SEVENTEEN
Millie and Lucy came out in the eighties, which Millie has often pointed out to me was an easier time to be gay than previous decades, but it was also when it was still entirely possible that if you thought a girl liked you, and you were a girl, it could be, as Millie said, “complicated.”
Like Millie actually got beat up once for liking a girl, by the girl’s two older brothers. I mean, she still dated the girl, in high school, but that part clearly sucked.
So, obviously, in some sociopolitical ways, liking someone of the same gender (let alone having a gender that doesn’t neatly fit into the binary) is easier now than it used to be. And in other ways it’s just endlessly complicated. Because no matter what decade you’re in, it’s still HIGH SCHOOL.
High school goes out of its way to live up to its reputation of being a place that makes everything miserable, in my humble opinion. Every choice in high school feels like you’re in a horrible reality game show.
Like all night, after I apologized to Millie and Lucy and then explained what happened and then took Monty for a walk, I was wrecked with indecision about what to do next. I mean, was I supposed to text Gilly after she and her dad dropped me off? Or was that whole thing her saying that she and me were friends? Like maybe she liked me in a way that we might end up being friends because that’s what happens when people go through strange and awkward situations together?
I mean, Danny and I became friends when I accidentally superglued myself to his desk. Maybe that’s not the same thing.
I did tell Danny what happened and he said I should text Gilly, but I don’t think either gay male or Chicago rules apply to any relationships in Greenville.
Then I started and erased two texts to Gilly which said something along the lines of: Hey! It’s Anne! Hope your ankle is okay. Would be totally cool to hang out. Do you wan t to?
Plus there was the whole Berry thing. What did Berry mean? What was complicated? Was Berry, like, with. . .Gilly at some point?
Was that just me projecting? Should I definitely not say anything to Berry about “rescuing” Gilly?
The next morning Gilly wasn’t in class.
Berry showed up in a set of coveralls solidly splattered in pink, with pink paint in her hair and on her nose.
“Were you painting this morning?” I asked.
“Oh.” Berry looked at her arms. “Yeah.”
“You paint in the mornings? At the mini putt?”
Berry nodded, then, with a little furrow of her brow, changed the subject. “I heard you saved Gilly from the woods yesterday after she fell off her horse and sprained her ankle.”
I plopped my books down on my desk. “HOW do you know that?”
She sprained her ankle? My stomach flipped. Was she okay?
“Small town,” Berry noted. “I also heard you were in your socks.”
“Okay, that is super detailed.”
“So, what happened?” Berry slid into her seat.
“It’s actually a long story.” I pulled out my geography book, “It was a whole horse thing.”
“George?”
“Yes! How do you know her horse’s name?”
“That’s what she always names her pets,” Berry said just as Mr. Hempher stepped to the front of the class and started writing our assignments on the board.
“All right, everyone, pipe down,” he warned.
Berry opened her book and began turning the pages with great concentration and precision.
Curiously Tanner and Sarah were also both absent, which honestly was a kind of magical blessing. Maybe they were helping out Gilly with her sprained ankle? Maybe they were no longer needed to be the villains of my story now that I had taken my place in Greenville High Broadway fame?
No. Obviously.
But it was nice to at least have a lunch in peace. I lingered over the pizza in the cafeteria line, but chose yogurt instead because I’m not a fool. Once we’d settled into a lunch spot on the steps, I slipped in my big, curious question. “So, uh. What was complicated? With you and Gilly?”
Berry was sitting cross-legged on the steps with her skateboard on her lap, wheels up, a bag of chips in one hand. She spun the plastic wheels on her board as she munched.
“We were friends, I guess.” The wheels spun under her fingers. “When we were little. Like grade two and up. We used to hang out and stuff. I used to horseback ride too, and we had lessons together.”
Gilly and Berry used to. . .ride together?!
“Then she started being friends with Tanner and Sarah, that whole crew. And we just kind of. . .stopped being friends.”
“Wait, what? Why didn’t you say that? Like earlier.”
“I mean, isn’t it kind of obvious I had some friends when I was a kid?” Berry crumpled her chip bag and shoved it in her pocket. “I told you what they’re like.”
She snuck a gauging glance my way. I think my mouth was hanging open.
“Whatever,” she said hurriedly as she scrambled to her feet, “it’s fine.”
“Sounds like it sucked, though.” I tried to catch Berry’s eye. She bent down to tie her bootlace.
“Yeah, well, a bad friend isn’t a friend, right?” Berry straightened and tossed her skateboard on the walk in front of the steps. Then she hopped down the steps two at a time and leaped onto the board in a flow of motion. With a solid pump and a flick of her foot, she zinged around a flock of stray cheerleaders before looping back.
“That sucks,” I said, picking up where we left off.
“Yeah,” Berry said, kicking her board up into her hands. “I mean, we were twelve or whatever. It’s just, like, weird. I guess. So.” She spun her board on its nose. “Do you still want to hang out or. . .?”
I jumped to my feet. “Berry! Oh my gosh of course I want to hang out. I mean. Of. Cou rse.”
Berry let her board drop to the ground. “Sure.”
Suddenly I wanted to give Berry a hug. But she picked up her board and held it across the front of her body. Like maybe she didn’t want one.
I shoved my lunch stuff in a bag. “Let’s hang out tomorrow, okay?”
The bell rang. “Sounds good.” Berry waved as she headed off to band practice. “Break a leg!”
“You’re saying that to someone who will probably be in a flying apparatus.”
“I know.”
The fact that it was first day of rehearsals, to me, explained Mr. Davidson’s formal attire, which I had been admiring since I spotted him in the hall that morning; a waistcoat with matching blue coat and pants, and cowboy boots. I thought he looked pretty impressive, and honestly, I was sad I hadn’t gone for my green A-line go-go dress with matching tights (which would have been more Peter Pan).
The rehearsal was in the music room, a big wooden room shaped like a shell that smelled like sweat and reed. I was there early, because that’s my deal, and the rest of the cast trickled in as the minutes ticked by after last bell, everyone looking nervous. I did notice that Minnie Delain, the girl who was going to play Tinker Bell, arrived at rehearsal with her own wings, which she carried under her arm and then, gently, placed on the seat next to her.
“Wow! Those are really cool,” I cooed, transfixed by their rainbow glow.
“I made them myself,” she said, touching one of the gossamer edges with a finger.
“Coat hangers?”
“Craft wire.” She turned. “You think coat hangers will hold better?”
“I mean—”
“Hello! Hello!” Mr. Davidson strode in with a tray of green sparkly treats, holding them up on his shoulder like a fancy waiter. “I assume everyone is ready to participate in the magical art of live theater?”
Clearly.
By the time we all had a treat and a copy of our scripts, we were still about five cast members short. Mr. Davidson looked at his watch.
“Well,” he said, grabbing his clipboard, “where are our Wendy and Hook? I wonder. Who else are we missing?”
I was going to suggest that maybe Gilly was out because of her ankle, when the door opened. Tanner, Sarah, and John, and another kid I recognized from the auditions stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Davidson?”
Mr. Davidson stood. He made a move to his plate of treats then pulled his hands back. He turned and took in the group standing at the door.
“You’re late,” he said, looking at his watch again.
Sarah stepped forward. She was wearing her Our Town dress. Which to me was a weird choice, but maybe to Sarah in that moment it wasn’t an Our Town dress. “We’re protesting. The play.”
“Shit,” Minnie whispered.
The other kids squirmed in their seats.
“Okay.” Mr. Davidson tapped the toe of his boot on the floor. “I’m not clear as to exactly what that means.”
“We are not participating in rehearsals until the”—Sarah paused and looked up at the ceiling like something was written there—“inequity of this situation is addressed.”
Mr. Davidson sighed. Like the air was coming out of his suit a little. “Are you all quitting the play?”
“No.” Tanner had maybe the first serious look I had ever seen on his face. “We’re just protesting. So. We’re not quitting.”
This made me legit wonder if Tanner really did want to play Hook.
“Well, then.” Mr. Davidson gave a nod. “Thank you for letting us know, Sarah, your group’s intentions.” He moved to see who else was in the hallway. “You may all go.”
Tanner and Sarah exchanged glances. Sarah pressed her lips together.
“Mr. Davidson?”
“Yes, Sarah.”
“We will have our demands to you shortly.”
“Very well.” Mr. Davidson let out another sigh. “Thank you.”
As they disappeared down the hallway, the rest of us were finally free to quietly freak out, since we’d all been sitting there frozen for the past five minutes.
Mr. Davidson dropped into his chair, unbuttoning his top button. “All right.” He tapped the copy of the script with his finger. “Go home and memorize your lines and we’ll be ready to go for our next rehearsal. Okay? We’ll figure it out.”
Chairs shuffled and squeaked. Minnie picked up her wings and tucked them back under her arm.
“Bye, um, Anne?”
“Yeah, bye, Minnie?”
“Yeah.”
I felt cemented into my chair. I’d grabbed a treat earlier and now it was melting in my sweaty palm.
I mean, with all that was happening, what was I wondering?
I was wondering if Gilly knew about this and why she hadn’t texted me.
“Anne?” Mr. Davidson’s boots clicked across the floor. “You all right?”
“Oh, I’m just. . .” I pulled out my skates. “It’s just too bad.”
“Well,” Mr. Davidson muttered as he rewrapped his treats. “That’s Greenville for you, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
Mr. Davidson shook his head, like he’d suddenly remembered who I was. He put on a warm smile. “It will be fine. Just a little fuss.”
“Protest is an important part of any democracy,” I said as I pulled my skate lace tight.
“Well then, Greenville is very democratic today.” And with that, he scooted his treats into a canvas bag along with his scripts.
As I got to my feet, he turned in the doorway. “Don’t let Lynde see you on those in the hall.”
“I won’t.”
“And tell your mother I said, ‘Hang in there.’ Tell her I said Greenville’s bark is worse than its bite. Tell her I say that as a queer who’s lived here all his life.”
I didn’t know what that meant until I got home, where I found Lucy and Millie were on the receiving end of democracy at work.
“What’s happening?”
Lucy was sitting with her laptop on her lap, a glass of wine in one hand, half-empty. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, swirling her wine.
“Tell her.” Millie got up and pointed me to the seat next to Lucy.
“This is school business,” Lucy said, lowering the cover on her laptop.
“It’s her school too,” Millie said, guiding my shoulder. “Show her.”
I sat down on the couch. Lucy drained her wine and then opened her laptop. “I’m not reading you who wrote these,” she said. “This is confidential.”
I didn’t need to see the emails to know who they were from.