Twelfth Knight

12. Level-Up at Intimacy 5

After Duke Orsino signs off, I can’t sleep. I try, tossing and turning, but every time I do, I see the same thing: whether or not I have feelings for Vi—

The snap of my seat belt. His voice in my ear. I felt… oh god, don’t say it.

(Butterflies.)

Olivia’s bright smile flickers behind my eyes, as does Bash’s look of disappointment, and eventually I give up on sleeping. Restless, I get up to comb through the archives of my mom’s old advice columns. I’m not sure what I’m looking for until it finds me in the early morning, and then a sound downstairs startles me awake from where I passed out on my laptop keyboard, drool crusting on my wrist.

“Mom?” I snatch up the laptop and stumble downstairs, finding her in the kitchen.

“Yeah?” she says, voice muffled from where it’s buried in a cabinet.

“Can I ask you about something? One of your old columns.”

“Hm? Yeah, of course, just…” She sighs heavily, then pokes her head out to frown at me. “Is there coffee in the house?”

“Well, Mother, if it’s not at the back of the cupboard we never use, I just can’t think where else it would be,” I reply, and she groans, withdrawing to find her keys.

“No snark this early, hija. Can we drive and talk? I’ve got a deadline that’ll take either excessive caffeine or a miracle,” she grumbles, gesturing for me to follow as she kicks off her slippers and shoves her feet into the Birkenstocks beside the door. “Naturally you’re more important but, you know. We do have to eat.”

“Yeah, that’s—” I hunt around for the first shoes I find, which are rainboots, and follow her as she heads out the door. “It’s going to be weird, though—”

“Good.” She yawns while she shuffles to the car, pulling the door open and falling into the driver’s seat. “Inspire me.”

I climb into the passenger seat, fidgeting while she puts the car in reverse.

Where to start?

I guess I might as well just say it.

“How did you know you were bi?” I ask my mother.

She stops with her hand on the gearshift.

“I mean, was there, like… a specific moment? Or something? I don’t know,” I hastily equivocate, feeling very, very stupid. “But I read that column you wrote for the girl who was questioning her sexuality, and the way you answered her, I thought maybe it might be helpful if you could…”

I trail off, not sure what exactly I’m confessing to, and she nods, thinking.

“I doubt I’m going to be able to make this the kind of neatly packaged answer you seem to be looking for,” she manages after a second. “There wasn’t a specific moment, no. More like a series of moments that only made sense to me once I realized there were a lot of ways that love could look, and some that sounded like the way I felt. But I’ve always told you kids that it’s more about the person for me, not the, um. Package.” She glances over at me. “Is that confusing for you?”

“No.” She’s always been more open-minded about sexuality than any parent I’ve ever known, so we’ve definitely had the safety part of this talk. “Theoretically it sounds very straightforward,” I observe, and she starts to say something, then shrugs.

“Theoretically,” she agrees, waiting for me to make my point.

“Right.” I clear my throat. “Well, I guess my question is, um. Does liking women feel… different?” I ask her, watching her frown a little at the steering wheel as she idles in the driveway.

“Different from liking men, you mean?”

“Yeah. Well—” I laugh shakily. “More like… uh. Say there’s a girl who’s really, really cool,” I offer in ambiguous explanation of Olivia. “And she’s pretty, and you really like her.”

“Sounds pretty simple so far,” Mom says carefully. She’s probably starting to wish she had coffee for this conversation, but here we are.

“Right, but…” I make a face, struggling. There’s a reason we don’t talk about this, and it has a lot more to do with my comfort than my mom’s. “But what if there’s someone else, too? Someone who makes you feel…” It’s deeply uninspiring to keep coming back to the same word, but there really only seems to be one. “Someone who makes you feel different.”

Someone who keeps colliding with you, over and over. In everything you love, he’s there, too, and real or not, you can exist in every universe with ease because of him. Because for every version of him, there is a corresponding one of you.

“Ah.” Mom rests her head against the back of her seat. “Well, I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think this is a sexuality question so much as a conflict of emotions.”

“Ugh.” I sink down in my seat, grim. “I hate emotions.”

“I know.” She smiles tiredly at me. “But I think you already know this isn’t about anatomy. There’s a person here, hija. Two people, obviously—but one of them really got under your skin, didn’t they?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say with repulsion, and she laughs.

“Okay, well, look—I know you don’t want to hear about my love life. You’ve made that plenty clear.” I glance down at my hands, guilty, and she continues, “But the thing is, Vi, wanting someone in your life doesn’t have to mean you’re weak. It doesn’t mean you’re soft. It just means there’s someone in this world who makes you like everything just a little bit more when they’re with you, and in the end, isn’t that something?” She looks at me again, half smiling. “Life is hard enough without depriving yourself of joy.”

“It’s not that simple,” I sigh, glancing away.

“Yeah, babe, I know. It never is.”

“And I’m not saying I have feelings,” I argue, “I just—”

“I know.” She nods. “Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Maybe this is something big, or maybe not. Maybe someday you’ll meet a girl and feel something that answers all your questions, or maybe not. Maybe the world is big and life is long.” She shrugs, then chews her lip. “Does that… help?”

Not really. But at the same time, yes. “I think so. Pretty much, yeah.”

“Good.” She breathes out swiftly, with relief. “So… can we get coffee now, or would that be violating this, um, consecrated mother-daughter moment?”

“Oh, no, I for sure need coffee,” I tell her. “Are you kidding? I need to think.”

She laughs at me, finally turning to reverse down the driveway.

“Darling Viola, my clever, brilliant girl. The last thing you need is more thinking,” Mom assures me, tugging my hair before pulling into our street.

Mom’s deadline keeps her busy all day, which is fine, since I have homework and some stuff to do for ASB. We typically arrange a schoolwide activity for the end of the semester—something for the students to do after finals before heading off for winter break. Unfortunately, there isn’t much left in the budget, so I have to spend a couple of hours researching ideas online.

I emerge from my room with an urgent craving for gummy bears when Bash materializes from the stairs, greeting me with, “VIOLA!”

“SEBASTIAN,” I reply as usual, and then freeze when Olivia suddenly appears behind him, each of us startling the other.

“Oh, hi,” Olivia says when she sees me, cheeks flushing. “Bash said you were up here, so—”

“Oh, right, yeah—”

“Hey,” Bash interrupts with a gesture from me to Olivia, “can you tell her she’d be great for the musical?”

“What musical?” I ask, because I am suddenly adrift in space and time.

“The spring musical. I’m trying to convince her to audition.” He nudges Olivia. “I almost have her convinced, I think.”

“I’ve only been here for, like, two seconds,” Olivia assures me, though no one would know better than me that two seconds is plenty of time to get sucked in by Bash. “He brought it up and I said I’d think about it.”

“So think about it,” Bash purrs, then disappears down the stairs.

I stand there for a second, still a little shocked by Olivia being in my house, until I remember that oh, yeah, I probably have some idea what she wants to talk about.

I gesture to my bedroom. “So, do you—?”

“Yeah, if that’s—?”

“No, yeah, come in.” I’m not sure what the protocol is here, so I walk inside to take a seat at my desk while Olivia perches on the edge of my bed.

“Feeling better?” I ask.

“Much.” She clears her throat. “Though, um, I wanted to apologize about—”

“Actually,” I say. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Of course.” She blinks and nods, letting me go first, though I wish I knew what I wanted to say. Almost as much as I wish I’d told Jack who I really was before he confided in Cesario. Sometimes it feels like there’s a cliff-edge, the right moment for the truth, and you either pull yourself back from it or you sail headfirst into a crevasse.

But this is not about Jack. This is a different cliff, and I have to fix it.

“I should have said a lot of things to you before,” I confess. “Some bad, some worse.”

“Worst news first?” Olivia suggests with a thin smile, and I take a deep breath.

“Jack knew we were partners for AP Lit, so he asked me to try to find out why you wanted a break. I didn’t tell him anything,” I assure her, though she doesn’t react, “and I promise, I won’t say a word to anyone. But I did initially agree to try to find out.”

“I see,” she says slowly. “And the other bad things?”

“Well—” I hesitate. “So, I asked myself whether there was maybe something… here. With us. Like you said.”

She doesn’t move. “And?”

“And…” She is never going to want to speak to me again. This is going to be like Antonia, which you’d think I’d be numb to by now, but I’m not. My mom is right—it never gets easier to be hurt. As much as I try to be thick-skinned, I am sad to know that Olivia Hadid will walk out of this room and probably not be my friend anymore.

But still, it needs to be said.

“I don’t think I have the same feelings you do,” I say, and swallow. “Which is dumb, because I wish I did?” Truly, if I could make myself fall for Olivia instead of…

It doesn’t matter who else. “You’re smart and funny and, like, generally amazing, and I wish I’d said that sooner. I wish I’d told you that it’s really brave of you, I mean,” I clarify awkwardly, “to be so honest about how you feel. I don’t think I could do it. I know I couldn’t, actually.” Not that this is about me. “I just want you to know that I’ll be here for you, for anything, whatever you need. I know it might not be in the way you wanted, but—” A sigh. “I just think you should know that I think you’re brave and strong, and—”

A secret, fragile portion of my chest cracks.

“And I really would like to be your friend,” I admit. “I know what it’s like to feel alone. And misunderstood, I guess. Or sad, but nobody can know. So yeah. That’s all.” I fix my gaze at my chewed-up cuticles. “So if you need a friend, or want one…”

God, what a self-important speech. I end it with a mumbled, “I’m here.”

I keep staring at my hands.

Then, eventually, Olivia shifts slightly.

“I do want a friend,” she says. “I actually came here to tell you that.”

I look up, surprised. “Really?”

“Of course,” she says. “I mean, you’re giving me way too much credit, first of all. I’m pretty sure I’m not ready to be in a relationship with anyone until I can be completely honest about who I am. So as much as I do think you’re, like, very cool—”

“Stop,” I groan.

“You are. But I could be a lot braver than how I left things with Razia. Or Jack.” Olivia makes a face. “So can we be friends? I’d really, really like to be friends.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Yes.” I feel like I’m about to faint with relief.

“Great.” She looks equally relieved, then glances at her lap. “Wow, I was so nervous. I’m, like, shaking.”

“Oh my god, me too!” I thought it was just me.

“I’m sweating, it’s so gross—”

“It’s like a cold sweat, right? Like, cold sweat of terror,” I confess, and she laughs so hard she almost tears up.

“Why are feelings so brutal?” she wails. “Everyone makes friendship seem like garden parties and sleepovers when really it’s Jurassic Park for emotions.”

“I think my teeth are kind of chattering?”

“Oh my god, same.” She laughs again. “Wow. Embarrassing.”

“Very.”

“But at least it’s mutual.”

“This is true.”

There’s a brief lull as we both manage to settle back into normalcy.

“So, uh—what do you think about Bash?” Olivia says, changing the subject.

“Dunno. He looks kind of weird.” She snorts a laugh and I ask, slightly more seriously, “So is it not just girls, then, or…?”

“What? Oh my god, no, not like that.” She rolls her eyes at me. “No, I meant what do you think about what Bash suggested—the musical,” she explains, and oh, right—totally forgot about that. “Would it be weird if he helped me come up with an audition piece and stuff?”

“Weird for who? You, definitely. He’s kind of a maniac, just FYI.”

“No.” She barks a laugh. “For you.”

“Me? No way. I think it makes sense.” I pause. “Though, if what you actually want is to be yourself, isn’t it kind of backwards to pick up acting?”

“I… don’t think I’m ready yet to be completely me,” she admits. “I think soon. Maybe college. Hopefully college. But for now…” She trails off again. “I just want to escape into something else for a while.”

“I get that.” Boy, do I ever; the memory of my false life as Cesario returns to me, and with it, thoughts of the other person I have yet to come clean with. “But—”

I hesitate.

“Yeah?” Olivia says, tilting her head.

“I do think you need to be honest with Jack,” I admit, and Olivia gives me a look like, Ah. “I think he deserves to know the truth. Actually,” I correct myself, “he does deserve the truth, and more importantly, he can handle it. I can see how it’d be scary, but I think…” Another heavy exhale. “I think you could trust him with your real self if you wanted to.”

His face flashes in my head: I believe you, Viola. Oddly enough, he’s the only person I can think of to ever side with me with no conditions—just acceptance. “I really think he won’t let you down,” I say, which is kind of like saying I don’t think he’ll let me down, which is a terrifying thought. Because with few exceptions, everyone lets me down. And anyway, I’ll let him down once he finds out about me—whenever that will be.

In response Olivia gives me an odd look, then tilts her head.

“You’ve really changed your tune on him, haven’t you?” she observes. “Interesting.”

“Well, apparently he kept part of his personality in his ACL or whatever,” I mutter, because that’s the only excuse I have for it. Either that or computer games are better for your personal growth than people are ready to admit.

She laughs. “Well, it’s funny you bring him up, actually.”

“It is?” He said he was going to talk to her last night, though at the time I was busy thinking about other things.

A moment,he said. A stupid way to put it—I would never be so trite. But if what happened between us was a moment—and more importantly, if we both felt it—what does that mean?

But now’s not the time to wonder. The way Olivia brings it up makes me feel like I’m missing something, and as it turns out, I am.

“So,” Mom says after I get home from physical therapy; she brought a bunch of meals for Dad and me this morning, and now it looks like the impulse has struck to laboriously clean the kitchen. “How’s it going?”

“Slow.” I shrug. “Very slow.” Eric has me focusing on stability right now, which feels easy. Unfortunately, things that feel easy always make me want to push more, go faster.

“Yeah, well, everything’s too slow when you’re young.” Mom lingers behind the kitchen counter, looking like she’s waiting for something to say. “How’d things go with Olivia?”

Hm. How to sum up for your mother the conversation you and your girlfriend had this morning? Or, for that matter, how to honor the secrets she told you about herself?

“We broke up,” I admit.

Mom’s face instantly warps. “Oh, honey—”

“No, Mom, it’s fine. It’s more than fine, actually.” It was a relief to finally understand, then a smack upside the head to realize I wasn’t remotely the center of her narrative, then comforting to know we could still be friends. “Can I just run upstairs for a sec? Something I have to do for school.”

“Sure, of course—”

“Are you staying for dinner?”

She blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, if you want me to—”

“Stay. Please. It’ll be nice.” I give her my most encouraging smile and then gesture upstairs. “I’ll just be a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay.” She nods, and I take myself up the stairs, testing my range of motion for each step. Eric says this will be the first step to beginning my run program, and I admit, I’m itching for it. Patience, he says. The better I heal now, the better I’ll be in the future. Time, it’s all about time. The time I give and the time I take.

But with only a handful of weeks left before the postseason starts, time isn’t on my side.

I pull my desk chair out and sit, flipping open my laptop.

DUKEORSINO12:you there? I’ve got something to ask you

For the first time, though, there’s no answer on Cesario’s end.

Monday afternoon I find Vi sitting with a laptop at her lab table, as usual. Looks like she’s mocking something up for our social media, which typically the ASB secretary would do, or one of the social chairs. For whatever reason, all the overhead lights in the leadership room are off; I move to turn them on but she waves me away.

“Don’t bother,” she says. “Bowen’s doing presentations in here later.”

“So you’re just going to sit in the dark?”

She shrugs. “It’s fine. Just leave it.”

I do. She can have whatever weird work habits she wants.

“What?” she says expressionlessly. “You’re lingering.”

“Hi to you, too, Viola.” I walk over to her lab table, pulling out the stool next to hers. “You want help?”

She turns a bracing glance at me. “The way I hear it, our deal’s over.”

“What?”

“Our deal. Intel in exchange for—”

“Right.” She must have already heard that Olivia and I broke up. “Well, homecoming’s over.”

“True.”

“And honestly, you were no help with Olivia at all.”

The corners of her mouth flicker with the threat of a smile.

“Yeah,” she says. “True.”

“But I can still do… whatever this is.” I gesture to her screen. “If you want.”

“Do you have access to the ASB Instagram?”

“No.”

“Twitter?”

“No.”

“Website?”

“Nope.”

“So then what’s this mystical ‘help’ you’re offering me?”

“Pleasant as always,” I murmur, and she glances at me, a small divot of hesitation appearing between her brows.

“I meant—” She stops. “I just meant you’re not that useful for this specific task, that’s all.”

“True.” I lean onto my forearms and she jerks away, abruptly skittish. “You all right there, Viola?”

“Fine.” She shifts over. “You’re in my space.”

“Right, sorry.”

She clears her throat. “So… everything with Olivia…?”

I shrug. “She told me the truth.”

“And?”

And it made me realize just how little truth we’d ever really told each other over the course of our relationship. It was our first actual, real talk in a long time. I brought up my fears about my knee, my future. She told me she wasn’t sure who to be anymore. That, I said, was relatable.

“But I’m still your biggest fan,” Olivia promised me. “I know I haven’t seemed like it lately, but I promise, Jack. Always and forever.”

She proved it today, finally chatting with me on our way to class instead of ducking me in the halls like she’s been doing all semester. At lunch we joked about her AP Lit teacher, Mr. Meehan, who’s apparently been tipped off about her budding interest in theater.

“Who told him?” I asked.

Olivia shrugged. “Bash Reyes, probably.”

“Huh.” I’ve been wondering since then why Cesario never mentioned anything to me. Actually, it’s occurring to me that I don’t know how Bash Reyes could be in so many places at once. Band, drama, and an ongoing video game quest? Which, as I suddenly recall, is what I wanted to discuss with Vi, who’s still waiting for an answer.

“We’re good now” is my belated reply to her question about Olivia.

“That’s it?” She arches a brow. “You’re good?”

“Well, it’s been over for a while.” I clear my throat. “And anyway, I was asking a favor? Which,” I add pointedly, “you owe me, since your end of the deal remains unfulfilled.”

I wait for her to argue with me; I look forward to it, I think. Sparring with Vi is the most exciting thing that happens in a day filled with the monotony of slow, underwhelming stability exercises. Well, and knights.

But she doesn’t argue. “I guess that’s true” is all she says.

Under the table her leg jiggles apprehensively.

“Am I making you nervous?” I say, and she shoots me a glare.

“What do you want?”

“I need your support for something.”

“Fine, go team.” She turns away and I nudge her elbow with mine.

“So, every year we do something, right? For students, after finals.”

“I obviously know that.” She types an ironically sunny caption under some pictures on the ASB blog. “I’ve been trying to think of something, I just—”

“Remember that game at MagiCon?” I cut in. “Twelfth Knight?”

She stops typing, so I guess I have her attention.

“I know it sounds dorky, but it’s a fun game,” I admit to her. “So I was thinking maybe we could set up some of the library’s laptops and do a tournament or something. Shouldn’t cost much—I already made a list of all the equipment I know we have.” I pull the page out of my binder, sliding it across the table to her. In the very low light below the shelving by the lab tables, she can see I’ve actually put thought into this: projected costs and possible student organizations we can collaborate with. “Plus a small budget for snacks and drinks.”

She looks down at my notes, her hands still poised and glowing above the laptop keyboard.

“The thing is, this game’s really helped me a lot this year,” I confess. “Primarily because it’s a distraction, but also because it’s really cool. Fun to watch. The graphics are amazing, too.”

“I know.” She doesn’t sound sold.

“Plus we could show a movie after,” I add, “since I assume not everyone will want to play. We could make a night of it, like a lock-in or something… I don’t know. Depends what’s in the budget.” I stop, and she says nothing. “Are you listening?”

She’s staring straight ahead, but then blinks. “Of course I’m listening.”

“And?”

“And what? Like you said, depends what’s in the budget.”

“But you’re on board?”

“What?”

“Okay, seriously, are you just—?”

“Does it matter?” she asks, and it’s as blunt as it always is when Vi Reyes asks me anything, but there’s… something else there. Normally she’s combative and impatient, brusque and rushed, but now she seems seriously wary, like she thinks I’m trying to trick her.

“Yeah, it matters,” I say, bewildered. “Your opinion matters. It’s basically social suicide to admit I like this game,” I point out, to which she rolls her eyes, “so it’d be cool to have an ally. Plus I’d probably screw it up on my own.”

“It’s not like it’s rocket science.” Her mouth twitches. “Or football.”

“Hilaaaaaaarious. So, are you in?”

She looks at me, the heart shape of her face suddenly softer, nearer. It takes hold of me, hard, until the screen of her laptop goes black.

“Yeah, sure, why not,” she says disinterestedly, clearing her throat. “Sounds fun, I guess.”

“You guess? Don’t hurt yourself with that enthusiasm.”

“Is everyone supposed to automatically love the things you love, Orsino?” she sighs.

“I don’t see why not. I’ve got good taste.” This, after all, is the crux of my social gamble. It might be geeky, but not when I do it—even if my social qualifications are contingent on how fast I run.

She flashes me a skeptical glare.

“What? I do,” I insist, and gamble again by angling toward her.

“Mm,” she offers noncommittally, though she doesn’t turn away.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re in.” It feels like we’re having two different conversations; one in words, one in movements, but we seem to agree in both. “You’re the only one who matters. Not like Ryan will care.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, he will not.”

“So it’s basically a done deal, then.” I lean closer.

“Guess so.” So does she.

“You’ll like it. The game.”

“If you say so.”

“I usually play with someone,” I add, close enough now to brush the tips of her fingers with mine. “I’m hoping I can convince him to do the tournament, too.”

“You—what?” She looks startled. Maybe it’s the idea that I really do spend my time playing a computer game, which I admit is an unlikely revelation.

“Yeah, it’s a long story, but—”

All of a sudden the overhead lights flick on, fluorescence buzzing to life. Immediately, it becomes apparent not just how dark the room was, but also how close together we’re sitting; below the lab table my foot is resting on her stool, and her leg is crossed toward mine.

“What are you two doing in the dark?” Kayla asks, frowning with her hand on the light switch. Vi and I instantly shift apart, Vi jamming the laptop’s keyboard awake while I fumble to return my budget page to my notebook.

“Nothing,” we say in unison.

Then I sneak a glance at her. She catches my eye and turns quickly away. Is it guilt? Maybe.

Or maybe it’s something else.

“Whatever,” Kayla informs us ambivalently, flipping her hair over her shoulder before she struts away.