Chapter Thirty-Six #2
At a loss for words, Principal Waters pretends to adjust his tie. He opens his mouth, and I catch Mom leaning forward, almost like she’s about to buck at him. He flinches, closing his mouth.
“Now I see why they pulled that poor girl out of school for the rest of the day,” she says, standing up.
I stand up with her. “You better get your priorities straight before I hire an attorney to do it for you. And if I ever hear that my daughter was bullied on your watch again, you best expect we will all be right back here.”
She turns for the door, her back to Principal Waters, cutting him off from saying anything more.
She holds the door for me, pointedly looking in the direction of the office outside instead of even risking catching a peripheral of Principal Waters, now standing behind his desk.
I duck out, doing as I’m told when Mom tells me to get what I need from my locker and that she’ll make sure we’re good to leave before I meet her back here.
I move quickly through the now-empty halls. First period is in full swing, leaving me to echo my way back to the scene of the crime. I fight back tears, pushing against the overwhelming desire to crumple on the floor right here, against the fear of what comes next.
She knows.
I can spin this, though. My mom would believe me over Principal Waters, believe my version of the story.
It’s a joke. Someone played a joke on us, the committee presidents.
I could say that the members often referred to us as moms, co-parents to our club of pretend children.
It’s one disastrous, inappropriate joke.
I rehearse over and over what to say, talking to myself as I follow a diligent and responsible car length behind Mom the whole way home. I pull into the driveway behind her. She parks. I park. I wait, noting how she gets out of her car without her work bag or her purse.
Instead, she comes to my car and sits down in the passenger seat, the door closing us in a suffocating, deafening box.
“I’m gay.”
The word chokes around the lump in my throat, tears spilling over, my fingers wrapping around the wheel desperately like it’s my lifeline, the lifeline I need to keep from falling apart completely. I hold it like it’s Hannah’s hand and I can hold it tight enough to make myself feel better.
“I’m so sorry,” I sob.
She pulls me to her, my top half awkwardly folding over the center console so my head can rest on her shoulder.
“Clarity, you have nothing to apologize for.”
“But all of this,” I say. “It’s such a mess.”
She runs her fingers along my baby hairs, tucking them back into my braids. It’s so motherly, the motion slowly quieting my pounding heart.
“Did—did you tell Dad?” I ask, pulling back so I can see her face.
She just nods, and I buckle again.
“I didn’t know what to do,” I explain. “I didn’t want to disappoint you. I didn’t want to embarrass you—”
“Clarity,” Mom says, her voice soft. She cups my chin, holding my face so that I’m forced to look at her. “We are not disappointed or embarrassed. Okay? Please know that. We love you. This doesn’t change that.”
She pulls me to her again, and I sob into her shoulder of smiling ducks. I can feel the fabric wet against my cheek, wet with my fear and all the heartache and the secrets.
“I’m sorry if we did anything to make you feel like we wouldn’t love you, Clarity. We love you so, so much,” she says, her voice wobbly in my hair. Her shoulders shake gently as she whispers, “You’re my baby,” over and over.
“I was scared because, at church, you agreed whenever Pastor would say things. And the Bible says—”
“The Bible tells me to love you, Clarity,” Mom says, her voice no longer shaky.
She pushes me to arm’s length so she can look me in the eye, our tearstained cheeks mirroring each other.
“Don’t you ever let anyone tell you something different.
The Bible tells us to love each other. And before the Bible, before God, my heart tells me to love you.
“You are my daughter. I don’t care who you love, as long as you’re happy and healthy and I’m in your life. Nothing will change that, okay?”
“Okay—I mean, yes,” I say, using the backs of my hands to wipe my face clean.
Mom tries to do the same, searching my car for a moment.
“You should keep tissues in your car,” she says, laughing. “Maybe we can get you some, and a couple air fresheners, or one of those little car oil diffusers,” she goes on, looking around like she didn’t test drive the car before she and Dad bought it for me and this is her first time seeing it.
We both come back to ourselves. Our faces are still sticky, but no more runny noses and tears.
“So,” she says after a while, “Hannah?”
“Hannah,” I say, feeling the contradiction between the salt water drying around my eyes and the smile taking over my face.
“How long?”
I feel the weight in her words, in the encouraging smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
The question is like a sheer film covering, How long have you felt like you had to hide this from us?
I see the hurt, and guilt presses between our palms as she gives my hand a squeeze.
There is this distance between us, but it’s not because my parents are too busy for me.
It’s because I assumed that they were content being far away, and I didn’t make any attempt to bring them closer. I didn’t ask.
“Hannah was a counselor at Camp Refuge. We’ve gone to the same school for years, but we never really talked before this summer… and it turns out we had a lot to talk about.”
“That’s good, honey.”
“She saved the committee. I told her about how we didn’t have enough members, so she got the field hockey team to join so that we wouldn’t have to shut down. That’s why we’re copresidents.
“And that’s why I, uh, want her to be my date for the pumpkin chucking.”
“Yeah?” Mom says, her voice lightening up.
Her eyes are glassy, but her smile is full. I remember how excited she got when she imagined me chucking a pumpkin with a guy. I wonder if she’s picturing it with Hannah now, if the idea of me happy with Hannah makes my mom happy.
“Well, we do have the rest of the day off,” she adds, laughing a little. “We can finally go shopping for your festival outfit.”
I can’t help but crack a small smile. “I guess we can.”