17
Comfort Zones
“Tilt your chin up,” Zoey instructed. “You’re the Queen of the Fairies, remember? I need you to look proud and like, a tiny bit horny.”
I winced, but tilted my chin and gave proudly horny my best shot. “Like this?”
She peeked around her canvas. “Nailed it. Thanks again for doing this. I can’t believe my model flaked at the last minute to stay at Burning Man.”
I tried to talk without moving my lips. “Wasn’t Burning Man weeks ago?”
She shrugged. “Take enough drugs and apparently you never have to leave. You know you can relax, right? It won’t mess up the painting. Besides, this is just a practice study. I want to test how you look in the light.”
“Thanks.” I massaged my stiff jaw. “I’ve never sat for an artist before.”
Besides the art she showed in galleries, it turned out Zoey made the bulk of her living off commissioned paintings. Yesterday she’d called in a panic because the woman who’d agreed to model for a commissioned piece had bailed, and Zoey’s deadline was coming up. She’d begged me to sit for her, promising the painting was a tasteful take on Edmund Spenser’s poem “The Faerie Queen,” a request from a UT English professor. The fact that Zoey thought I was second-string fairy material and she wanted to hang out again was enough to overcome my shyness.
She’d instructed me to meet her at the Tite Street Artist Collective, where she rented work space. I’d looked it up and found out Tite Street was the name of the street in London where Oscar Wilde once lived. Naively, I’d thought, what a nice literary allusion. Then I’d arrived and discovered it was more of a lifestyle commitment. As far as I could tell, the Tite Street Artist Collective was single-handedly keeping Austin weird. I’d popped over here after finishing school, and from the moment I’d arrived, I’d felt like a chicken accidentally let loose in a peacock coop.
“Are you sure none of this distracts you?” I waved at the courtyard, where a man covered in paint kept yelling “No!” at his canvas and shaking it, right next to a circle of people smoking a hookah, who were each taking turns nodding and puffing out ideas: “make it avant-garde but also normcore,” “miniature, but like Koons, but for pets.” In the fountain, a topless woman wearing a mermaid tail sunbathed and splashed while chain-smoking.
“Nope,” Zoey said cheerfully. “Helps me concentrate. Careful, your leaves are slipping.”
I hastily tugged the miniscule leaf top Zoey had given me in place over my chest. It had turned out Zoey’s and my definitions of “tasteful” were not the same, which I’d realized when she revealed the costume I’d be wearing in the painting, a series of stitched-together fabric leaves and a floral tiara. Apparently, the costume had been specifically requested by the English professor, who I now suspected was less a fan of sixteenth-century poetry and more a fan of fairy porn. I patted the leaves down over my nipples and reminded myself for the millionth time I was doing this to be a good friend.
“So tell me about this library conference,” Zoey said, squinting back and forth between me and the canvas. “I want to hear about your moment of triumph.”
I shook out my hair like I imagined a fairy queen would. “I wouldn’t go that far. But I did make it through without fainting or throwing up. And Logan seemed happy.”
She arched her eyebrows. “I’m sure he did. I watched that press conference y’all did to announce you were a couple. That man was looking at you like he wanted to take you right there on the podium. Should’ve rated the news NC-17.”
“Zoey!” I blushed and looked around, but the sunbathing mermaid didn’t seem scandalized.
She put the wrong end of her paintbrush in her mouth, spit it out, turned it, and chewed. “I’m just saying, you guys put on a hell of a performance.”
I groaned. “That’s exactly the problem. Life cursed me with an overly romantic brain, and it’s getting harder to separate what’s real and what’s part of our act.”
Saying that out loud felt freeing. I didn’t have many people to talk to—Zoey and Lee were the only two who knew Logan and I were faking it, and Lee wasn’t exactly beating down the door to reopen the subject. “I’m constantly telling myself to snap out of it. Meanwhile Logan is completely unbothered. To him, all I am is a way to win. When we were out having drinks the other night—”
“Wait. Just the two of you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“At a bar?”
“This hole-in-the-wall he loves.”
“So no press?”
“Definitely no press. Not even any voters, apparently. Logan wanted to celebrate in private after my speech.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.” But she wore a smirk that said there was definitely something. “Please continue.”
“Well, he opened up and told me how his last relationship fell apart and almost cost him an election, and after that, he quit dating. Apparently he’ll start again after he’s achieved all his lofty goals, whatever those are.”
“That sounds like a lonely life.”
I couldn’t help the tinge of bitterness. “Maybe after he’s finally become president of America, he’ll ask out another perfect heir to a Connecticut political dynasty.”
“Oh, I’m loving that fire in your eyes.” Zoey’s paintbrush was moving a mile a minute. “You know what, this painting’s going to be too good for my client. I’m getting it hung in a gallery.”
I was definitely going to hang in some rich pervert’s man cave, but I’d processed that and made my peace with it. Right now, all I could think about was Tinsley the Harvard-educated heiress, the leggy Rockets cheerleader, and the string of women in between. “Zo, do you think—” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. Zoey and I probably weren’t close enough yet for me to ask a question like this, but my gut told me I could trust her. I took a deep breath. “Do you think people believe Logan and I are together, or do you think they’re secretly laughing at the idea behind our backs?”
She set down her paintbrush. “What makes you ask that?”
I tried to shrug nonchalantly. “You know. There’s the way he looks and his commanding presence and the fact that he blazes through rooms like a comet. And then there’s me. I’m more of a...dwarf planet.”
“If you’re asking me whether I think you make the world’s sexiest opposites-attract couple, then yes, I do. If you’re asking if I think you’re pretty or interesting enough to date him—a question I hate but forgive because I’ve been there—then my answer is, Alexis, you’re lovely and perfect. Don’t listen to the haters on Twitter.”
There were haters on Twitter? Nope, not going there. “Thanks, Zo. That means a lot. But...you don’t think it’s weird because of...how accomplished he is? You don’t think people are saying, what’s that rising-star politician doing with that...non-rising-star normal person?”
“You don’t think you’re accomplished?”
I laughed uncomfortably. “I mean...not like him.”
She frowned. “I’m suddenly a lot less concerned about you and Logan and a lot more interested in why you don’t feel good enough.”
This had spiraled into too-vulnerable territory. I waved a hand. “You know what? Never mind. I’ve just been thinking about how I’m climbing closer to thirty and it would be nice to do something that left a bigger mark on the world, like Logan and Lee. But it’s not a big deal. Forget I said anything.” I focused on the circle of hookah smokers, who’d moved to the lying-on-the-ground-staring-at-the-clouds phase of the creative process. They looked quite peaceful. Be more like the stoners, I admonished myself. For once in your life, relax.
Zoey was quiet for so long I figured she’d gotten lost in painting, but suddenly she said, “Back to Logan’s feelings. I know I like to tease you—and I stand by the fact that he looks at you very longingly on TV—but you’re the one who’s living this, not me. If you think Logan’s unavailable and it’s important to protect your heart, then do it.”
I nodded. “Thanks. I do think he’s—”
“But.” She held up a paint-splattered finger. “I’d hate it if the way you saw yourself colored how you think other people see you. If that makes sense. Just—don’t discount people’s feelings because you’re used to discounting yourself.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s almost like you’re engaged to a therapist.”
She winked. “Annie’s upped my armchair therapy game. I’m a hot commodity here at the collective.”
I comforted myself with the thought that there was no way I had weirder problems than the paint-covered man who was now quietly sobbing in front of his canvas.
“You know what I can’t get out of my head?”
Zoey’s tongue stuck out a bit as she concentrated. “What?”
“There was this librarian at the conference who asked for help fighting a book ban. I read the book and she’s right. It’s not inappropriate at all. It’s really quite educational.” Truthfully, the book was so open and honest about sex that I’d learned a lot. I’d spent an hour last night combing through it, murmuring, Huh, so that’s been normal this whole time and Oh, that’s what you call that thing. Which was a) something I would take to my grave, and b) more proof that the old methods of shame-fueled sex ed were not only ineffective but produced twenty-seven-year-old women who had to turn their whole lives upside down to reclaim their sexual power after being spurned in bed. What parent would wish that upon their child?
“I’ve been wracking my brain to come up with solutions for this librarian. All I can think is maybe Logan’s campaign could start a petition or organize a talk with the author. But it feels too small.”
“Why’s the book banned?”
“Well, it’s called Sex Is Not a Dirty Word, and it treats sex like it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But Gabby’s district—that’s the librarian, Gabby Bui—teaches abstinence-only. They’re saying it’s inappropriate for kids to read about their own changing bodies. It’s benign stuff, but people are going after all kinds of books these days. It’s gotten so bad the Library Council’s anti-censorship task force can’t keep up with all the requests for help.”
Zoey threw down her paintbrush so hard it clattered on the cobblestones.
“Whoa.” I startled. “Everything okay?”
She shook her head, chlorine-green strands flying. “We can’t let this happen. Those kids deserve shame-free sex education.”
“You’re totally right,” I said, eyes widening. “I just had no idea you’d feel this strongly.”
She ran her hands through her hair and took a deep breath. “As a bi woman, I’m sensitive to anyone being made to feel shame over their sexuality. That’s not something I take lightly. And I’m sick and tired of hearing about books kids need—not just queer kids, but all kids—being banned, especially here in Texas.”
“That makes total sense, Zo. I agree and I’m sorry I didn’t think about that before bringing it up. Do you want to be involved in my petition?”
Zoey had a faraway look. Suddenly her whole face brightened and she snapped her fingers. “Forget the petition. You’re right, it’s way too small. We’re doing a protest.”
My stomach dropped. “A what?”
“A public rally.” She must’ve read the look on my face. “Don’t worry, we do it all the time. I swear, these days I go to one a week. They’re always a good time and they always make the news. Half the time they even move the needle, which as you know is high ROI when it comes to protesting.”
I did not know that because I’d never been to a rally before. I thought back to what Nora said, that love was political, whether you acknowledged it or not. I added to that: simply existing was political—taking up space in the world, on bookshelves.
“When you say ‘we do it all the time,’” I asked cautiously, “who’s this we?”
Zoey waved a hand at the courtyard. “The Austin art community. A free speech issue? They’re going to be all over it, trust me. And I have a friend over at the Austin Queer Caucus who I know would get her network on board. They’re a force—always standing up for people’s rights. They’re amazing.”
I gulped. “It sounds like this could turn into a big thing.”
“No, don’t worry. We have it down to a science—the permits, the participants. It’s practically paint by numbers. You just worry about rounding up the librarians.”
Could we actually pull this off? I was nowhere near what anyone would consider a leader. I’d spent a comfortable—if lonely—life in the background, and my resolve to be a new Alexis felt outmatched by this idea.
“Please?” Zoey pressed her hands together. “Just a tiny baby rally in front of the capitol. It’ll be great.”
As she stood there with her wide eyes full of hope, my heart filled with affection: for her, for Gabby and her schoolkids, for my own kids at the library. And the love made me feel brave.
“Okay,” I said, and she whooped. “Just a very small, tame group marching down Eleventh Street. Mild chanting—no air horns. And only tasteful signs.” I glanced down at my barely there leaf top. “Actually, scratch that—only subdued signs allowed.”
“Ah,” she squealed, rushing over to hug me. “Thank you! I promise, we’ll be so small and subdued, you’ll have zero regrets.”