CHAPTER SEVEN

When I check my phone after practice the next day, I see a text from Kev in the group chat: So what’s the next step in the strategy?

I open the thread and scroll through the usual videos and memes that I missed during basketball ’til I get to his text, and as soon as I do, a reply from Talia pops up.

The pool, she says.

Oh yeah. The outdoor one right? When? How we getting there? His texts come rapid fire, each sentence in a new one. He’s the double—no, quadruple—texter of the group. Though I’m not one to talk.

Kev you are wayyyy too peppy rn, I type back.

Lmfao mom got us coffee this morning before Parker’s surgery, he says.

OMG! That was this morning?!

Yaaaa. Everything went good. We’re already home. They’re totally out of it. It’s hilarious.

I know Parker must be happy now that their top surgery is done, and Kev, too—even though it’s a pretty straightforward procedure, he was still a little nervous about whether they would be OK. I send a celebratory string of emojis, and the others chime in with congrats and well wishes.

We were wondering if your mom could maybe drive us in the van? Talia asks after the celebration GIFs have tapered off.

Ohhhh, Kev says. Idk. Depends on stuff with Parker. I might be in rotation to take care of them. What day?

We all haggle over scheduling for a little bit. Talia’s family planned a trip for the coming Fourth of July weekend, so we can’t do then. Bri is going to the same art camp as Sam—they’re just in a different class for their age level—so they can only do things after three during the week. But finally, we land on Wednesday afternoon next week.

I put it in my Google calendar so I won’t forget, then send a selfie I took yesterday to show off my new haircut. Everyone showers me with compliments, which makes me feel even better about my new look. I can’t wait to accessorize it with big earrings.

As the bus rattles through the University District, it starts to fill up with students getting out of summer classes. I don’t know why anyone would voluntarily go to school during the summer, but maybe it’s different once you get to college. Maybe if you’re studying something you actually care about, you actually want to be at school.

There’re a couple groups of kids my age, too. The University District isn’t only a college kid haunt; the Ave is wall-to-wall restaurants, coffee shops, and shops selling everything from secondhand clothing to books to New Age spiritual accessories. My friends and I hang out there sometimes, wandering in and out of stores, and I’m guessing that’s what these groups were doing, too. One group all has bubble teas; the other has shopping bags with clothes peeking out the top.

Bubble Tea group is loud, sprawling across the seats at the very back of the bus. I’m sitting on the bench seat at the middle, facing the doors there, so I glance at the group from time to time. I can hear them through my headphones, but it doesn’t bother me. They’re obviously gay, with various pride pins on their bags and a few kids with brightly dyed hair. About half the group is Asian, with a couple white girls and two guys whose race I can’t really tell.

One of the girls is gesturing wildly while she talks—clearly telling a story. As the others laugh and interrupt, another girl catches my eye. She’s wearing a Harry Styles concert tee—good taste!—and sparkly silver Converse. She gives me a little smirk and eye roll, as if to say, Oh my god, my friends are so extra, and I make the face back.

When she turns back to her friends, I scan the small backpack she’s wearing. There it is—the pansexual pride flag. My heart beats a little faster. We just made significant eye contact. And she’s pan. And really cute.

She glances back at me. I feel the blush instantly, but she smiles, so I smile back. I guess she wasn’t bothered by me staring.

One of her friends scans me up and down, then elbows her and whispers something in her ear. The girl snorts and shakes her head.

Ugh. My chest tightens, anxiety creeping in. I know I have no idea what they just said, but my mind is already filling in the blanks: her friend told her to go for it, and she’s not interested. She’s less than not interested—she’s actively repelled by the idea.

I stare down at my phone, breathing through the anxiety, and when they all jump up to get off at their stop, I don’t look up.

As the bus rattles away from the curb, I gaze out at the university buildings, but I’m not really seeing them. Talia is probably messaging Rose right now and hitting it off. It was so easy for her. She didn’t even need the strategy. She met someone when we were just sitting in a salon.

I’m happy for her. She’s my bestie and I love her, and I want her to find someone who knows how great she is. I just . . .

I thought this would be easier for me, too. I barely have to look at someone and I get a crush. But so far, I’m striking out again and again, and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

The walk from the bus stop to my house is especially beautiful now that everything’s in bloom, and I pause to sniff a few yellow roses on the massive climbing bush on the neighbor’s fence. The girls on the bus keep popping into my mind, but I try to bat the thoughts away. Pansexual Girl is just one girl. There will be others.

That reminds me. Pool Day’s coming up.

Once I’m home, I bound up the stairs and knock on the door to Ella’s room.

She opens it. “Yes?”

“Can I borrow your suit again?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“You didn’t even wait for my answer last time before taking it, and you left it hanging wet on my door.”

“I was running late! I didn’t have time to wait for your answer.” I cross my arms. “And it was wet because I handwashed it for you.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t care. You can’t just take my stuff.”

I groan. “Come on! You have a whole other suit!” But I can tell from the stubborn look in her eyes that she’s not giving in.

“It’s still mine, and I don’t have to lend it to you if I don’t want to! House rules, remember?” She shrugs, her face set in a smug expression that infuriates me. “Get your own.”

I sigh. As annoying as it is—and as petty as she’s being—Ella is right. When someone in the family sets a boundary, we have to respect it, even if we don’t understand it. House rules.

“Fine.” I glare at her. “See if I lend you anything from now on.”

She shrugs and closes the door in my face.

I guess I’m going swimsuit shopping this week.

Talia needs alone time to save up her energy before she spends the weekend with her family, and nobody else feels like going shopping. I know I need to bring someone along so I don’t get distracted and walk out with a bunch of new clothes instead of a swimsuit, so on Saturday, Mom and I take the light rail downtown. It’s slightly embarrassing to be hanging out with one of my parents in public. But my mom actually has a sense of style and doesn’t try to control what I wear for the most part, so it’s OK.

“So, what are you thinking?” she asks as we flip through the racks at one of the department stores. “Seems like the high-waisted bottoms are still going strong.”

“Yeah, I like that look. But I don’t want to match them. I want like a patterned top and a solid color bottom or vice versa.”

She pulls out a rainbow tie-dye top and teal bottoms, and I give a thumbs-up. The brighter the colors and louder the pattern, the better. I’ve never been known for my subtlety.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m heading into the fitting rooms with an armful of options. There’s an item limit, so Mom stands outside the door and hands them over one at a time, taking my rejects in return.

Swimsuit shopping isn’t my favorite thing, but it isn’t my least favorite thing, either. Most of my friends hate it with a passion, which makes sense with dysphoria and other body-image issues. And it’s just plain uncomfortable to stand in a room and look at yourself over and over while you decide whether the thing you’re trying on is both comfortable enough to wear for hours and cute enough to allow other people to perceive you wearing it. That’s the worst part for me. I always notice if what I’m wearing doesn’t feel right—if it pinches too much, or the fabric is scratchy, or something about it is just off.

Finally, I find the one: a pink leopard-print top and metallic silver bottoms. It screams I AM A FEMME LESBIAN, and also, crucially, feels great to wear.

“This one!” I swing the door open and strike a pose for my mom, who claps dutifully.

“Hey, nice choice,” a voice says, and I look over to the right. There’s a girl standing there wearing the same suit, smiling at me.

“Hey! Yes! You too!” I finger-guns at her. She’s really cute. Did I just finger-guns? I put my hands down immediately.

She’s still smiling at me, and then—“Check this out!” Another girl emerges from a fitting room and does a twirl in a different suit.

Her attention shifts. “That looks so good!”

I shut the door and change quickly, replaying the moment over and over in my mind. Was she flirting or was that just a compliment? Was it funny to her that we picked the same suit or does she think it’s a good pick regardless? Does she think it looks good on me? Does that mean she finds me attractive?

I grab the suit and rush out of the fitting room. I can’t look at her. What if she’s looking at me again? What if she’s already back in her stall? It was probably nothing, just a compliment, and I’m not going to risk repeating what happened at Pride. And the bus. Summer love strategy? More like summer heartache strategy.

“Hayley!”

I stop short. I’m already up at the cash registers. How did I get here?

Mom speedwalks up beside me. “Slow down for a second. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I may be old, but I’m not oblivious.”

I scuff my toe along the linoleum, making little squeaking sounds. I haven’t told anyone in my family about the strategy yet. Not for any reason; it just hadn’t come up, but I might as well now. “So me and Talia have this thing.”

My mom is quiet. She’s used to my tangents.

“After Sherika . . . we made up this whole plan. To help each other find girlfriends this summer. Or dates. They can be any gender; Talia’s bi. Anyway, we came up with this strategy to go to all these places where people usually find love in movies, but I keep getting rejected, and it sucks.”

Shoppers bustle around us, and my mom places a hand on my arm, guiding me gently out of the way into a nearby aisle. “I’m sorry, honey,” she says.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. The nervous energy from my interaction with that girl is wearing off and now I just feel heavy. “That girl was cute, but I couldn’t tell if she was flirting, and it was just so awkward.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Mom squeezes my arm. “You got nervous.”

I nod, fiddling with the lipsticks lined up on the display next to us.

“You said this strategy includes going places. Where have you been going?”

I tell her about all the spots we’d picked, and our goals, and what happened at Pride. By the time I’m done, she’s smiling.

“I love that idea!” She catches my look and changes course. “It’s hard to get rejected, though. I didn’t know that was why you cut your hair.”

When my parents saw me after the salon, I’d played it off like I’d planned to do it. As far as I could tell, Ella hadn’t said anything about seeing my disastrous attempt at self-styling. And Sam just looked at me and said it looked cool.

I shrug. “It’s whatever.”

“No, it’s not. Listen, I know I’m just a run-of-the-mill straight lady, but that girl didn’t know what she was talking about. I’m sorry she made that assumption about you.”

“Thanks.” I scuff one of my shoes against the linoleum floor.

“I know from what you’ve told me that there are a lot of ideas and opinions out there about what it means to look or be gay, but the only thing that matters is how you feel.”

I wish it was that easy, that I could just flip a switch and not care about what other people think, but Mom’s words feel good all the same. She opens her arms and I step into them for a hug.

“Shall we go get you that suit?” she says into my hair. “And maybe get some milkshakes on the way home?”

“Yes, please.”

She gives me another tight squeeze, and then we head up to the cash register. I keep my eyes forward the whole way. I don’t want to run into that girl.