Chapter 18 Jessa
JESSA
I’m back at Touchstone in the mosh pit, I can see Bird across from me, she’s falling under, in danger, Doc Martens and Vans stepping on her.
I try to dive for her, help her, but I’m pulled back and up, the crowd surfing me away from her, dozens of hands on me, and Bird is getting farther and farther away.
I try to scream, but all that comes out is noise rock, my voice booming and still doing absolutely nothing.
Sharp barks bring me out of the dream, and I’m still in a sleep stupor when I realize Falstaff is yelling at someone outside for performing the extreme offense of walking by our home. I roll over and come face-to-face with Bird. Oh shit.
The events of last night come flying back at me like the backhand from the guy at the bar.
I look at her, sleeping lightly, small puffs of air escaping her lips, the curve of them still so enticing.
I can’t see her eyes now, but I remember her looking at me, her eyes kind and understanding, the way she leaned in, her lips on mine, the taste of her in my mouth, sweet like candy.
A thrill rushes through me and I reach out and touch one of her mermaidy locks, the hair soft and still wavy and beautiful in spite of my hands having run through it for what seemed like forever and fleeting all at the same time.
She’s the first girl I’ve ever woken up beside.
She’s the only one who’s ever stayed. It’s like a miracle, and for a second I think my heart’s gonna fly outta my chest until reality shoves it back in.
She didn’t have an escape, she was stoned, did she actually want to be here or was she just tired?
Doubt creeps in, malignant and gross, and a big hole inside me opens up and starts to swallow everything good about this moment.
She sighs and shifts and I wonder if I’ve done something wrong.
I always feel like this when I do manage to kiss or touch another girl.
My touch has never been good for anyone, my affection a toxic thing that leads to rumors and hate and alienation.
When she wakes up, she’ll have regret. I already have it for fucking up and loving her with some horrible part of myself.
I know the books and articles I’ve read on coming out tell you it’s okay and normal and fine, but the television and radio stations Mom likes to frequent (God I hate Rush Limbaugh) say something different.
Bird’s own sister, Olivia Fucking Rubens, says different.
They say I’m recruiting, I’m spreading disease, they say I’m drawing people to sin…
. All those voices versus the small online communities I’ve connected with fight inside my head, and those awful voices win.
They always win.
Bird being here in my bed is a problem and not because Mom and Dad might come in, but because somehow I’ve drawn her into this horrible space where I live and now I need to make this a short-term visit.
Anyone even hears she slept over, her goddamned stepsister will latch on and spread it all over school.
My problems are dirt on her face, and even if somehow she did turn out as queer as me, god knows how close I am to becoming Mack and all her issues.
For fuck’s sake, I’m sitting here hating myself first thing in the morning—isn’t that the epitome of mental illness? If I’m not going to hell, I’m going to the psych ward, and Bird doesn’t deserve that.
But she’s wearing an old Xena T-shirt of mine and it’s curved around her torso, uncovered, allowing a peekaboo of her waist, and I can remember my hands grabbing there and pulling her in, the soft heat of her body against mine.
How much more I wanted… Fuck, I have to stop.
Stifling a groan as I feel the soreness in my neck from a direct hit to the face, I force myself to sit up.
Guilt and I are best friends, and we both need coffee.
I slide out of bed, grab a pair of jeans from my laundry basket, and pull them on before heading downstairs to see that everything’s settled. Bird doesn’t stir, still peaceful. Still blissfully unaware of what I have done.
Downstairs, Mom and Dad are sitting drinking coffee in the kitchen nook.
Dad looks up at me with a concerned face.
He must have realized when they got home and Mack was here but not her bike that something happened.
Seeing the new bruise blooming on my face confirms it.
His lips form a hard line. Mom is clueless as ever, sets down the book she’s reading, and says, “Morning, honey, would you like waffles? I’m thinking about making some. ”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, pouring myself a cup from the percolator. It’s already cool enough to sip.
I’m trying to figure out how to broach the topic of Mack when Mom heads to the counter. “How many do you want?” She’s pulling out the big mixing bowl.
“Um, just one is good. But my friend Bird stayed over, so she might want one or two.” Can’t let my shame make Bird starve.
Dad lets out a low whistle and Mom drops the bowl. It clatters to the ground with a hefty thump, but the glass is heavy enough that it doesn’t break, just rolls across the floor for Falstaff to inspect with a couple of sniffs. No one says shit.
Mom goes to pick up the bowl and I can see a scowl on her face. I’ve never had a girl over before. They assume we slept together, of course, because lesbians can’t have friends that are girls. I mean, we did—sort of, like not all the way—but we did kiss, we did share the bed, we did touch….
I know I’m beet red when Dad clears his throat and says, “Oh, Bird, is that your friend with the project? The one you used my CD burner for? You two are getting to be good pals.”
“Kostas…” my mom murmurs low. I know she’s not okay with his support.
“Grace, I’m excited to meet one of her school friends other than Dade, I think it’s good she’s finally diversifying,” he says, then goes back to his magazine.
“Kostas, I really think—”
“She had to help me get Mack home last night,” I blurt out, suddenly ashamed on a whole new level. Definitely not wanting to get my parents in an argument. I have no fight left. “Mack was starting a fight at the Touchstone. She’s not doing well.”
The confession has a nicely sterilizing effect on the previous conversation. I see them exchange we don’t talk about this faces, and then I decide to push forward.
“She’s cycling fast, she went from manic to depressed in minutes last night, I think it’s time to—”
“I think it’s time for you to wake your friend and see if she wants walnuts or chocolate chips in her waffle,” Mom interrupts me.
“Seriously? She needs more—”
“Jessamine, listen to your mother,” Dad cuts me off. He won’t even look at me. This is so fucked.
I wait a second to see if either of them will even consider what I’m suggesting.
More hospital, more rehab, more outpatient therapy, more pretending we aren’t on the fourth go-round of this.
But Dad is buried in his copy of Wired and Mom is cracking eggs and reaching for the vanilla.
I roll my eyes and head back upstairs, coffee in hand, trading one uncomfortable situation for another.
When I get back to my room, I see Bird is sitting up in bed, with the confused look of the just awake. She glances over at me and a half smile crosses her face. I can’t tell what it means. Is she upset or okay with things? What if last night wasn’t okay? What if it was?
“Hey, Jessa,” she says softly.
“Hi.” I actually wave at her. Smooth move, Ex-Lax.
She pats a spot on the bed beside her, but that is the way of trouble. I pull my desk chair over and sit, looking down at my hands, picking at already chipped nail polish, not sure what to say, not wanting to look up and see her beauty and know I shouldn’t have it. I don’t deserve it.
“So, Mom wants to know if you want walnuts or chocolate chips in your waffles.”
“O-kay,” she says, drawing it out to show she’s unsettled. Great, I’m unsettling.
“So chocolate or walnuts, or I guess we could do both?” So fucking awkward.
“Jessa?” She stands up, is close to me, too close; I cringe, knowing I shouldn’t want to lean into her arms, wrap myself around her, take her back into bed. But she smells like peach sorbet and honeysuckle, and I’m fighting everything in me not to touch.
“Jessa, will you look at me?” She reaches gently toward me and tilts my chin with her hand and I will not cry. I jump up and grab my mug of coffee from the desk.
“Dad made coffee. It’s jet fuel, but it does the job.”
Great, I hope she doesn’t think I’m intimating that it’ll make her poop. “So, it’ll wake you up, I mean.” I am graceless.
“Jessa, are you okay?”
“Last night was a lot, I mean with Mack, and I, I dunno, just still processing.”
She nods like she’s thinking it over inside.
“But it was a fun time, like getting smoked out together, that was cool.” Play it cool, maybe she’ll want it like Natalie, a little fun in secret and then back to the bong.
“Yeah, it was nice,” she agrees.
“Super fun.”
“Fun,” she repeats, but she doesn’t look like anything is fun now. She looks upset.
“So, waffles?”
“I dunno, I really should get home and call Kayla. We pretty much abandoned her last night,” she says, and starts collecting her clothes from where they’re hanging in a neat pile over my bamboo screen.
She starts to pull her shirt off, and I turn around right before she reveals her breasts, much as I want to see them, much as I want to be the kind of person she’d want seeing them.
“Uh, you can use my cell,” I say, and point to where it’s charging on the desk. “But you probably don’t want to miss out on Mom’s waffles, they’re pretty stellar.”
“You don’t have to turn around,” she says, and I’m not sure if there’s a touch of wistfulness in her voice. Or is it regret? Or maybe she does actually like me. But that’s not my kind of luck. My kind of luck is by the end of the week I’m on Frontline as the new predator du jour.
“Uh, just giving you privacy.”
She comes up behind me. I can feel the heat of her there and then her arms wrap around me, her breasts press against my back, her head leaning on my shoulder and I so want to turn around and just taste those lips one more time.
Hold her close for just a minute. But regret can show up anytime, and I don’t want this toxicity to spread.
“Jessa, are you okay? ’Cause I won’t tell anyone—”
“And I won’t either, I promise.”
“I was talking about your sister, but okay… I guess. Are you all right?”
I pull out of the embrace, walk over to my wall of liner notes, pretend to inspect the Mary J. Blige pictures, pretend there’s something I want to do other than pull her back into bed, tangle myself in her, and silence all those horrible voices. Jesus, voices, I am a psycho.
“Are you all right?” I ask her instead.
“Yes,” she says in a measured tone, “but you seem off.”
“I’m cool,” I say, though I am definitely not. “Long as you’re cool.”
“I’m cool.”
“Great, then I’ll tell Mom a plain waffle and you can ring up Kayla before you come down.” Before she can say anything more, I’m headed back downstairs into another pit of anxiety, preparing myself to lie, as we always do around the breakfast table.