of the hour loosened people’s tongues, loosened the music from their lips. I walked through it all, holding Katie’s hand. We were Hansel and Gretel, and we had finally found the right house. The witches would let us lick the frosting from the bowl instead of hurling us into the oven.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked her, again and again.

  “We’re taking it in,” she replied. “We need to take it all in.”

  * * *

  Inevitably, Ryan has to go to the bathroom, and Taylor and I are left alone together. He’s brought over a DVD of the Br
itish version of Queer as Folk because he can’t believe we’ve never seen it, even though, in fairness, it came out before we were born. It’s paused during an act of tonguework that I hope Ryan’s parents don’t walk in and see. He hasn’t talked to them yet, but is planning to this weekend. Earlier this evening, Taylor and I helped him strategize. At one point we role-played his parents. I got to be Mom.

  All in all, the night’s gone well, because after the coming-out conversation and role-play mostly we’ve been watching TV and snacking. In front of me, Ryan and Taylor haven’t done anything more affectionate than lean against each other and touch arms.

  I imagine it would be different if I weren’t here. But I don’t feel pressured to leave. Not by them. And not by myself.

  I can do this. For my best friend.

  Somehow as I’d been mentally preparing the whole day, the just-me-and-Taylor-in-a-room-together scenario was not one I’d pictured. I’m certainly not prepared for him to say thank you. Which is exactly what he does the minute Ryan’s out of earshot.

  “For what?” I ask.

  He looks over, makes sure Ryan isn’t coming back. “For being with him today,” he says. “For helping him through this. For never forcing him out, which I know can’t have been easy. My best friend came out two years after me, and it nearly drove me insane.”

  Of all the things that drove me insane, this was not the major one. But I don’t tell Taylor that. Instead I say, “It was his choice. It was always his choice.”

  “I know. I’m just saying you’re an awesome friend. You don’t need me to tell you that at all. But just in case you ever doubt it, know that you are. I don’t know Ryan all that well yet, but I do know that.”

  Go on! Shut up! Tell me more! Stop talking! My mind doesn’t know what it wants from Taylor. The more he talks about me and Ryan being friends, the less I think he knows about us. I’m glad Ryan hasn’t presented me to his new crush as a lovelorn burden. I’m glad our secrets are safe.

  “I’m glad he found you,” I say. “And if you ever hurt him, I will go for the proverbial kill.”

  Taylor nods. “I would expect no less.”

  Ryan returns and looks like he, too, hadn’t planned on us being alone together.

  “Don’t worry—it went great,” I tell him. Taylor smiles. I know I could tease right now—could pretend to have told Taylor something that Ryan wouldn’t want him to know (like, say, our sexual history). But this is a big day. There’s no room for teasing.

  We go back to watching the show. The two of them cuddle closer. Ryan looks much more nervous with Taylor than he ever was with me. And he also looks much more comfortable with him than he ever was in front of anyone else with me.

  This, I see, is the future.

  * * *

  “What are we doing here?” I asked Garrison Kline. We’d paid homage to his friends on their sofa perch. Now it was just him and the two of us. He still had his camera at the ready. His camera was always at the ready, as if something beautiful could happen at any moment.

  He was checking in on me and Katie, our host even though this wasn’t his party.

  “We’re going to make you the toast of the town,” he told us. “You’d be surprised how easy that is.”

  “But why?” I couldn’t comprehend. “Why do that for us?” Then I couldn’t help myself. It was nagging at me too much, so I had to ask, “It’s not because you want to sleep with me, is it?”

  “Mark!” Katie said.

  But Garrison Kline waved it off.

  “No, it’s a valid question. And it’s good that you know to ask. Motives are important. And in this case, my motive is both simple and mysterious: I see something in you. And everyone—every single one of us—needs a little help on the way. I happen to be in a position where I can help. I was once on your side of the fence, and now I’m on this side.”

  “It’s pretty nice on this side,” Katie observed.

  “It can be. On a good night.”

  “And this is how we become the toast of the town?” I asked. “Just by showing up? Having your friends spread the word?”

  Garrison Kline shook his head. “No, it’s more than that. I’ll start with a simple question.”

  “Which is…?”

  “Who are you? Not your names—I know your names. But I need to know—Who are you?”

  * * *

  We all show up for the last day of school. Our lockers are mostly cleaned out. Classes are afterthoughts. The only reason we are here is to be with each other.

  The last day of school has always seemed to me to be the doorway to summer—nothing further than that. But today it strikes me in a different way. I hear the future whispering that there will come a time when this building will not be my world. These kids will not be my life’s sole population. There will come a day—soon—when I will walk away from this. Every now and then, I’ll return as a ghost, as my memories step through these hallways. But I will already be in the afterlife, which will be my new, better life.

  I tell Katie how I’m feeling, and she seems to understand. I don’t tell Ryan, because he has his own news to deal with. He’s a one-man pride parade—last night the three of us decorated a shirt for him to wear. By the way, I’m gay, it says. A few people seem surprised when they read it.

  But mostly?

  People stop him to say how much they love the shirt.

  * * *

  Who are you?

  Kate answered Garrison Kline instantly.

  “I’m an artist.”

  He smiled. “I don’t doubt it. But show me some proof.”

  So she took out her phone, looking as nervous as I must have looked when I’d stepped onto that bar in my underwear. She showed him some photos of her work. He seemed genuinely impressed.

  “This has suddenly become much more interesting,” he said once he’d swiped through. Then he turned to me. “How about you? Who are you?”

  And because I was still hurt, and because I was still aware of the silence of the phone in my pocket, I found myself saying, “I’m not Ryan’s boyfriend.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Garrison Kline nodded. Then, gently, he said, “I don’t think that’s a good answer, because I don’t think that’s an accurate answer. I want you to try again. Who are you?”

  “I am becoming—” I started. Then I tried again. “I am becoming—”

  But I couldn’t figure out the end of the sentence.

  “Maybe that’s your answer,” Katie said. “You’re becoming. You’re in the process of becoming. You just don’t know what yet.”

  That felt right. It felt okay to stop there, for now, as we walked through the future.

  Satisfied, the photographer began to take our picture. Solo and together.

  It was only the next morning that we would see:

  We looked great.

  * * *

  I am walking on my own to Pink Saturday. Tomorrow Ryan and Taylor and some of Taylor’s friends will join us for the parade, but today it’s only me who’s meeting up with Katie and her contingent.

  It’s only as I’m a block away from the Castro that I realize: I’ve done this all myself. This is the first time I’ve ever come here on my own, and the remarkable thing is that I’m only noticing it now. I take my place in the crowd—a crowd that doesn’t feel anonymous, because each of us is so individual. There are too many types of us to be counted; there are too many variations of our pride to be pigeonholed. I see people my age and people five times my age. I see all of these people freed from their given definitions and fashioning their own way of being defined. I get looks from guys, for sure—and while I don’t shy away from them, I don’t fall into them, either. I am not here to pick up or be picked up. I am here to be with my friends.

  From the top of Castro Street, it looks like a river of people. It looks, I realize, like a march—rows and rows of people, gathered to exert their power. Only this time we are
n’t marching. We don’t need to show our numbers to show our worth. This time our power comes from staying in this space, from walking the hallowed ground of our history and bringing it to life. I am alone, yes. But I am a part of this. I am a part of everything. I feel it—I’ve been living in a world, but what I have is a universe.

  Katie texts to say she’s waiting under the Castro Theatre’s neon marquee. Without another thought—without any hesitation—I plunge in and head toward her. I join the fray.

  I’m ready now.

  I am becoming—

  22

  Kate

  “You’re here!” I shout when I see him.

  Mark has broken free of the crowd. He’s looking at me and grinning, and I grab him in a hug.

  “It’s just you,” he says. “And, oh my God, look at you!”

  I laugh. This morning I raided my art supplies and the costume bin in the garage. I arrived at Lehna’s house with a bag full of paints and body glitter, tutus and ribbons and everything rainbow I could find, relics from our pride-filled freshman year.

  She had already assembled her outfit carefully. A backwards cap, shorts, and a crop-top shirt with the sleeves cut off. I talked her into adding rainbow suspenders, and then she told me all about Candace as I assembled my outfit.

  I settled on the same jeans I wore last Saturday, but this time with a metallic gold leotard and a pair of white angel wings. I let my hair fall down past my shoulders, and I dabbed gold glitter on my cheeks and then I painted my arms in so many shades of pink and red and gold, all swirls and stars and joy.

  Mark says, “You look like a lesbian artist fairy.”

  And I laugh again because he looks so much like himself in his jeans and plain T-shirt and baseball cap from our school team. And by that, I mean he looks perfect. So far from a boy trying to win the love of his best friend by dancing almost naked on a bar. So far from someone too heartbroken to get out of bed. So far from a boy waiting for me, lost, on a sidewalk.

  I hug him again.

  “They’re expecting us back in half an hour,” I say. “That’s when Violet gets here.”