The Inside of Out (2 page)

“Hey girls,” she called.

“So you're officially out?” I whispered. Hannah shrugged. “Can I tell her?”

“Um.” Her mouth got really small. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Hey Mom, guess what.”

Mom's head rose above the trunk of her vegetable-oil-powered Mercedes, her gray/blond ponytail tumbling over one shoulder.

“Hannah's gay!”

“What? Wow! That's—excellent!” Mom said, her eyes cutting to me, then back to Hannah. “Good for you!”

I grinned like a maniac, hoping Hannah was seeing how easy this all would be—how she
really
could have just told me as soon as she got here this morning. But Hannah seemed intent on the driveway, hair swinging so I couldn't quite see her face.

“Still picking me up tomorrow?” I asked, mainly to change the subject.

“I actually have a tennis thing in the morning. But after school, if that works?”

“Of course!” I chirped. “See you tomorrow.”

As she pulled her Honda away from the curb, I waved, lifting my chin while the rest of me started to sink.

Everything was normal. Not normal—amazing. Hannah had come out at last. So, okay, we wouldn't be walking into school together the first day of junior year. She had a tennis thing. Not a big deal.

But when her car rounded the corner and vanished, I had the weird sense that she wasn't driving home. She was driving away.

I looked down and spotted two ugly sets of initials in front
of my feet, a lopsided heart scrawled between: “DBS
NEB.” I turned back to the house, daydreaming of a jackhammer obliterating that square of cement once and for all.

At one in the morning, I was still awake, fighting with my pillow. Did Hannah
really
feel like we matched? It wasn't like we'd ever been identical. But when she'd taken a perverse interest in country music, I'd sucked it up and bought us festival tickets. When she got into photography, I'd found her a camera and posed for photos. We weren't a pair of shoes—more a wallet and clutch in the same shade of red.

We went together.

Navigating the throng zombie-marching into school the next morning, I wondered, as I did every year, if there was any chance I'd undergone a miraculous transformation that would cause everyone to turn and marvel at how gorgeous or impressive I'd become.

“Smurfette!”

Alas.

Two steps out of the marsh-scented humidity and into the climate-controlled hallway of Palmetto High, QB Saunders spotted me. He always spotted me, even with his eye-line blocked by slightly larger football buddies. Whatever you might say about QB, he was a good-looking guy, especially now, at the end of summer and the start of team training—chiseled, dimpled, bronzed, like he'd been bred in an alien lab to become homecoming king and later destroy humanity.

“SMURFETTE!”

I suppose all the attention might have been flattering if it weren't the verbal equivalent of Chinese water torture.

I kept walking but he called again, hands buried in the pockets of the plaid hunting jacket that served as his daily uniform, no matter how meltingly hot it was outside.

“Smurfette! Still your name, right?”

He was referring to my hair. I suppose it made a little sense back when my whole head was blue, although the real Smurfette had blond hair. So. And this coming from a guy nicknamed “QB” who played
wide receiver
on the football team.

“Call me Handy Smurf.” I slid my bag off my shoulder and searched for my locker assignment. “I learned carpentry over the summer.”

QB's mouth fell slack. “Wait, for real?”

Before I could reply, some poor freshman kid walked by—and QB shoved him over. Onto the floor! I muttered “
Ass
hole” into my locker—number 235, only a few steps from QB's, yay—but then heard the freshman saying, “Thanks man, sorry 'bout that,” as if he'd tripped and QB had helped him up. Pathetic.

Okay, I supposed it was possible he'd
actually
tripped and QB had
actually
helped him up. Whatever. QB was probably just showing off for . . . whoever he was currently staring at, past my shoulder, blue eyes wide like a baby seal in a PETA ad.

I couldn't help but glance over. And then regretted it.

Seven lockers down, Natalie Beck was taping her schedule into her locker door, manicured nails clicking against the metal. Back turned, her auburn ponytail swung from shoulder blade to shoulder blade like a pendulum.

The sight of her was such a shank to the gut that I almost didn't notice QB's giant friend Pete creeping up behind me.

“D-D-Daisy.” Chuckle, snort. “QB asked you a qu-qu-question.”

Ah yes. The stutter routine. It was a seven-year-old joke. Dusty. Stale. Nobody was even laughing. But it still managed to send flames racing from my ankles to my cheeks.

“Come on, man,” QB said uncomfortably, mad that his own joke had been shown up by a creakier one.

Even without looking, I could tell Natalie was watching. Before she could chime in, I slid my locker shut and walk-fled to homeroom.

Shake it off
.
Twenty-one more months of high school and they are out of your life forever.

As much as I resisted renting QB and Natalie space in my brain, I couldn't help but wonder about the scene I'd stumbled into. QB had looked downright tragic. They must have broken up. After two years.

So at least one thing had changed over the summer. No—two!

Between
bonjour
s and
je m'appelle
s with jittery freshmen in French 1, I wondered how Hannah's first “out” school day was going. I'd called her before I left the house to see if she wanted to meet up after her tennis thing, but she said she'd be fine. I hoped she was right.

On my way out of the classroom, Prof Hélène stopped me.

“Daisy Beaumont-Smith,” she read from the class roll, pronouncing my name as “Dizzy Beaumaw-Smeeth” even though she was only French Canadian, not even French French. “I'm curious. You're a junior, yes? And yet you've chosen to take basic French this year?”

“Yep. I did Latin 1 in eighth grade, then Spanish 1 and 2, so I thought it was time to give French a shot.” She blinked.
I went on. “Everyone says that to really become fluent in a language, you have to live there. So I'm going to become conversational in every language and then travel the world and become fluent that way.”

Hannah was conversational in German, so we had that covered.

“That's a very . . . interesting plan, Dizzy.”

I'd heard the word “interesting” enough in my sixteen years to know what it really meant. I sighed, said
“Merci,”
and headed out the door before she could correct my pronunciation.

As I navigated to next period, I scanned my schedule. Yep—one class with Hannah, AP bio. I despised lab reports, and my B-minus average in physics last year had been agony to maintain. But I knew she'd be taking it, so I'd signed up. I only wished we had more classes together, that I didn't have to go through so much of my day alone.

I spotted her on the way to the gym, headed down to our annual first-day-of-school Club Fair.

She nodded soberly as we took to the stairs. “So what's it going to be?”

For a serial hobbyist like myself, club life made school life bearable. If you'd asked me last week, I'd have declared for the Palmetto Foodies. But now I had other ideas.

“Drama?” Hannah suggested. “Parapsychology?”

I waved my hand at the mere mention of last year's club. “They were just a bunch of debunkers.”

“Still have the gear?”

“The EMF meter's in the garage somewhere.”

“I'll hunt ghosts with you anytime.”

I smiled at her lie. The idea of preppy Hannah holed up in an abandoned mental institution for two minutes, let alone an entire night, was ludicrous. Frankly, it didn't sound that great to me anymore, either.

“It's the Foodies, then.” Hannah whapped my shoulder. “You know how I knew? Every time you came over for dinner this summer, you asked my mom what restaurant the meal was from and tried to guess what spices the chef—”

“Actually . . .” I interrupted gently, watching her from the corner of my eye. “I was thinking the Alliance?”

“Which Alliance?”

“The Rebel Alliance.” Hannah looked blank. I smiled, nudging her. “Is there more than one Alliance in this school?”

“No, I . . .” Hannah shook her head. “Wait, I'm legit confused now.”

“I was thinking maybe
both
of us could check it out?”

“
Oh,
” she said, her face going pale. “Right.”

At the doorway to the gym, a bustling mecca of booths, banners, and bored kids, I stopped to whisper, “Are you not out, Han? Am I reading this wrong?”

She scanned the room. Tugged peevishly at her hair. “No, I'm out. It's . . . yeah. Let's go say hi to the Rebel Alliance.”

With arms looped, we sauntered past 4H, Green Thumbs, and the Football Boosters. When we passed the Homecoming Committee table, Natalie Beck peered up at us, eyes darkening as if we owed her a goat for crossing her bridge. Hannah tensed, but I lifted my chin and tightened my grip, marching us straight to the gayest booth in the room.

Not that it was all that gay. The Alliance's folding table was festooned with a miniscule rainbow banner and a laminated sheet of paper bearing the name of their club that you couldn't read until you were standing right in front of it. At the table were two girls dressed so differently and sitting so far apart that I wondered whether the school had stuck two groups together to save space.

I knew the girl on the left, a senior. Raina Moore. She was one of the few black kids in my World History class last year, where she'd entertained everyone by picking fights with the teacher whenever he voiced the mildest opinion about
anything,
from U.S.-Saudi relations to where he was planning to take his kids for spring break. Today, wearing a lilac button-down and suit pants, hair ironed flat and tied into a pristine bun, she looked like she was interviewing for a job at a law firm.

On the right was a girl I'd seen in the halls but never talked to. She was probably a sophomore, but somehow all the guys in the school, no matter their year, acted as if they knew her—intimately. Today, she was wearing what seemed to be her usual wardrobe—beige peasant shirt, thick honeyed side-braid, slouchy skirt, a pendant necklace bearing a huge symbol from a culture I didn't recognize. If Raina Moore was a lawyer, her tablemate was a pagan milkmaid. Maybe even the goddess of milk. The girl was pretty.

I shot Hannah a look, but she had her glassy-eyed I'm-meeting-new-people face on. I made a mental note to grill her on her type so I could be a more effective wing woman.

“Welcome!” the milkmaid said, just as Raina asked, “Can
we help you?” Raina's eyes were narrowed, like we'd walked over with baseball bats and brass knuckles.

“We'd like to sign up for the Gay-Straight Alliance,” I said.

“We're not a GSA.” Raina's eyebrows rose. “We're a
gay
alliance.”

“Great! We'd like to join that. Do you have a list, or—?”

“We don't believe in lists,” Raina said, clasping her hands in front of her. “A physical list could be used as a tool by those who seek to categorize, ghettoize, and oppress.”

I stared at Raina. She stared back. Meanwhile, the milkmaid was staring meditatively at the far wall.

“So do you keep a
mental
list? I'm Daisy . . . Beaumont . . . Smith. And this—”

“I'm Hannah.” Hannah raised her hand in a tiny wave, and I had to stifle the impulse to cheer. This was a big moment in Hannah's outness, right? It seemed like it should be a big moment.

“
Fine
.” Raina sighed, spoiling it. “We meet Tuesdays and Thursdays, Room A2. If you want to come, technically we can't stop you.”

“Thanks so much—we'll be there!” I beamed at Raina to piss her off, while Hannah waved to the milkmaid, clutched my arm, and steered me away.

“That was awkward,” she muttered.

“They were kind of off, weren't they?” I agreed, then winced. “Not because they're gay. They didn't even
seem
gay. I mean, not that you
can
seem gay—”

“Daisy. Stop.” Hannah shoved me, laughing. “Yeah. They were weird. Not gay-weird, weird-weird.”

“Could be good, though,” I said, hip-checking her as we passed through the rest of the booths. “Having people to talk to who understand what you're going through? And I'll be there too, as a buffer.”

“You don't have to buffer me,” Hannah said, lingering in front of the Chess Club booth. “It's sweet—”

“It's not just for you,” I lied. “It'll look amazing on my college applications.”

She squinted dubiously as she scribbled her name onto the Chess Club's nice, normal, physical sign-up sheet. But just after she set down the pen, she glanced vaguely back at the Alliance table and said, “You're probably right.”

As we were walking to bio, I brainstormed ways to ask her which club she was going to choose without making her feel like I was pressuring her. But then Hannah smiled in this intense way that shut me up.

“Moonlight after school?”

“Obviously,” I answered. We hadn't been to the Moonlight Coffee Shop all summer. It was time to reclaim our clubhouse.

Hannah looked nervous. “There's something I want to talk to you about.”

“Sure.” I faked a smile. Had Hannah forgotten that she'd already come out to me yesterday? Or . . .

My throat went dry.

“I'll, um . . .” She bit the corner of her thumb. “I'll meet you there.”

“Oh. Kay.” As she slid into class ahead of me, I stayed behind, watching her find us a lab table. What the hell was I going to do?

What I came up with by last period went something like:

“Hannah, you know how much I love you. You're the most important person in the world to me and I will always be there for you. But I'm not gay. I can't feel that way about you. And you'll meet someone else one day, someone amazing.”

It seemed inadequate. How could I explain how I felt about Hannah? I mean, her looks
were
a part of it in a way, those flashing angular eyes, black hair, slow smiles, the way she twirled her ankle when she was thinking. It drew people to her. Poor Hannah wished she were a wallflower—hated having every stranger at a checkout counter ask her where she was from, as if it were some fairy-tale kingdom between Europe and Asia instead of “just off Harborview”—or, worse,
what
she was, like they saw her as some other species entirely.

You'd never know Hannah was annoyed. She was Palmetto's concierge, impeccably lovely, polite, mature around absolutely everyone—except me.

Around me, Hannah pretended seagulls were top models. She came up with elaborate evacuation plans for MERS outbreaks and tsunamis. She referenced country songs to describe her emotional state—without irony.