The Inside of Out (34 page)

“We've got a first aid booth,” Raina was saying to Jack. “Go grab them—he's gonna need help.” Spotting me, she groaned. “Daisy, this is not a good time. We've got an injury, and unless you can throw a football . . . “

Before she could finish snarking at me, I'd darted away, cell phone in hand.

QB answered after one ring. “Daisy. I'm sorry.”

I blinked. “For what?”

“For kissing you!”

“You don't have to apologize anymore, Chris.” I sighed. “You were just trying to get Natalie's attention. I get it.”

“Yeah, well, it didn't work. She didn't come last night either.”

“She didn't come because she was hanging out with me.”

“Very funny.” His laugh died out in a moan.

“I'm serious. I'm with her right now. She's helping with our homecoming.”

“Really?” He fell abruptly silent.

“She's worried about you, you know. She told me not to break your heart or she'd beat me up.”

I could sense him grinning. “She said that?”

“Yep!”
Sort of.
“She does care about you, you know.”

He didn't reply—but I could tell he was listening.

“If you want her in your life at all, you need to meet her halfway,” I said. “Come to our homecoming. Help our cause. It'll mean a lot to her.”

As he cleared his throat, I could picture him straightening his spine, cracking his knuckles. He'd been given a mission. This was the language QB spoke—the language of the pep talk, of the football field.

“What do you need me to do?”

“We've got an injury on one of the teams.”

“You need a wide receiver?”

“Actually . . .” I grinned. “We need a QB.”

I wasn't sure how this would go. QB had certainly grown a lot in the last few months, but he was still—you know—himself. Would he make it through the game without stroking out from culture shock?

The first test came as soon as his gleaming Mustang careened into the muddy parking lot. QB sauntered from the car, hauling his Pirates helmet and gear just as Jack started tiptoeing across the field, avoiding puddles on his way back from delivering the former quarterback to a waiting gurney. Their paths converged in front of me. I stifled a wince.

“Jack Jackson!”

I closed my eyes, only to realize a second later that QB hadn't said it in a high-pitched voice. He hadn't said it any particular way at all. When I opened my eyes, a peculiar sight greeted me—QB and Jack were midway through an elaborate hand-slapping routine, as if they'd spent weeks practicing it. The “buddy handshake” was one of those innate guy skills that someone with my particular chromosomes could not hope to understand. Or maybe that was just my cisgendered bias talking? Either way, this was going well.

Once QB was situated with his new team, throwing the ball in the world's quickest practice session, I went to find Raina and see how attendance was shaping up.

I could tell as soon as I got to the front gate that it was
going to be an issue. Cops were lining the property, waiting to pounce on gatecrashers—or on us if we allowed it to happen. A steady stream of attendees was spilling in, some wearing costumes, others in evening wear for tonight's dance, still others sporting homemade jerseys to support one of the football teams. They were all ages, all colors, arriving in rowdy groups that piled out of buses, others seemingly alone or with a significant other. At the front of the line, I saw two elderly gentlemen in tuxedos, pinning boutonnières lovingly on each other's lapels before offering their wedding-ringed hands for an entry stamp.

What I didn't see was a single Palmetto student.

I brushed the thought away. It was early. There was time.

And yet, the line to come in was growing like a beanstalk—and the clicker in Raina's hand was already dangerously close to our limit. She watched it in concentration, wincing every time she clicked. A roar rose from the football field, and Raina glanced longingly over her shoulder. The game was probably almost done.

“I'll take over,” I offered.

Her brow furrowed. “You sure that's a—?”

“Go!” I grabbed the clicker from her hand without letting her finish the question. But just as she was jogging past a cotton candy stand and out of sight, I realized what she was going to ask. And what the answer was.

No. It wasn't such a good idea for me to be out here, greeting every single homecoming attendee.

What if they hated me? Felt betrayed? Wanted to hone their heckling skills?

They won't know it's me
, I reminded myself.
Not with my new hairc—

“Daisy,” shouted a buxom local news reporter, brandishing her microphone like a tournament lance to break through the crowd.

Crap
.

“Do you care to comment on reports that you were—quote—‘playing gay' in order to get attention?”

“I do
not
care to comment, but thank you so much for asking!”

“Oh my God, are you Daisy?” A group of teenagers I didn't recognize poked their heads around the middle of the line, a few of them leaving their spots to get a closer look, edging the reporter out of the way.

I braced myself.

“What happened to your hair?” one of them asked. His had a lovely strip of purple along the bottom two inches.

“I switched it up,” I said, dazedly. “But yours looks awesome.”

“
You're
awesome,” said the next girl in line, and I was so surprised and flattered that I almost forgot to click her group of six through after Kyle stamped their hands.

“This is crazy,” Kyle said, shaking his head at all the people waiting to come in. “And the band hasn't even started yet.”

“The Rhythm Squad? Do they have that many fans?”

Kyle stared at me.

Distracted, I forgot another click. The cops shuffled closer.
Whoops.
I needed to concentrate.

Raina ran back from the game, unruly curls spilling from her headscarf.

“Eastern Conference won,” she announced through attempts to gather air. “They're carrying QB on their shoulders. You might want to rescue him.”

Trading posts, I clumsily handed her the clicker and ran to see for myself.

From the edge of the field, it sure didn't look like QB needed rescuing. He was tomato red and, yes, a little panicked—but he was grinning too as the co-ed, all-ages, mostly queer football team carried him off the field to catcalls and whistles from dozens of guys in the bleachers.

“Come on honey, tell me you play for my team,” shouted one young man in his twenties, wearing a faded Palmetto Pirates T-shirt.

But just as I thought QB was going to scramble down from his teammates' shoulders and run straight to the nearest exit, he craned his neck and affably shouted, “Sorry, man, I'm all about the ladies.”

“For now!” one of his teammates yelled, to general applause. QB grinned, basking in the glow of adoration. He looked so much more like the QB I knew, glowing with self-assurance—a golden boy, through and through. Whatever piece of him Natalie had chipped away had just been restored at last—by a stadium of cheering gay men.

My services not needed here, I skipped deliriously back through the crowd, passing a crowd of boys in ball gowns, a trio of women wearing lettermen jackets, and a central stage, where the cast of
Triplecross
was posing for photos. I saw that
elderly couple sharing a funnel cake, careful not to get powdered sugar on their tuxedos. I couldn't tell if the middle-aged person in line to buy a T-shirt was male or female, and I loved that it didn't matter.

People were laughing. People were spontaneously dancing. People were eating and primping and meeting new people and—relaxing. People were being themselves.

But when I got back to the front gates, Raina was sweating. That wasn't exactly herself.

“We're close,” she said. “I think we'll get everybody in, but . . .”

“Any Palmetto students?” I asked.

“Not that many. Other than us, ten or twelve?”

We stared across the road at the school, its façade glowing red with the sunset. As we watched, the light caught the sign, making the Palmetto Pirate logo glow, a beacon we couldn't quite reach.

The police officers looked almost disappointed not to have any fights to break up or fire codes to enforce. The only one not shuffling around, kicking the sod, was Chief Beck. He stood watching the goings-on past the barriers with keen interest, a near-smile playing on his face. I wondered if he knew his daughter was here.

It seemed odd that I hadn't seen Mrs. Beck. Was she off holding her own press conference? Or outfitting the school board with torches and pitchforks as a final offensive?

A second later, I got my answer. Cindy Beck appeared as if out of nowhere—probably having arrived behind one of the Dumpsters in a burst of flame—and stomped daintily to her
husband. His eyes didn't budge from the tents as she whispered angrily into his ear, gesturing to the field. He shrugged, pointed at me and Raina, and we both flinched backward.

Here she came.

As Mrs. Beck strode over, she stretched out her hand, contorting her face into an ill-fitting smile. Was she planning to shake our hands or punch us? Raina planted her feet and I forced myself to stand beside her, arms crossed, like I was her bodyguard. It made me feel tough for about half a second.

“Let me see it,” Cindy said.

Raina smiled politely back. “I'm sorry?”

“The clicker. How many people do you have in there?”

Raina turned the counter around to face her, keeping it out of arm's reach. “One thousand, one hundred and seventy-two.”

Cindy Beck's eyes narrowed. “You're lying.”

Raina cocked her head, as if curious about the accusation rather than offended. “Prove it. Your husband and his officers have been monitoring our recordkeeping since the gates opened this afternoon. If you have a problem with our tally, take it up with him.”

Cindy grinned, all slyness, as if we'd just handed her an ace card. “Oh, I will.”

There was something very off about her, something that made me shiver as she stalked away. The cameras were on her, but she didn't even seem to notice. She'd lost her poise, that politician's veneer she'd shielded herself with since the school board meeting. Her eyes, her stride, even her hairdo seemed like they would rattle loose at the slightest provocation.

Was it because we were winning? Was destroying our cause so important to her that she was willing to look like a lunatic in front of all of the registered voters who were watching her go bat-shit, live on television? Apparently so.

And then, adding to the ramshackle charm of her march across the field, Cindy waved her arm. I thought for a second she'd tipped over into talking to herself, which made me giggle.

But then, something about the gesture struck me. It wasn't ramshackle. It was specific.

A cue. Not to the cops, not to us—to all the people across the street in the free speech zone, watching her like drone ants milling around their queen. At her movement, they erupted.

The Christian Values Coalition was coming, and Cindy Beck was their Moses. They streamed across the street to the barrier, singing cheery songs about hell, louder and more off-key the closer they got, until their faces were inches from ours.

“Let us in,” said one woman with a long braid coiled around the top of her head like a snake. “We're paying customers, we have a right to be here too.”

“Hey!” A gawky teen boy I didn't recognize, one of five people waiting to get in, fought to stay in line as protesters crowded him out. An elderly man smashed him on the head with his placard.

“Stop!” I screamed, Kyle's battered, frightened face flashing before me. I tried to jump over the barrier to shove them, but Raina's hand dragged me back by the collar of my shirt.

“You can't, Daisy,” Raina hissed into my ear. “That's why they're here. To start a fight, get everything shut down.”

She was right. I backed off. But it didn't matter.

Because as soon as we retreated an inch from our post, the two hundred members of the CVC jumped the gates and ran headlong into homecoming.

“You are over the limit!” Cindy Beck shrieked, clapping her hands. “And we are shutting! You! Down!”

For a second, everything was so loud it became silent, like a death scene in a war movie. If somebody told me later that I'd screamed
“Nooooooo!”
I wouldn't have been at all surprised.

Through a fog, I saw reporters crowding the gates, Cindy Beck granting interviews as if she were an actual elected official, Chief Beck waving his bullhorn to direct the dozens of cops to dispel the crowd, and whirling behind me, a mob of anti-gay protesters and attendees staring at one another in frozen fury—a look I knew instinctively was the precursor to punches thrown.

This had to be peaceful. It had to be perfect. Or after all of this, there would still be no dance.

“Daisy,” someone was saying. Cal Montgomery. He was here? He must have been here, because he was shaking me. “We need you!”

I glanced around, frantic, picking out the faces that mattered most. Raina with her eyes closed. Sean beside her, holding Diego's hand with both of his. Poor Jack hiding behind Sophie, desperate to avoid the news cameras in case his family was watching. Kyle begging his parents to let him stay—and,
approaching fast from the dance tent, Natalie and Hannah, their eyes widening with mounting horror.

“This is it,” Cal said, taking my shoulders and pointing them toward the stage. “This is the moment. You need to move.”

I peered over my shoulder one more time, hoping to catch Hannah's eye—but it was Natalie I couldn't stop looking at. Her face was steely. Cold. For the first time ever, I could step outside myself long enough to truly recognize the expression.

It was Natalie's game face. Her “nobody can touch me” face. I had never been so happy to see it in my life.

“Okay,” I said to Cal. “I'll do it.”

I watched as the crowd parted around me, people staggering from my path like there was a force field shoving them back. I nodded to the
Triplecross
actors who were climbing down from the stage, waving for me to take their spot. I walked quickly—purposefully—my eyes on that mic. I reached the steps.

Then I stepped aside so Natalie Beck could climb them.

As I folded back into the crowd, Hannah grabbed my arm. “What is this?”

I beamed up at Natalie as she crouched to take the microphone. “This is the girl I used to know.”

“My name is Natalie Beck,” she started, knees dipping at the sound of her own voice repeating from the speakers.

A crowd had gathered—our supporters, but some protesters too, banners drooping. Reporters had flooded around them, sensing that the barriers had been compromised. Their cameras were trained on Natalie.

“My parents are here today,” she said, almost shyly. “By
now, you all know my mother, Cindy Beck, who's fought so hard against this cause.”

I searched for Mrs. Beck, but couldn't see her past the crowd.

“And my father, Walter—here today as the chief of our James Island Police Force.”

A wave rippled through the crowd and Chief Beck appeared, holding his radio, staring at the stage. A cop came up to him, probably to ask him when they could start arresting people, but he waved him away, shouting “Hold” into his walkie-talkie.

Natalie pressed her lips together, the closest she could get to a smile right now.

“I'm sixteen. I'm a junior at Palmetto High School. And . . . I'm a lesbian.”

Jack and Raina started the cheer—it rippled outward, bright and almost frightening in its speed, a wildfire spreading from a spark.

“I realized I was gay when I was very young. My parents did too. They saw it as a problem to be fixed. And I
was
fixed, for a long time. I was a straight-A student, with a group of strictly platonic girl friends and an amazing boyfriend on the football team.”

I glanced behind me, and sure enough, Chris was watching her speech with his jaw set, pained one blink and proud the next.

“But I wasn't me. I was an imitation. A knock-off, the kind that falls apart the first time you wash it. When I met my girlfriend—really met her—I started to unravel, slowly.
Too
slowly. I kept lying to my parents. Until right now, I guess? So, um, now that they're listening, I just want to tell them the truth. I am in love with a girl.
Scary
in love. And if you knew her, I promise, you would love her too.”

Hannah gazed up, one hand clenched in her mess of hair as if to keep her head from floating off her body.

“Today is important—not just for me, but for millions of people like me who want to live their lives, enjoy a football game, and a dance without feeling hated. It's a basic right—not to be irrationally despised, vilified, bullied. I
deserve
it. And so does everyone here. We're not asking
you
to change. We're just asking you to let us be who we are. And . . . this is who I am.”

Natalie crouched, offering Hannah a hand.

“Do you need a boost?” I asked, knitting my fingers together in preparation.

Hannah smiled, electrified. Grabbed Nat's hand. “We've got this.”

She landed on the stage. They stared at each other for a second—two skydivers before the leap—and then, with a giddy giggle, they kissed.

Not a forced one, like QB's. Not a no-tongue peck. Not even a movie kiss where everything swirls around them. A real one—knees knocking, eyes half-open, hands clutching each other's backs like life rafts. Their lips smiling, glistening as they broke apart.

A hundred cameras flashed, and the crowd cheered, nearly drowning out the protesters, who booed like the children they were.

“Please,” Natalie said, her arm around Hannah's waist. “Just let us have our homecoming.”

Chief Beck's jaw was tight. Natalie watched him, eyes welling.

He nodded. Just a nod.

And then a wink.

And Natalie let out all her breath, stretching like a flower in the sun. Apparently, a wink from her dad meant a lot. I was just starting to beam along when I watched Natalie's smile waver and drop.

Cindy Beck strode through the crowd with her hand covering her eyes, a blinder against the sight of her daughter. She grasped her husband's arm over and over like it was slippery, hissing into his ear, gesturing everywhere but at Natalie. Her face was so taut it had become haggard, like whatever spell she used to keep herself camera-perfect had been broken by today's events.

Chief Beck stood still, not looking at her. Then he turned, hunching to say something to her that I wished like hell I could hear. She tensed, her mouth forming the word “no,” but he shook his head and took her gently by the shoulders—and unbelievably, she relaxed against him, closing her eyes. He kissed her on the forehead. She nodded, blinking back tears, turned . . . and left.

And I exhaled.

The cops stood waiting throughout the field, ready to disperse, make arrests, whatever Chief Beck ordered. He raised his radio.

“Escort the protesters back to the Free Speech Zone. And
keep a better watch on those gates. Anybody who seems like trouble, get 'em out of here. Let's let these kids enjoy their homecoming.”

The news spread slowly in wondering murmurs, nobody able to immediately process what had happened. The police had taken our side. Chief Beck had used the mysterious bonds of marriage to deactivate our arch-nemesis. We had won.

Chief Beck strode to the stage, offering Natalie a hand down.

“Thank you, Dad,” she said, letting him lift her like she was a toddler.

“You got it, kiddo.” Chief Beck extended his hand up to the stage once more. “Hannah, is it? It's nice to finally meet you.”

She put her slender hand in his big one and smiled—a polite smile. A real one. “It's lovely to meet you too.”

In the dance tent, Mom and her army of community farmers had just finished counting the ballots for homecoming king and queen. They were tittering, delighted by the chance to take part in something they probably would have turned their noses up at when they were actually in high school.

Like Adam. The thought of him sent my mood into the mud.

When Mom spotted me, she waved the slip of paper she was holding. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” I said. “Yeah, everything seems to be going great.”

“No.” She took my hands. “You're queen, Daisy—you've been named homecoming queen!”

“What?”

I stared down at the scribbled tally. There it was, my name at the top with over eight hundred votes. It took me a bewildered second to figure out why. Popular or unpopular, gay or straight, I was the one who'd been on TV. I was the only name most of these people knew.

I pictured the view from our flagship Pirate Galley float, the crown glittering on my head as I waved to all the people who finally—finally—appreciated me, as I threw flowers to Hannah, who blew me a grateful kiss in reply. Then I opened my eyes, taking in reality—the tent, the lights, the ground beneath my feet.

“You counted wrong, Mom,” I said. “Natalie Beck's homecoming queen.”

Mom stared at me for a full second before the mind-meld kicked in. Then she gathered my ballots and tossed them into the trash bag under the table.

“Not Hannah?” she asked, watching me from the corner of her eye.

“No,” I said. “She'd be mortified. But she'll be happy for Nat.”

“
Ohhhhh,
” Mom said. “We're calling her ‘
Nat
' again, are we?”

“What? No.” I crouched, tying up the trash bag. “It's just . . . quicker to say.”

“Okay.” She was wearing her mom-instincts smirk again. She hadn't been right about me being gay. Or dating QB. Wrong about Adam too, in the end.

You never know
, I thought.
This time she might be onto something.

And so, I got to watch as Nat-short-for-Natalie donned a glowing neon headdress and pink feather boa to stand at
the prow of Stede Bonnet's ship with Raina, our tuxedoed homecoming king by her side, and one step back, their attendants, Sean, Kyle, Chase Hernandez from
Triplecross
, and—the school secretary, Mrs. O'Brien? She was waving to a middle-aged woman in a maxi dress who was snapping photos of her from the parade route. I never would have guessed.

As we watched the float pass, Hannah cheered with her hands over her head. Then she linked arms with me, resting her head against mine.

“I never told you how it started, did I?” she asked. “Me and Natalie. That day in the car . . .”

I nudged her. “Tell me.”

She grinned, leaning her arm on my shoulder. “Okay. So. We had an away match. A summer tournament at a clinic. She and I were playing doubles in the final—winning—and one of the girls on the other side of the net got mad and made, like, slanty eyes at me.” She motioned to her face, then wiped her hand on her pocket.

“Are you
kidding
me?”

“I know! I was thrown. My serves were off. They got ahead. But then it was Natalie's serve. And . . .” Hannah wavered on her feet, remembering. “She was so angry. She looked like I felt. She served the fastest ace I'd ever seen—straight into that girl's head. We got disqualified. Nat stormed off the court. I followed her into the locker room and . . . she hugged me. We'd always been friendly. But this hug felt different. And when we broke away, she kind of looked at me and I looked at her. And then some of our teammates came in to get ready
for the next match and we broke away, but we knew. And that was the start of it.”

Even as she smiled, tears flooded her eyes.

“Oh, Han. I wish I'd—” I started, but she waved me off.

“Listen, the message you left me.” She shouted over the roar of the crowd as the football team rolled by. “I don't think you even realize how much it meant to me to hear you say what you did.”

“That you're ordinary?” I laughed. To anyone else, it would be a slap in the face.

“Seriously. Do you know how
we
started, Daisy?” She poked my forehead. “Why you and I became friends? You were the only one that first day who didn't ogle me like I was there for show-and-tell. Everyone else was like ‘What
are
you? Where are you
from
? What's that
accent
?' But you . . .” She snorted. “You asked where I got my backpack.”

“I have to be honest, Han,” I said. “That might have been coincidental. I mean, you're ‘exotic' and all, but that backpack was awesome.”

“‘Exotic.'” She made a gagging noise. Then her face fell serious. “I was so freaked out. My parents had split. I'd left the place I'd spent my entire life. Left my father. Everything was so different and all I wanted was for something to feel normal. Anything. And then I met you.” She laughed. “Not that
you
were normal. You still aren't. You're always going to be you, Daisy, and I wouldn't want it any other way—grand gestures, crazy plans, musical interludes, all of it. I love the
you
about you.”