The Inside of Out (11 page)

“Same old same old for me,” he started casually. “I actually did hook up with a college kid I met at Luxe Lounge, back in June.” He nodded at Sean. “But he was gone by July. Thank God.”

His laughter seemed to deflate him. I found myself holding my breath. This was the first time I'd ever seen Jack Jackson without his swagger in effect.

“My parents are still dragging me to church,” he said, and as he shifted in his chair, I could make out a tiny silver chain around his throat, glittering in the candle's glow. “I had to do another prayer session with Reverend Tom. Two hours this time. Probably would have been longer, but finally I just pretended to cry and told him that he'd purged me of my sinful ways so he'd let me out.”

He was smiling wryly, making his words all the more jarring. Of all the people in this room, Jack Jackson was the last I'd have expected to come from a conservative family. He was so open. So confident.

“I wish I hadn't pretended now,” he said. “Because I have to sit there in church every week and act like I'm listening to the sermons, like they're really
purging
my soul.” Jack waved his hands like he was at a tent revival. “And when we leave the service, Reverend Tom always shakes my hand extra-long with this
look
in his eye. Like . . . pride. Like I was his big win against Satan. And it's bullshit. But I can't say anything, can I? And it's almost worse that I'm bi. Because I
could
just wait until marriage, find a nice Christian girl, live the way they want me to. But I'd still be lying. I'd still be different.”

There was a moment when it seemed like he'd go on. That he'd stand, strengthened by our presence, press his hand to his heart and resolve to be honest at home and at church. But instead, his head sank as he passed the candle back to Sophie.

She closed her eyes before her turn, and I went from holding my breath to feeling it harden into cement in my chest.

“Everything's good at home,” she said. “I'm grateful for that. And for my friends.” She smiled like it hurt. “It's just hard to stay calm when people at school say things about me. Call me . . .”

She pressed her lips together, unwilling to voice words that should never have been voiced in the first place. But I could see her mentally reciting them, her eyes unblinking, bracing herself against them. My own stomach clenched
at the memory of how it had felt for me—not just the first taunt of the day but the sixth, twelfth, twenty-fifth. Bullying worked in increments: annoying, then stinging, then cutting, then scraping bone, then plain-old scar tissue—numb, but ever-present.

But what I'd faced was “Crazy Daisy.” “Psycho.” “Smurfette.” Nothing. I wasn't sure I even wanted to know what Sophie was hearing day after day—the smallest, pettiest part of me wishing she would just pass the candle. Instead, she turned to me and then to Kyle, the two newbies, straining for brightness as she filled us in.

“I went out a couple of times with a junior last year. It was a mistake. He was a jerk. I didn't let it go too far, thank goodness. But I did tell him that I was bisexual. And since then . . .” She played with the elastic band on her braid. “It's just been really hard. People—
guys—
seem to think they can say whatever they want to me. And I haven't figured out how to handle it.”

“Punch them in the face,” I blurted. “Or hot coffee to the crotch.”

“We don't interrupt during this part,” Sean said gently, sinking me deeper into my swivel chair. He winked. “But I totally agree.”

“I'm not really . . . comfortable with anger?” Sophie gazed at the ceiling. “My mom says I need to work on it.” Her eyes drifted down to me. “She's a psychologist.”

“Right,” I said,
touchy-feely time
making a ton more sense in context.

The candle traveled across the table to Kyle.

“Um, I'm Kyle. I'm a freshman?” He blushed furiously and itched his nose. “And you already know that? Okay, um.”

We all smiled encouragingly.

He tapped his hands on the desk and drew a breath.

“I came out to my mom and dad a few months ago. And my sister, Lily. She was there too. Um, and they weren't surprised? They said they'd always known and they loved me or whatever? And it was . . . pretty cool. So.”

“That's
awesome,
” Sean said. Everyone nodded except Jack. He was staring down at the table, forehead knotted. I wanted to grab his hand, but wasn't sure I had the right.

“They suggested I join the group, so . . . here I am.” Kyle shot the candle to me like an air hockey puck.

My turn. Um.

“I'm actually doing kind of okay, apart from the fact that the whole school hates me. Except you guys!” Everyone smiled back except Raina. “So . . . yeah.”

I inched the candle away.

“Can I make a request?” Jack asked. “Feel free to say no to touching-slash-feeling, but this is
at least
the second time you've referenced punching someone in the face. I for one would love to hear more about that.”

I did feel like I owed the group my dues, a secret to drop in the pot, even if mine was in a less valuable currency.

“Okay. Well. Back in eighth grade, Hann—”

I stopped. It wasn't cool to talk about her behind her back. But there was no way to tell this story—or, really, any of my stories—without her. So . . .

“My
friend
was dating this guy, Max. They'd been together
for like a month, but they hardly saw each other. He was fine, fairly hot, fairly nice, she was sort of
meh
about him.”

Oh right,
I realized.
Because she's gay.

“Anyway, she begged me to try going out with
his
best friend, so I did. For one date. We all went to Max's house and rented a movie and . . .” I groaned, curling up in the chair. “I
really
should have known when Max turned off the lights and suggested his friend sit next to me. Max started kissing Hannah instead of watching the movie and then his friend just . . . jumped me. We had spoken like two words to each other. I mean, hand up my shirt, mouth open, coming
at
me. I basically, like, kissed his teeth while fending off his fingers, and I was like, ‘Whoa, buddy, slow it the hell down,' and instead of being remotely gentlemanly, he got all mad and said, ‘You should be
grateful
.' And as I'm pondering
that,
he comes back at me! For another attempt! So basically, yeah. I punched him in the face. I mean, what else are you gonna do? Broke his nose. He bled all over Max's sofa, it was awesome. Max and Hannah got into a big fight about it and broke up, but I think she was just looking for an excuse anyway. And then Max moved to Texas two months later. Which I don't think was related.”

I gazed at the candle, smiling from the memory—then, abruptly, remembered that there was a room of people listening, their eyes fixed on me with a mix of amusement and horror.

“And . . . that was my first and only kiss, The End.”

“Cool story.” Jack shot me a wink.

“Thank you,” I replied, blood racing through my body in an
embarrassed gush. I'd actually just told that story. Out loud. To near strangers.

“I'm sorry that happened to you,” Sophie said quietly, and everybody nodded.

“Oh, I . . .” I wrapped my arms around myself. It was funny. I'd always thought of it more as something that had happened to
him,
bloody nose and all that, rather than something that had happened to me—something that could have been a lot worse. But the moment I looked up into everybody's sympathetic eyes, my own started to prickle. “Yeah, thanks.
Any
way.”

Since Raina was the only one left, I passed her the candle. She took it with a nod, thought for a second, then said, “Nothing today.”

Now I was the one scowling.

Raina clicked out the candle and put a fresh legal pad in its place.

“Okay. We've got . . .” She glanced at her watch with a frown. “One minute to decide on next steps vis-à-vis homecoming. Daisy? Suggestions?”

Earnestness had crept into her tone. Not a good sign.

“I . . . think we should all
brainstorm
?” I clasped my hands on the desk. “And then come back to the table . . . and put our heads together . . . and spitball some ideas . . . and figure something out.” I was watching the clock over the door, hoping for a reprieve in
three, two, one
—

The bell rang.

Raina stood to go. “You heard her. Everybody come back next week with ideas.”

I was taking a heady breath of hallway air when Raina stopped me with a ninja grip to the elbow.

“That includes you, Daisy. We
cannot
be the club who got homecoming canceled.” Her face was inches from mine, rigid with panic. “We have to be better than that. Or all of this was for nothing.”

I didn't disagree. I just didn't have any bright ideas.

I didn't have any bright ideas, in fact, until I was in bed staring at the glow stars on my ceiling fan, Sophie's dulcet voice ricocheting through my nerve-addled brain.

“Community farm project . . . that's her baby . . .”

The community farm was my mom's baby too. Which, if you thought about it, made me its sister.

I sat up, clutching my comforter, translating my mom's blahblahblahs into actual, pertinent words.

“I think this next meeting will do it,”
she'd told me at dinner, while I was debating whether my sneakers were too embarrassing to wear to school again.
“All we need is a signature and the land is ours.”

The land.

The flat, vacant plot of land across the street from my school. Big enough for a football field, several stages, a dance tent . . .

Big enough for the biggest, gayest homecoming Palmetto had ever seen.

Friday at five, Adam was waiting for me in a corner booth at the otherwise empty Moonlight Coffee Shop, clacking away on his crippled laptop. The duct tape was gone, but now it had a binder clip stuck to the corner.

As I slid into the booth, Adam raised one finger and kept typing with the others.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his keystrokes so forceful that the booth began to shake. He looked incongruously passionate, like a concert pianist playing a concerto only he could hear.

A waitress wearing frosted pink lipstick made her weary way across the restaurant, water pitcher and menu in hand. Her name tag said
Becky
.

“Nothing for me.” I rested my chin on my hand, gesturing grandly to Adam as she filled my plastic cup. “I'm just here to be interviewed for an
article
.”

The only reaction I got was an eye roll before she returned to her lonely post at the counter.

Adam slammed his finger down on one last key and pulled the computer lid shut. I was about to remark that he'd probably caused the screen damage himself with his
virtuoso
typing style, but then he grinned, and I found myself
incapable of doing anything but grinning stupidly back. He had a startling smile, sudden and breathless, like a little kid who's been handed a bunny. His glasses slipped a little, and I had to remind myself that it would be inappropriate to reach across the table and slide them back into place.

“Okay, hi,” he said.

“Hi yourself.”

“You sure you don't want anything?”

“Nah.” I hadn't brought a wallet.

“My treat.”

I spun so fast the booth squeaked. “Actually, Becky, some coconut cream pie and a ginger ale, thanks!”

The waitress sighed a yes.

“And I'll take some more . . . um . . . coffee.” Adam stared into his empty mug as if unsure of what he'd just consumed.

“Is this another school assignment?” I asked. “Am I the follow-up to your award-winning cat boutique exposé?”

“Something like that.”

Adam fussed with his phone, then slid it away. There was a red dot flashing. Was he already recording? I smoothed my skirt in readiness.

“My assignment this week was to report on a routine government meeting,” he said, his pen tapping against the table in a syncopated rhythm, making him sound like a beat poet. “You had to come back with a story, no matter how boring the context. When I drew ‘School Board Meeting,' I wasn't sure I was going to be able to stay awake long enough to find anything worth writing about. But then . . .
you
showed up, thank you.”

I wasn't sure if that last bit was to me or to Becky, who was filling his mug, because his eyes were locked on mine. Hot-glued.

“You saved the day,” he said, setting down the pen. “For me, anyway. I was sitting there mentally outlining a story on the death of high school wood shop, tying it into faltering American exceptionalism and the decline of the working class.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah. But then you stood on a chair. And there was my story.”

“Glad I could help.” I would have kept staring at those eyes of his—rich brown framed in black—but my pie had arrived, and man it looked good.

“So. Daisy.” Adam knocked back his coffee, then recoiled with a grimace. I handed him my water and he downed it in three sips. He shook his head, recovering. “Wow.”

“The coffee's not good here.”

“I'm realizing that.”

“I was surprised you asked for more.”

He sniffed his cup as if actually considering another sip. “Caffeine's more of a need than a want at this point. And . . .” He tilted the mug to display the branded logo:
Moonlight Coffee Shop
. “You'd think?”

I nodded in sympathy. “They should call it the Moonlight Mozzarella Stick Shop. Not that catchy, though.”

“Ha!”

It took me a second to realize that that was Adam's laugh—a single “Ha,” as if he were imitating the sound of
someone laughing. This was a thing with him, then. I had to take another bite to keep from giggling.

“Are they good here?” he asked, head craned like he was dubious.

“Um . . .
incredible
. And I'm picky.” I put down my fork and leaned closer. “I can always tell when a mozzarella stick is going to be a disappointment. There's something a little sad and soggy about it. Not quite golden enough. Not enough steam. Or
too
much, so the inside is runny and bubbling over and the outside is, like, null. These are always—
always
—perfect.”

The diner was unnaturally silent when I finished my testimonial. I turned to see Becky watching me with wariness bordering on fear.

Adam looked unfazed.

“Okay!” he said, picking up his pen and click-click-clicking the end of it. “So you have strong feelings about mozzarella sticks.”

“All fried foods, really.” I needed to stop talking, or all of this was going to go in the article.

“What else can you tell me about yourself? Hopes, dreams, favorite band?”

He was probably kidding about that last one, but it was the easiest to answer. “Kudzu Giants.”

His face dropped. “You like them?”

“Uh, yeah, who doesn't?”

“They're all right. I guess.”

How had I gotten
that
question wrong?

“Hopes and dreams, then,” Adam went on, pulling out a notepad. “Career goals? College plans?”

“Hannah and I are going to apply to a bunch of schools in major cities and pick one to go to together . . .”

Adam looked confused. “Hannah?”

“My best friend.”

“Ah.”

He'd started writing, so I added, “Hannah von Linden. Lowercase
v
. She came out a few weeks ago, actually. If you wanted to interview her too, I could set that up?”

His mouth twitched. “That's okay. You were saying?”

“Right. So we'll room together in LA or London or New York . . . maybe San Francisco, although I've heard it's weirdly cold there. And then, after graduation, I'll probably try out a bunch of different professions to see which one calls to me. Right now, I'm thinking I'll start with architecture.”

Adam opened his mouth but no reply came out.

“As an intern,” I clarified. “You need an advanced degree to actually design buildings, I assume. So I'll just learn the ropes at some firm and then maybe try out zoology? Or costume design. I'll have to see what I'm really passionate about.”

“Makes . . . sense?” He cleared his throat. “Obviously gay rights is an issue you feel passionately about.”

Adam's voice had abruptly deepened, like he'd prepared that segue in advance. Was this his Reporter Voice? Like Batman Growl?

“Yes,” I answered, setting down my fork, and damn if my voice didn't just get deeper too. “But it's about more than gay rights. It's about the basics of how we treat each other. If you're telling a group of students that they don't have the same rights as all the other students, then you're creating an
unlevel playing field, and
that's not what America is all about!
”

That was loud. Adam pretended not to notice.

“Was this something you decided to tackle on your own?”

“No, I'm speaking out on behalf of my school's LGBTQIA Alliance. We're pretty active—”

“How many members?” he interrupted.

“Six,” I calculated. Then I added Hannah. “Seven.” And Natalie, I supposed.
Blah.
“Eight.”

He blinked, pen hovering.

“Eight,” I repeated firmly. “And we've got a lot of supportive friends and family behind us.” I didn't want it to sound like we were powerless. “Like hundreds. Of supporters.”

“But the idea? To fight the rule . . . ?”

I smiled. “Yeah, that was me.”

Scribble scribble. This was fun.

“Can you share any details about your plans for the alternative homecoming event?”

“As a matter of fact, I can!” I stole a bite of pie, a mini-celebration of what I was about to reveal. “We've found a local nonprofit that's eager to help. They've got a venue for us to use, free of cost.” I leaned in to whisper. “It's hush-hush at this point. As you saw at that meeting, there are a lot of people in the community who would love to shut us down, so I really shouldn't talk specifics.”

“Got it.” Adam's eyes narrowed playfully. “So what's the name of the nonprofit?”

Mine narrowed back. “Nice try.”

He laughed again, that single, sudden, “Ha!”

I giggled involuntarily, then took a bite of pie to stop.
What was going
on
with me? If this was the start of a crush, it needed to stop, posthaste. Whatever Adam's type was, it certainly wasn't an average-except-for-her-odd-hair high school junior of middling intelligence, no discernable talents, and questionable charm. I could see him going for a goth feminist-theory goddess. Or a world-weary singer in a smoky, run-down lounge. Or even a perky blond cheerleader— although he'd hate himself for it a little.

Adam flipped his notepad over and started filling another page. His fingers were ink-stained and restless. I pictured pressing my own hands against them so they would settle down.

Adam stopped scribbling and peered up at me. “I want to ask . . . and please forgive me if I'm prying.”

My heart thudded for no particular reason. I nodded for him to ask.

“How long have you been out of the closet?”

Oh, right. That.
“I'm straight.”

“You're . . .” His eyebrows shot up. Then he sank against the banquette, scratching his cheek. “Okay.”

“Is that bad?” I forced a smile.

He took his sweet time answering.

“Huh.” He squinted at his notepad as if deciphering a code on it.

“If you want, you can put that I'm asexual.” I peered around to see what he was writing, but he angled the page away from me. “It's part of the QUILTBAG spectrum?”

He blinked in confusion. “So you're really straight?”

“Last I checked.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Um?”

“Not for the article. I'm just . . . yeah. Curious.”

For somebody curious, he sure was avoiding eye contact.

“Why?” I leaned over the table, putting on a fake-sultry drawl. “You interested?”

He went beet red. Jeez, was it
that
embarrassing a prospect?

“Yeah, no, I, uh.” He swiped his hand through his hair. “I was just wondering how he felt about all of this.”

“My boyfriend doesn't feel anything.”

Adam started to write that down, his shoulders sinking.

I squinted at him. “Because he doesn't exist.”

He glanced up. “Right. Oh! No boyfriend, then.”

Adam's lips parted like he was about to say something else. He didn't. A few seconds passed, and I realized if I didn't do something, we could be stuck in this freeze frame forever, so I glanced at my wrist as if there were a watch there.

“Is this enough for an article?” I grabbed my bag, pulled out a random receipt and scribbled on the back of it. “I actually have to run. But here's my email. And my number. If you need me, for whatever reason.”

I felt instantly stupid for offering it. Should I have waited till he asked?

“Thanks.” He rose when I did. “You off to a planning meeting?”

“No,” I said. “Well, sort of. A football game. I need to . . . um . . . research homecoming conventions? I've managed to avoid going to any school sporting events my entire life, so, yeah.”

“Research.” His mouth teetered on the edge of a smile.

“Exactly.”

For some reason, I didn't want to bring up QB. Probably because he was humiliating. Plus I'd just said I didn't have a boyfriend, which was
true,
but also complicated by the fact that I'd be an official Pirates wench-on-the-sidelines for the next three hours.

“High school football. Wow.” Adam acted like I'd said I was going to see a Sumo match at my local dojo. “I've never been to one of those either.”

“Really?” Call me hypocritical, but that struck me as weird. “You
did
graduate high school, right?”

“Yeah, but in New York. Brooklyn,” he clarified, his chin rising on the word. “It was a magnet school. Not the most
sporty
environment.”

The way he said
“
sporty
”
made me think of a Ralph Lauren catalog. He shuffled, put his hands in his pockets, and I realized he was waiting for something. An invitation?

“Do you . . . want to come?” As soon as I said it, I felt the diner tilt infinitesimally, like I'd upset the balance of the universe.

“I . . . uh . . .” He watched me and I thought for a few fraught seconds that he might say yes—but then his smile curdled into a smirk. “I'm kind of done with the whole high school thing at this point. But thanks.”

My exterior remained placid while, inside, I shriveled into a raisin.
Wow
did I misread that situation.

He slid twenty bucks under his coffee mug, massively overpaying, and motioned for me to walk out ahead of him.
I stomped off under my own steam, not turning back lest he see my mortified face.

But as we stepped out onto the humid street, the palms above us whispering with the breeze, he cornered me for a handshake.

“Thank you, Daisy,” he said, his glasses sinking in the heat. “That was a very entertaining interview.”

My scowl melted despite my best efforts to keep it in place. Why were we still shaking hands?

“Glad I could oblige,” I said.

“‘Oblige,'” he echoed, drawing the word out like a song. He backed away with a grin, his fingers slipping from mine. “Such a great accent.”