The Inside of Out (20 page)

Hannah scrambled away until she was standing. “Leave her out of it.”

“She's doing a fantastic job of leaving
herself
out of it.” I
stood to face her, crackling. “I haven't seen Natalie at any of our planning sessions. Or you, for that matter. We have strangers across the country writing in, donating money,
traveling
here to show their support, but what do I get from you? Nothing. Just constant . . .” I racked my brain for a nice way to say this, but came up empty. “
Whining.
Why?”

“It's just . . .” She sighed. “I know you.”

“Screw you, Hannah.” I picked up my tray and Hannah's taco rolled off, so I had to race to retrieve the biggest bits of it before storming away, my eyes blurry with tears. It gave me just enough time to utterly lose my composure, spin around, and blurt out, “Have fun with your resting bitchface girlfriend. Maybe I'll see you at the huge event that I'm throwing because I
fucking care about you!
”

And some sophomore girls chose that exact moment to open the doors to the stoop and stand gawking at me while the entire cafeteria went dead. Silent.

Raina motioned to me from the Alliance's table, face clouding at my outburst. I swiped my eyes and turned away. No prep today. I was done. My nerves were too rattled, from the upcoming interview, the mounting crowds surrounding us, the lie I was holding on to, the fact that I'd just full-on fought with the one person I never fought with. The person who knew me better than anybody—and didn't believe in me. To know me, apparently, was to doubt me.

I had an interview in six hours, so I had no time for doubt. Just talking.

Like Adam said, I could do that much.

Dad picked me up from school, which didn't help my nerves. By the time we pulled onto our street, my knuckles were white, glued to the backpack in my lap.

“You okay?” Dad watched me instead of the driveway, clipping the curb with two tires.

“Yeah!” I faked a smile. Then I did a double take. Dad was pastier than me. “Are
you
okay?”

He let out a shuddering sigh. “I've been ordered to take the night off.”

“No gaming?”

He shook his head.

“Mom?”

A feeble nod.

“Oof.” I rested my hand on his shoulder. “When this is done, I'll play two player with you. And I'll try out mage.”

That cheered him up enough to get us both into the house.

The
Evening News
crew was already inside, Mom buzzing around, for some reason asking everyone if they wanted lemonade. As Dad dragged a kitchen chair into a distant corner and hid behind a magazine, I waved a quick hi to all the
strangers and ran upstairs to change, barely dodging Zelda, who'd been trying to blend into the carpeting.

She hissed. I hissed back. No one seemed to notice.

Once I'd slipped into my Cal-approved outfit, a bright blue long-sleeved T-shirt and khakis, I gave my hair a brush and swiped on some concealer and blush, hoping it would be enough. But when I got downstairs, the on-site producer paired me with a makeup artist.

“Let's just wash this off,” she said, and was so sweet and quick about my makeover that I only had about five seconds to feel offended before she handed me a mirror and left me gazing at myself in wonder. So this was what makeup was supposed to do.

I considered calling Adam to meet me after the interview so he could see me all spruced up, but felt immediately idiotic. What would he care? Besides, he'd see me on TV in a few minutes . . . along with millions of total strangers. A gorgeous African-American news icon, Shawna Wells was the most popular anchor in the country and, according to the producer who'd been sent to coordinate my part of the interview, they'd been “plugging” my appearance all day long.

I wondered if Hannah would watch. The thought of her made my throat clench.

This isn't about her,
I told myself.
It's about America and other gay students who are not Hannah and the tide of . . . history? Or something?

“You pumped?” Cal asked as he came into the kitchen.

“Does ‘pumped' mean ‘about to pass out'?”

He laughed. “Let's get you into place.”

From far away, the corner of the living room looked like an art installation. The
Evening News
crew had taken various objects from our house and rearranged them inside the framing of the shot as if they'd always been there. In place of our coffee table—currently on the front lawn—were a camera and tripod, alongside a bunch of lights so hot that the makeup girl had to jump in and de-shine me after about thirty seconds.

Mom was relegated to standing in the hall, wringing her hands, and asking everyone who passed her, “Nobody for lemonade? It's organic! Locally sourced!”

“Could I get a Coke Zero?” I asked. She pretended not to hear me.

“Five-minute warning,” one of the PAs said.

I closed my eyes, feeling my breath grow shallow.

No big deal,
I told myself.
She's going to ask some questions and I'll answer very positively and then it'll be over and America will be in love with me and they'll love gay people a little more and maybe the crime rate will drop and aliens will decide not to attack and we'll have a huge spontaneous musical number . . .

When I opened my eyes, Cal was staring down at me.

“You weren't kidding about the passing out, then.” He crouched to pat my shoulder. “You're ready, Daisy. It's a point-counterpoint. Stay positive, stay on message, like we talked about, and refuse to engage with her.”

“With Shawna?”

How could I do an interview without engaging with her? Was I confused about what “interview” meant? My face began to prickle.

“No . . .” Cal's brow furrowed, but before he could answer, the makeup girl dove in to pat me down with powder yet again, and then one of the assistants started counting, so Cal backed away, mouthing “Good luck!” and the monitor opposite me lit up, and I blinked and there was Shawna Wells staring from the screen as if we were having our own, personal, one-on-one conversation.

Every viewer in the country felt that she was talking to them. It was what made her successful. But in this case, she actually
was
about to start talking to
me
.

Oh. Gah. No. Holy . . .

I could hear the last sound bites of a news story through my earpiece—about us?—and then some sort of countdown on Shawna's end. Before I could catch my breath, she began to talk.

“Thank you, Roberta.”

My name is Daisy. Should I correct her?

That's probably the reporter's name. Oh dear God, someone help me.

Behind the cluster of news producers, I could see both Cal and my mother mouthing “Smile!” then demonstrating.

I obliged.

“We're here with Daisy Beaumont-Smith to learn more about her efforts on behalf of the Palmetto LGBTQ Alliance . . .”

My face appeared on the screen. And hey, I was in my living room! And I was smiling too much. I frowned and saw myself frown, then smiled again. This was torture.

“. . . and we also have with us Palmetto School Board
member Cindy Beck, who in the past week has been vocal in voicing her concerns about the event.”

Another box popped up. And in it was Natalie Beck's mother, blond hair curled prettily, wearing pearls under a Chanel-collared blouse.

My grin locked in place as my brain swam, scrambling to connect the three faces on the monitor. I heard Mrs. Beck drawl, “Thank you for having us, Shawna!”

Not to be left out, I cut in, “Yeah, thanks so much!” like a total idiot.

The point-counterpoint hadn't even begun and I was already losing.

“Daisy, let's start with you,” Shawna said, turning toward my hovering image as if I were a hologram in her studio. Maybe I was. That would be crazy.

“Tell us how this event got started—your alternative Palmetto homecoming.”

I saw Cindy's smile ossify, like she was already preparing her legal attack against us using the school district's trademarked name. But I lifted my chin, ready to answer. Thank you, Cal!

“Actually, Shawna, we're now calling it America's Homecoming. Because, as you know, it's struck a chord with people all over the country in the past few days, and we want to open it up to anybody who's felt left out of their high school experience. This is a chance to cheer on every teenager who's had the courage to admit to their communities who they truly are.” I took a breath. “It all started because of a simple request. I asked the school board to allow same-sex dates to
school dances, and knowing the legal ramifications of refusing, they took the cowardly step of canceling the homecoming dance entirely—”

“Shawna, if I can just interrupt.”

Instead of gasping at her rudeness, Shawna Wells politely pivoted toward Mrs. Beck's floating head.

“We
wanted
to have a homecoming dance. It's a tradition that's gone on for fifty years, I'm proud to say.” Cindy smiled graciously, taking credit for the last half-century. “But when someone comes in and threatens a lawsuit, our hands become tied. For us, it's a question of
preserving tradition
for the vast majority of students who want to have a good time at their homecoming. It's that simple.”

Stay positive, Cal had said. Don't engage with her—
that's
what he'd meant.

“You know . . .” Mrs. Beck used my moment of indecision to let out a helpless laugh. “I appreciate you having us on here, Shawna, but most Palmetto students that I've talked to are disgusted with all of this media attention! Their goals are simple—get good grades, play on their athletic teams, support their school, and enjoy that
traditional
high school experience. But their needs are being ignored because of a very vocal minority.”

I probably should have let it go. Said something along the lines of: “As a student of Palmetto, I know firsthand that the issue of equal treatment for all students is important to everyone of my generation blah blah . . .”

Instead, I said what I was thinking.

“I'm sorry, can I jump in?” Shawna pivoted back to me. I
raised my eyebrows. “I find it hypocritical for Mrs. Beck to sit here and talk about the rights of straight students when her own daughter came out of the closet no less than three weeks ago.”

Shawna's expression wavered between thrown and delighted. She nodded to Mrs. Beck. “Care to respond?”

Mrs. Beck's face had gone very pale. Even for her. “I don't know where this accusation is coming from. It's a
lie
. A blatant attempt to—”

“She's dating my best friend.” I shrugged. “That's where the accusation is coming from.”

Uh . . . whoops!
I guess Hannah wasn't my fake-girlfriend anymore? I mean, I hadn't actually said her name, but if America could put two and two together, it was fine with me. One fewer lie to haul around.

“It's a private matter!” Mrs. Beck wriggled out of frame and back again. “And I don't see how airing it on national television is in any way appropriate, just as I don't think it's appropriate for one
subgroup
to bully an entire
community
into doing what they want just because they yell the loudest!” She sniffed a breath, dragging her chin upward. “Miss Beaumont-Smith has spoiled homecoming for the vast majority of students and we on the school board don't see that as fair.”

“We haven't spoiled anything,” I replied cheerily. “
Everyone
is welcome at this event. We're hoping to bring students and alumni together in an open, honest way, for maybe the first time ever.”

I'd remembered my talking points. Thank God. My heart was flailing like a cornered bat at the sudden realization that
I'd just gossiped about Hannah and Natalie on national television, but—
focus, Daisy
. Mrs. Beck was counterpointing.

“I have a hard time believing Palmetto students will have any interest in attending this ‘alternative' event,” she said, thus demonstrating to America how little she knew about people my age.

But Shawna turned to my picture and said, “Daisy?” and I felt like I needed a better rebuttal than that, so I blurted:

“Our event is going to be amazing. We'll have a red carpet. A lot of celebrities have expressed interest in attending.”

Shawna and Mrs. Beck were both squinting in confusion.

“And . . . also . . .” I gave a mysterious side smile to cover my scrambling. “We have one of the biggest bands in the world playing. Can't disclose who yet, but it's going to be epic. And like I said, all are welcome! That's the entire point.”

“Thank you Daisy, Cindy . . .” Our faces disappeared and Shawna said, “Next up, mass protests in the oil-rich region of—”

And the monitor went black.

“Great job,” said the producer, who probably said that to everyone, and they were pulling the earpiece from my face and the microphone from my collar and Mom was doing a goofy cheering dance and Dad was looking up from his gaming magazine in time to wave, and my heart started trotting like a dressage horse because it was finally allowed to react to the fact that I'd just been
interviewed on national television
. Then Cal drew me aside and said, “What's this band that's performing? And who are the celebrities?” He grinned. “Kind of a big win to keep from me!”

I laughed. It sounded maniacal. “Surprise!”

And then they were clearing up and we needed to get out of the way, and somehow, miraculously, an hour later, I managed to shuffle both Cal and the news crew out of my house for the evening without ever answering the question.

I ran upstairs and turned my phone back on. It rang right away—Raina.

“What the fuck, Daisy.”

I turned the phone over to stare at it. Was this how she expressed enthusiasm? Hopefully?

“What the fuck indeed!”

“One of the biggest bands in the world?”

“Yeah, it just sort of . . . came out.”

“We're already playing catch-up with what you over-promised, and now you lay this on us? Celebrities?
What
celebrities?”

My mouth went dry. “Jack said that we'd been getting a lot of retweets? From—”

“That's retweets. That's not . . . ugh, Daisy.” She let out a long, low groan. “We'll talk about it tomorrow.”

When she hung up, I saw a text from Jack:
“You are one crazy bitch. High fieeeeeve!”

And one from Sean:
“Celebrities??? Which celebrities? OMG OMG.”

And Sophie:
“Good job, Daisy! We're proud of you!”
with an emoji of a bear holding a heart.

I kept Sophie's text lit up on my phone for as long as I could.

Then Hannah called, and without thinking, I answered. A
second after saying “Hey,” the memory of our argument vise-gripped my stomach.

Hannah was silent on the other end. Had she butt-dialed me?

“Hello?”

“I don't even know what to say to you.”

My fingers curled around the phone to keep from flinging it across the room. “Then why did you call?”

“Natalie's really upset.”

“Boo! Freaking! Hoo!” I shot up from my desk. “Maybe she shouldn't have unleashed her hell hound of a mother on us, then.”

The theory that had been hovering in my mind for weeks took form and shot out of me like a blow-dart.

“You think I don't know that she tipped her mom off about the school board meeting? They came in prepared. Remember? How do you suppose that happened?”