ROSALIE
MONDAY, JANUARY 8
By the time I get to the school library during fourth, I’m practically shaking from overcaffeination and lack of sleep. The computer screen is crystal-bright. My right eyelid is twitching. I slide my flash drive into the port and wait for my English paper to load. I stayed up far too late banging it out on the family computer in the den. I need to start scheduling my time better, but I just can’t dredge up the motivation unless there’s a deadline breathing down my neck.
While my paper prints, I open up my email. The school-issued accounts are really closely monitored, so it’s mostly notes from teachers and administrators, redundant stuff from class and morning announcements. But there might be news from my theater teacher about auditions for the spring monologue contest.
When her name pops up in my inbox, the first thing I think is that I’m even more tired than I realized. I’m having waking hallucinations. The subject line reads BACK OFF, SKANK in shouty caps. The second thing is: Fuck me. She knows.
The cold dread from last night’s family prayer session turns to sharp blades of ice in my stomach. I hunch over the desk, wrap my arms tight around my waist.
When Carter told me he and Amanda had an arrangement, I wanted it to be true. Even after I looked her up on Facebook, saw all those pictures of them together, I wanted to believe that I wasn’t doing anything wrong, that even better, Carter was never going to get too attached to me, because in the end, he was meant to be with Amanda. When I told the story that way, it was perfect. But that’s all it was: a story.
The last sheet of my English paper falls into the printer tray, and I take my time making sure all the pages are there and in order before stapling them together. Then I let the cursor hover over the unopened email, bracing myself for what’s to come.
Subject: BACK OFF, SKANK
From: Amanda Kelly
To: me
Seriously, back the hell off. I don’t even know what you think you’re trying to pull, but spoiler alert: It’s not working. And if you keep this up, you’re going to have a whole lot more than an angry email to contend with. In case it never occurred to you, there are people in Logansville who care about my health and well-being. Who would do pretty much anything to make sure no one screws with my future. You think you’re messing with just me, but you’re not. You’re messing with the Kellys.
Also, hi. We haven’t formally met, so let me take a moment to introduce myself. I’m Amanda, Carter’s girlfriend of over three years. But that wasn’t really necessary, was it? You know exactly who I am.
And don’t think I don’t know exactly who you are. I probably should have reached out a long time ago, but you know why I didn’t? Because you’re so not worth it. But this anonymous texting thing is getting old. It’s boring. I’m bored. So now you have to stop. Let it be shown for the record, I’m asking nicely. Rosalie Bell: Please stop this immature, harassing, borderline criminal behavior.
If you have something else to say, now you know how to reach me. The normal way. Not hiding behind some pathetic private number like the coward you are.
If the texts don’t stop, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer next.
Happy Monday, beyotch.
—AK
I’m shaking when I forward the email from my school account to my Gmail. Of course Amanda’s furious. I’ve been fooling myself thinking that what I’ve been doing with Carter—even though it’s not what it looks like, even though I have every intention of slipping out of his life by graduation and leaving them to live happily ever after—wasn’t going to hurt her.
I delete any trace of her email from the school’s system before logging out. Then, I text Pau.
Clearing after school. Need to talk.
Four hours later, I’m leaving the pasture behind and crossing the woods toward our clearing. Today, I walk right past the tree with the hollowed-out trunk without stopping to grab a pillow. Pau and I never meet up on Mondays because of Youth Ministry, but this can’t wait. I have to catch the 3:45 bus back to Culver Ridge, but I have to see her first.
“Vrdi vrreed vreed,” I call.
“Peet-suh peet-suh peet,” she calls back.
She’s standing with her back pressed against a giant oak, lighting a cigarette. She’s still not wearing gloves, but she has a kelly green hat pulled down over her dark brown curls. Kelly green. Perfect.
“Fancy meeting you here on a Monday,” she says, grinning.
“I need you to read this.” I cut straight to the point, holding out my phone, and her face folds into lines of concern. “Here.”
Pau takes it. After a minute, her back slides down the trunk until she’s squatting against the ground. She looks up at me. “Shit.”
“I know.” I sit down next to her and press my fists into my lips until I can feel the skin bruise.
“You’ve been sending Princess Amanda anonymous texts? That’s pretty baller, Lee-Lee.”
“What, no! I don’t know what that’s about. The point is, she knows who I am.”
“Yeah.” Paulina takes a deep drag, then tilts her head back, blowing the smoke straight up into the sky. “You had to kind of figure she was going to find out eventually, right? No offense, but Carter’s not exactly covert ops material. And you have to think he’s probably done this before.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Cheat, you know? You’re probably not the first. I’m sure Amanda has eyes all over the Northern Panhandle.”
“Shit.” I take back my phone and shove it into my coat pocket. “It’s just I haven’t heard a word from her all this time. I thought, I don’t know. I didn’t think she knew.”
Paulina fiddles with the laces on her clunky brown boots, but doesn’t say anything.
“If she knows about me, she could find out about us. What if she keeps digging? This could be really bad.”
Paulina’s silent for a minute. “So what are you going to do?” she finally asks.
“Write back to her, I guess. Tell her it’s not me with the texts. Start being more careful with Carter.”
Paulina shakes her head. “You can’t keep seeing him; don’t you get it? She’s not going to let this go.”
“You know that’s not an option. We can’t have this same conversation—”
“I know,” Pau cuts me off. Frustration crackling across her skin, her hand flies up in the air between us. A piece of ash soars off the tip of her cigarette, and I flinch.
“Sorry.” Her voice is quieter now, but there’s something hard and biting lodged beneath her words. “But this isn’t okay. We need a new plan.”
My spine starts to tingle, and I wrap my hands tight around my body. I think the words I can’t bring myself to say out loud: There is no other plan.
It’s my third session with Michael, a twitchy, clammy-skinned FOC counselor dedicated to making gay kids straight again. Michael used to be SSA, the church shorthand for same sex attracted; now he’s married to Evie, a nice woman in our congregation. They have a three-year-old daughter. Ex-gay ministry worked for him. He’s going to make it work for me.
We sit across from each other in a small office in the basement of our old church, in our old town. It’s already April, but it’s still freezing down here. I tug at my shirtsleeves, wrap my hands in the soft pink cotton. Our first two sessions were what he called “talk therapy,” but he’s not a licensed therapist. My parents say a regular therapist can’t help me. Not with this. In order to redirect my attraction from girls to boys, I have to trust the church and our methods.
I suck in a sharp breath. Michael’s holding a picture in front of me, something torn from a magazine. It’s a grown-up woman, naked, one long, stilettoed leg wrapped around a tall metal poll. You can see her boobs and everything. She’s staring straight at me with eyes that look half asleep.
“What does she make you feel?” Michael asks. Flecks of spittle collect in the corners of his mouth.
“Um, nothing.” I look down at my lap, embarrassed. She’s old enough to be in college, probably older.
“Does your stomach tingle?” he asks.
“No.” I lift my arms and wrap them tight around my chest. I don’t have boobs yet, not like that. Hers are huge, way bigger than my mom’s. “I just feel weird.”
Suddenly, Michael’s grabbing my hand and plunging it in a bowl of ice water on the desk to my left. I gasp. It’s so cold, my hand feels like it’s on fire. I try to jerk away, but he holds my arm in a vice grip.
“Look at the picture,” he commands. He’s holding it too close, right in front of my nose. I peek over the top of the page and up to his face. It’s red and splotchy. There’s sweat collecting where his forehead ends and hairline begins. I whimper.
“Look at it, Rosalie.”
I stare at the too-close photo until my eyes cross and my hand feels like it’s going to crack off my wrist. Tears leak down my face and drip onto my jeans. Finally, he releases my arm and drops the picture to the floor. I clutch my hand to my chest.
“Here,” he says gently, handing me a soft yellow towel. I wrap it around my hand as Michael holds up a new photo. It’s a black-and-white ad for Wrangler jeans. In it, a man is running across a dirt road at the edge of a wheat field. His shirt is torn open and flaps back in the wind, revealing a muscly chest. His hair is long for a guy and the wind kicks it out in all directions as he runs. I fix my eyes on his hair and wrap the towel tighter around my stinging hand.
“No,” I say to Paulina, my voice firm. “I’m going to handle this. I’ll write to Amanda, explain I’m not sending the texts. I’ll tell her I’m ending things with Carter. And then I’ll talk to him. We’ll find different places to go. We’ll be more careful.”
Paulina’s mouth twists into a deep scowl. She stabs her cigarette butt into the ground like it’s the enemy.
“This girl means business, and she’s got lawyers and shit. If whoever’s bothering her keeps it up, she’s coming after you. What are you going to do if those texts keep coming?”
“I’ll cross that—” I start to say, but Pau holds up her hand again, cutting me off. We never fight like this. The flash in her eyes makes me shiver.
“Cut Carter loose,” she says. “Please. We’ll figure something out with your parents.”
“There’s nothing to figure out with them,” I practically spit. I jump up and grab my backpack, slinging it roughly across my shoulders. “This isn’t about logic or being reasonable. FOC doctrine is nonnegotiable. I’m sorry I can’t be a better girlfriend, but you’ve known the deal since we met. If you can’t handle a few more months like this, then you need to tell me. Do you want to break up?”
“No.” Pau stands and grabs at my arm, pulling me to her. Every nerve in my body lights up. I can feel her breath hot on my face. “You know I don’t want that.”
“Then you need to trust me.”
For a moment, Paulina doesn’t say anything. In the silence, I can hear our hearts beating together: ker-thunk, ker-thunk. I think of Lily, and a little piece of me dies. Soon, there are tears stinging my eyes, and I break her hold to wipe roughly at them with my coat sleeve. “I have to go. I’ll miss my bus.”
“Rosalie, I’m sorry.” Before I can turn back toward the woods, Paulina is pulling me into her again. “I do trust you. We’re going to get through this. We’re pros at that.”
I let her hold me for a minute, breathing in and out into her thick tangle of curls. Paulina’s parents may not be Dan Savage–level supportive, but she’s out at home, and it’s fine. Her older brother Ramon is gay, so he kind of paved the way. She’s lucky in a way I can’t even imagine—and she knows it. For years, she’s been my rock. Without Pau, I’m not sure I’d be even close to okay. I’m not sure I’d still be here at all.
“I really have to go.” I tilt my chin up, and the press of her lips is a reminder that after everything, I’m still me. I’m alive. For a moment, I let myself sink into the kiss. And then I turn into the woods and start jogging toward the parking lot. I have eleven minutes to get to my bus.
• • •
I’m winded in no time. I’m good on a bike, but running is not my friend. I stop to catch my breath. Behind me, twigs crunch. I spin around, and a two-tone blur like piano keys or lane markers on a highway disappears behind a tree halfway back to the clearing. The crunching stops. Images of Pau and me kissing flash across the back of my eyelids.
“Vrdi vrreed vreed.” Even before I finish the call, I know there won’t be a reply. Paulina’s coat is brown.
Part of me wants to go back, and part of me wants to pretend I didn’t just hear footsteps or see a white-and-black streak disappear into the trees. I glance at my phone. My bus leaves in nine minutes. It doesn’t matter what I want. After yesterday’s transgression with Dad, being late to Youth Ministry isn’t an option. I’ll have to sprint.