A Line in the Dark

by Malinda Lo

  “Netflix?” I suggest. I’m wide-awake and staying over at Angie’s tonight.

  “Yeah, okay,” Angie agrees.

  I find the KT Tunstall CD that Angie likes and switch out the Black Eyed Peas while she turns onto Washington Street, which connects East Bedford to West Bedford. There isn’t much traffic; the town has mostly gone to sleep, even on Friday night. It’s not exactly a party destination.

  “Hey, what did you think of those Peeb girls?” Angie asks out of the blue.

  I know exactly who she means, but I pretend that I don’t. “What Peeb girls?”

  “The one who got the sundae.”

  The one. Her attention is focused on the road, but there’s something tense about the way she’s gripping the steering wheel. “Oh, you mean that Peeb girl,” I say, and lean toward the open window, hoping to catch a breeze. “Singular.”

  “I thought she was kinda cute.” Angie sounds hesitant. Her face is mostly hidden by the dark, except when the passing streetlights stripe over her profile, revealing and obscuring her again and again. She glances at me, then back at the road. “What did you think?”

  I’m sweaty and uncomfortable, and I think about the way the girl looked at me. I hold my hand in front of the air vent, but it’s still warm, and the breeze that gusts in through the window is muggy. I finally say, “She seemed different from the other Peebs, I guess.”

  Now Angie stays quiet. We pass the main entrance to Pearson Brooke Academy on the right. You can’t see much of the school from here, but the sign itself is lit up with floodlights. The name of the school is carved into a giant granite block, and there’s a shield on the sign too: a coat of arms in the Pearson Brooke colors of purple and gold, with a Latin motto painted on it. I’ve never been on the campus, but that’s going to change this fall when I start the Pearson Brooke Arts Exchange Program. I wonder if that means I’ll see that girl again.

  “Well, I think she’s cute.” Angie sounds more confident this time.

  A shock runs through me, like static electricity. I don’t know what Angie wants me to say.

  “Jess.”

  There’s something strange about the tone in her voice. “What?”

  “I think she’s queer.”

  I stare at her profile. “You do?”

  “Yeah. She—she was flirting with me. I think.”

  Now I know what the strangeness is. It’s hope. “You want her to be queer.”

  “No, I think she really is. Like, I could feel it.”

  “She’s just a preppie straight girl like all the rest of them.” There’s a mean edge to my voice that I immediately regret.

  “What is with you? Did I do something to piss you off?”

  The question stings like a rubber-band snap against my skin. “Of course not, it’s just—”

  “Just what?”

  I rub my sweaty palms over my jeans. “I saw her steal some candy.”

  “What?”

  “I saw her steal a pack of the maple candy near the cash register.”

  “Why would she do that? She had a credit card.”

  A trickle of sweat runs from my hairline down the side of my face, and I swipe it away in irritation. “I don’t know why! I just saw it.”

  Angie’s shoulders are hunched forward now. She doesn’t look at me. “You must have made a mistake because that makes no sense. She’s a Peeb. She has plenty of money.”

  “Rich people steal all the time.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when she did it?” She sounds confused.

  My frustration is a wedge between us. I glare outside at the passing blur of Ellicott Park, which runs in a comma-shaped band of trees between West Bedford and East Bedford. To get from one town to the other the legitimate way you have to drive around the woods because there’s no road that cuts through. On the West Bed side, where Angie and I live, the public high school butts up to the park a few blocks over from my house. West Bed has potholed streets buckled by frost heaves, and small colonials clad in grimy vinyl siding, and intersections where the signs keep getting stolen so people are always getting lost and making awkward U-turns. On the East Bed side is the cute but overpriced village with the Creamery, all the historic homes that people think of when they hear “New England,” and Pearson Brooke Academy.

  “Jess, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know. It seemed weird. And it made no sense.” A light blinks in the woods as if it were traveling through the dark trees, and I remember that sometimes people go jogging there at night when it’s really hot. I’ve seen them before, running with headlamps on, like idiots.

  Angie lets out a dramatic sigh. “Well, that sucks. I finally meet a girl who might like me and she turns out to be a criminal.”

  The exaggerated despair in her voice almost makes me smile. “She’s not a criminal, just a shoplifter.”

  “I can’t date a shoplifter,” she declares.

  She’s clearly making fun of herself, and instantly the tension between us vanishes. “How were you going to date her in the first place?” I ask, teasing her. “Did you get her number?”

  “No. But hey, there’s fate, you know? She’ll probably come back and ask for mine. Isn’t that how it works?”

  “In the movies, maybe. For straight people.”

  “It can happen for non-straight people.”

  “You wish.”

  “It better!” Angie slows down and signals before she turns off Washington Street into our neighborhood. “Hey, I know what we should watch tonight.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to tell you. You just have to wait.”

  We spend the rest of the short drive fake-arguing about whether she should tell me, but I like surprises when they come from Angie. One year for my birthday, she framed her favorites of the comics I draw about this girl named Kestrel. It was really cool to see what she liked best, and to hear why. And last summer she took me to Boston Comic Con as a surprise, which is probably the coolest thing anyone has ever done for me.

  At Angie’s house, her parents have already gone to bed, though the muffled sound of the TV coming from their room suggests that they’re still awake. She goes to tell them she’s home, and I head upstairs to Angie’s room. She has a twin bed and a rollaway that’s usually tucked underneath, but her mom has already pulled it out and put sheets and a blanket on it for me. I can’t count the number of times I’ve slept in it. I pull some clothes from my backpack and take them with me into the bathroom to change. My shirt is damp as I peel it off, and my skin feels sticky. I sniff my armpits tentatively, but thankfully I only smell like deodorant. I splash some water on my face and try to stick down the unruly short hairs on the crown of my head, but I just cut my hair so it’s hopeless. I leave my bra on under the loose MIT T-shirt I brought to sleep in and pull on my blue plaid boxers.

  When I return to Angie’s room, she’s tugging down a pink tank top. She has taken off her bra, and she’s wearing boxers like mine, but hers are purple. She turns as I close the door behind me and smiles. “You ready?”

  For a second I can’t figure out what she’s talking about, and I’m almost overcome with self-consciousness: me and Angie in her bedroom, half undressed. Then I remember the movie. “Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

  Angie sets up her laptop on the floor, and we both lie on the rug on our stomachs in front of the small screen. There isn’t a lot of room; just enough for the two of us to stretch out next to each other. I grab the pillow from the rollaway and prop my arms on it. I like being in Angie’s room on Friday nights. I feel at home here in a way I never do at my own house. I start to get a little drowsy, and my eyes slide shut. I can smell Angie’s shampoo again, and if I move slightly to the right, a thick brown curl of her hair will brush my shoulder.

  “Hey,” Angie says, elbowing me in my side. “Wa
ke up. Movie’s on.” Angie uses her sister’s Netflix password because her parents won’t pay for Netflix, and besides, we don’t want her parents to know what we watch.

  It’s a romantic comedy, which doesn’t surprise me since Angie loves them, but I haven’t seen this one. It’s set in England and is about this woman who’s about to marry this guy, but to her surprise, she falls in love with her wedding florist. A woman. When I realize it’s about two women who fall in love with each other, I’m not sleepy anymore. I watch the unfolding of their romance with a pit in my stomach. Like any romantic comedy, the movie throws all sorts of obstacles in their path, but I feel a sense of dread. The odds aren’t good that it will end well. The curly-haired girl will probably go back to her man, or the lesbian could get hit by a car. At the end, the two women run toward each other through the traffic on a busy street, and I brace myself for tragedy.

  I glance at Angie, who is gazing at the screen with a frightening intensity, as if she could drink in these images all day and night. She licks her lips with the tip of her tongue and then briefly sucks her lower lip between her teeth. It’s wet and dark pink, shining in the light of the screen. Her eyes are fixed on the laptop as if it were the most important thing she’s ever seen, and when she inhales, her chest swells, causing the material of her tank top to stretch. Her shoulder, right next to me, is bare. The strap of her tank top could slide down at any moment; it’s already loose against her skin.

  Angie’s room isn’t as stuffy as her car was, but I am suffocating. The inch of air between us seems to hum like an electric heater turned all the way up. I force myself to look back at the laptop. I don’t even know what’s happening in the movie anymore, but I don’t ask Angie for a recap. I’m afraid to move. I’m afraid that I will move.

  Angie says dreamily, “See, it can totally happen for non-straight people.”

  I blink. The lesbian didn’t get hit by a car. She’s snuggling on a park bench with the other girl. I must have missed their happy ending.

  THE STREETLAMP CLOSEST TO THE TRAILHEAD THAT LEADS into Ellicott Park is busted, but there’s enough light from the neighborhood and the half-moon that it’s not too hard to see. I can make out the sign next to the trailhead; it originally read NO ALCOHOL ALLOWED, but now it says PORNO & ALCOHOL ALLOWED.

  It’s almost midnight. I snuck out of my house to meet Angie, who texted me ten minutes ago to say she was on her way. I zip up my hoodie and put my hands in my pockets. The heat wave broke a few days ago, and it’s cool out. Not cold, but cool enough to feel like fall is coming. Angie and I don’t hang out in the park that often. Everybody does sometimes, because there isn’t much else to do around here, but it’s been a while since we went.

  Finally I see Angie walking briskly down the sidewalk. When she arrives, she asks, “Have you seen anyone else?”

  “No. Are we meeting anyone else?” Angie told me everyone is going tonight, even Melissa Weiss, but I figured we’d see them in the park.

  “No, let’s just go in.”

  Angie brushes past me and I smell something unfamiliar, slightly floral. “Are you wearing perfume?” I ask.

  “Shh! Wait till we’re farther in.”

  Ellicott Park isn’t that huge, and at first it’s not even that dark. Ambient light from the neighborhood seeps through the foliage, gradually lessening as we move deeper into the woods. The trail is rocky in places, but it’s predominantly straight. At first the only noise is our footsteps crunching down the trail, but soon I start to hear dim sounds in the distance: voices, laughter, coughing. About ten minutes into the park we cross the wooden footbridge over the trickle of water known as the Bedford River, and that’s when we know it’s time to cut through the woods to the left. Angie switches on her phone’s flashlight, since we’re far enough into the park now that the neighbors won’t be able to see it, and uses the light to find the skinny trail that branches off the main path. This isn’t an official trail, but enough people have come this way to make it easily passable. It doesn’t take long before we find the group of West Bed kids hanging out around the glow of their cell phones.

  “Hey,” some of them say. I see Jordan Kelly and Courtney Alvarez first, and then I recognize Melissa at the back, hanging out with Lucas Branson. It’s all Angie’s theater friends.

  I sit down on the end of a fallen log next to Jordan, because it’s the farthest away from Lucas. Jordan does the light board and set design. Last spring Angie persuaded me to do tech crew with her, and I ended up spending most of my time painting sets with Jordan. He’s scribbling on his canvas sneakers, squinting at something I can’t make out.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He sticks his foot out and spotlights it with his phone to show me a pretty decent illustration of a guy holding a sword, slashing at what looks like an orc.

  “Cool. But you need a red marker for the blood.”

  “Blood! That would be awesome. Do you have a red marker?”

  “At home I do, but not with me.”

  “Shit. That would’ve rocked.”

  Nearby, Angie has taken a seat next to Courtney on a plaid blanket that I recognize from the theater props closet. Courtney has a joint in her mouth and is trying to light it with a lighter that won’t spark. Finally she gets it going, and in the burst of flame that illuminates her face I see that she’s painted on extra-thick eyeliner tonight to match her black lipstick. She inhales deeply, then coughs violently. She holds the joint out to Angie, who takes a tentative drag, then offers it to me. I think Angie smokes pot to fit in, because I’ve only ever seen her take a few hits, and she never gets high. I take the joint from her and the tip of it is soggy from Angie’s and Courtney’s mouths.

  I inhale, and it’s harsh. It burns the back of my throat and it feels like I’m sucking in fire. I almost choke coughing out the smoke, and Jordan unhelpfully pounds me on my back a few times.

  “Jesus Christ, don’t die,” Courtney says, grabbing the joint. The sizzle of the paper as she lights up again sounds the way the cells in my lungs feel.

  “Here,” Jordan says, handing me a bottle. “This’ll help.”

  I sniff it and the alcohol fumes practically burn my nostril hairs off. “Keep it,” I say, thrusting it back at him. He laughs at me and drops the bottle on the ground by his feet, goes back to drawing on his shoe. Angie is leaning in to Courtney, whispering something to her I can’t hear. My lungs still hurt, but I’m feeling better. I glance around the dark and try to figure out who else is here. I’m not going to talk to Lucas and Melissa, who are giggling together over Lucas’s phone. They’re probably rating guys on Grindr or something dumb like that. Jordan’s not really interested in anything but his own feet. I recognize a few other kids beyond Lucas and Melissa, but they’re not my friends. None of these people are really my friends, except for Angie.

  I pluck Jordan’s bottle from the ground and take a swig. It burns almost worse than the pot, but I manage to swallow it without choking. “Fuck, what is that?” I ask, barely able to talk.

  Jordan says, “Just vodka. Really cheap vodka.”

  “It’s disgusting,” I say.

  “Don’t drink it if you don’t like it,” Jordan says, and takes it away from me.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

  Jordan hands me the vodka again. It’s not as bad this time. I can get used to the burn. I hope it kicks in soon. I pull out my phone, but I have no reception in the woods. I scroll through my photos: Angie at the Creamery making a face at the camera; Angie glaring at me over a cup of coffee one morning at her house, full bed head on display; me and Angie at the beach the week before school started, the wind blowing the back of my hair straight up like a goofy black crown. Then there is a series of pictures of my latest Kestrel comic, taken to show Angie: a close-up on Laney, a growl on her face; a long-distance image of Laney and Kestrel running toward the woods; Kestrel stand
ing in front of the trees with the wind blowing her wavy brown hair back, hands fisted at her sides. I really like that one because I feel like it shows Kestrel’s courage. I worked a long time on getting her hands just right—not too clenched, not too loose. Fighting fists, not mad ones.

  I drink more of Jordan’s disgusting vodka and glance up to see what everyone else is up to. Melissa seems to be well on her way to getting stoned. Angie is reading her phone now. Courtney has gone over to some of the other kids, leaving the space on the blanket by Angie empty. I could go over there and sit next to her, but I don’t move. I feel self-conscious. I side-eye Jordan, but he’s still drawing on his shoe.

  My head is fuzzy.

  I hear footsteps coming toward us from the unofficial trail. I look over my shoulder and see the bright white beams of two phone flashlights. The beams move in a jerky motion, giving me a seasick feeling. I look away and catch sight of Angie. She has a weird expression on her face, like she’s trying to hide her excitement.

  The people behind the phones stop. They’re here. Their lights shine directly down at the ground, turning the dirt into multiple shades of metallic gray, leaching all the richness out of the fallen leaves. In the ghostly light of everybody’s phones, I recognize the newcomers. It’s the shoplifting Peeb girl and her friend, the blonde.

  Angie scrambles to her feet and says, “Hi.”

  —

  The shoplifter’s name is Margot, and her friend’s name is Ryan. There’s room for Margot on the plaid blanket beside Angie, but not enough for Ryan. She glances around, hesitates, then pulls off her jean jacket and delicately lays it on the ground between the blanket and where I’m sitting. Everyone gawks openly at Margot and Ryan. Ryan lowers herself onto her jacket, sitting cross-legged, and ignores them all.

  Ryan and Margot brought a six-pack with them, and they distribute the lukewarm beer among the people closest to them. The label is an illustration of the Boston skyline with the words WICKED PISSAH in a ribbon over the buildings. I take one, and the rest are gone in two seconds. Nobody offers them anything in return, and Jordan even pulls his cheap vodka closer to him, as if the Peebs might steal it. Of course, I did see Margot shoplifting.