If I Was Your Girl(37)

“Yeah,” Chloe said. “We didn’t have Internet or anything on the farm when I was little. It was just me, my parents, my brothers, the animals, and the farmhands. There was no place I could’ve learned about people like me. I thought I was the only one in the whole world when I was little.”

“Jesus,” I said, touching her shoulder.

“It was almost better,” she said. “Before I knew how I was different it was just a vague notion. So much easier to ignore.”

“But then Bee showed up?”

“Yep,” Chloe said, sniffing sharply and tossing her stick aside. “Come on.” She took my hand and pulled me through one of the corn walls. It was slow-going off the path, but I assumed she knew what she was doing.

“How long were y’all together?” I said as I tried to avoid tripping.

“’Bout a year,” Chloe said.

“Wow,” I said, thinking about how much I’d come to care for Grant in just the short time we’d been together. I paused for a moment, wanting to be careful with my next question. “Do you love her?”

“Thought so,” Chloe said, pushing a cornstalk out of her way so hard it tipped over like a tree. “Till just now I thought so.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans to clean the dirt off. “But what’d we really have in common?”

“Honestly?” I said as I sidled through the gap she’d made. “I’d have to say nothing.”

“Right,” Chloe said. “I just felt like she was my only option, and maybe in this town she is, but being alone’s a perfectly good option for now.” She stopped and turned to face me, her eyes glowing in the moonlight. “And I’ve got friends.”

“You’ve got friends,” I said, and this time she was the one who hugged me. “And hey,” I said, as we pulled apart. “You’re about to graduate. It’s a big world.” As I said the words, I couldn’t help thinking about what I’d told Grant last night.But here in Lambertville, I realized, I didn’t feel that same choking, desperate need to run away. For the first time ever I was living my life, the life I was supposed to live—I was finally the truest version of myself. I just happened to be keeping an enormous secret at the same time.

“You’re right, I know. The world’s waiting,” Chloe said, parting the final wall of corn to reveal the concessions area at the end of the maze.

“See,” I said. “We found our way.”

Chloe smiled wanly. “Somehow.”





18

I opened the door to find Grant standing in a black sweater, black jeans, and black sneakers, with mussed hair and his face painted to look like the cover of a Misfits album.

“Happy Halloween!” he said. His white teeth looked out of place in the middle of his messily painted face.

“No way,” I said. He looked down at my bandolier, brown-and-tan tunic, leather pants, and knee-high boots and his eyes widened. “Is that really your costume?”

“Yeah?” he said, looking suddenly sheepish, which was strange coming from a face that could have belonged to the grim reaper. “This is what I do every year.”

“Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “Not this year. Come with me.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward my bedroom.

“Hi, Mr. Hardy,” he said, waving and nearly stumbling over the coffee table.

“Happy Halloween, Grant,” Dad said without looking up from the book he was reading. Grant had been coming to pick me up and dropping by to say hi after work more often. Dad and I hadn’t talked much since our fight that day in the Walmart parking lot, but we’d reached a sort of uneasy truce as we both went about our lives, getting ready for work and school, dinner in front of the TV.

“What are you supposed to be anyway?” Grant said as I plopped him on the bed and started digging through the box I’d had Mom ship to me a few weeks before.

“Remember in Return of the Jedi, when Leia disguises herself and comes to Jabba’s palace to save Han?” I pointed to the helmet with the segmented mouthpiece and solid visor hanging off my bedpost, and Grant grinned like a little kid.

“Awesome,” he said, only to widen his eyes when I showed him the Boba Fett helmet I’d just pulled out of the box. “What the hell? Where’d you get these?”

“Made them,” I said absentmindedly as I handed him the helmet and started pulling out the painted motorcycle jacket, pants, boots, and gloves that went with it.

“How’d you learn to make stuff like this?” he asked, holding the helmet out to inspect it, his voice reverent.

“I don’t know,” I said, tossing him the jacket and shrugging. I did know, of course: I had learned to make costumes the same year I learned to make sushi. “I used to have a lot more free time.”

“Are you sure this stuff’ll fit me?” Grant said, standing and holding the jacket against him. His face was already hidden behind the green-and-red helmet’s opaque, T-shaped visor.

“It’ll be tight,” I said, “but yeah. We’re almost the same height.” I shrugged, embarrassed. “Sorry I’m such a giantess.”

“I like it,” he said, holding the helmet under his left arm and holding my hand with his right. “You’re like … an Amazon.”