Realizing
It is 8th grade. This is the time for self-discovery and growth as each student starts to taste what growing up feels like. I figured I would get a map to guide me through this period of change, but instead, I seem to be getting more and more lost with every minute that passes. The conversation topics amongst the girls consist of one thing. Every girl in the school can only seem to rave about which boy is the cutest, which boy is the fittest, which boy is the smartest. The halls are filled with the scent of jasmine and rose and citrus perfume all mixed up together into a headache-inducing haze as every girl adjusts their hair and applies more mascara in hopes of ensnaring the heart of the boy that they swear they love. These same boys are the ones that make fart noises in class and are more focused on the next football game than the girls practically begging at their feet.
My best friend is a girl. Her name is Clara and she doesn’t care what other people think. Clara likes girls and she knows it. She has a dark pixie cut that swoops over her warm brown eyes and two moles that sit spread over her upper lip like the eyes on a smiley face. She is tiny and slender and she makes me want to buy a perfume (she smells like lemongrass and sleep.) and shakily apply eyeliner (her eyes are big even without a wing.). Clara’s hands move like birds fluttering over a vast plain, quick and skillful. We lie together for hours staring at the ceiling and she tells me whatever new fantastical story her beautiful brain has concocted this time. Sometimes she cries into my arms and I tell her that everything will be okay, and I feel like the girls in the hallway.
Backfiring
A piercing cold seeps into my bare feet as I stand on the concrete floor of the garage. My mom turns the engine off and rolls down the window. “Hi, lovey.”
“I’m bisexual,” I blurt out. The bowl of mac and cheese in my hands feels laughably out of place.
My mom sighs and starts packing up her stuff to leave the car. “Do you even know what that means?”
My cheeks are burning. “Yes,” I squeak. My mom had always been supportive of LGBT rights. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I felt a piece of my heart crack and slowly fall, digging into my lungs and making my breath shudder in and out.
“Is this the new trend? Feelings like those don’t last, lovey. You’re too young to decide that for yourself. I know you think those feelings are right, but it’s just a phase--”
I don’t hear any more because I turn around and run back inside. I sit in the bathroom and practice putting on makeup to cover my blotchy cheeks and thinking of boys because I know now that I’m not allowed to like girls. When I slip out of the bathroom and into the kitchen to get a drink, my mom is making dinner. We both pretend like nothing happened.
Repressing
I go through boyfriends like cups of water. In the beginning, I’m thirsty. I see a tall, blonde, cute glass of water and I take a drink. At first, the water is cool and refreshing and I go running back to take another sip. The thing about water, however, is that it fills you up quite quickly. I should be satisfied by the time I’ve reached the bottom. I drink these boys up to the last drop and then my mind wanders back to those two tiny moles and the glass slips out of my hand, shatters against the floor, and demands its hoodies back. In one fell swoop, I’ve both broken a boy and I’ve emptied him. My throat is parched, begging me for a sip of water.
Breaking
I know exactly what will sate that thirst. She held my hand under the desk in 8th grade. She kissed me on the dance floor at our sophomore year winter dance, and butterflies exploded in my stomach. The butterflies were beautiful, red and green and yellow. I watched her face light up as I gave her a Valentines day present, and kissed her goodbye and hello and anywhere in between. I had everything that I wanted at my fingertips, ready for me to grab on tightly. Rather, that’s what I thought. Eyes bore nervous holes into our backs, burning our hands so that we couldn’t hold them. Whispers and rumors fluttered around us, and I found myself turning my cheek if she tried to kiss me in the hallway. I was not allowed to like girls. My mom had hammered that into my brain that one night in the garage, and if I ever wanted to be liked by my peers, I had to fit in. Clara wasn’t afraid to stand out. She needed someone who could walk with her in the hallway and kiss her in front of everyone that I needed so desperately to fit in with. I took her glass, full to the brim with the clearest water I had ever seen, and I let it slip through my fingers and shatter into a million pieces at my feet.
Even after all this time, I’m still thirsty.
Comments