You Should See Me in a Crown(25)
“Be realistic. Nobody has time to read those things, Marino.”
“What rumors?” My mouth is dry, and my stomach starts to hurt. It’s a sudden thing, the way it feels like all the air is sucked out of the room. “What could people possibly be saying about her? She just got here.”
“Oh, you know, just that she’s kind of, um … How should I put this? Giving definite Teela Conrad vibes.” Gabrielle Marino, who spares no punches, is beating around the bush. And I know why.
Teela Conrad is one of the lead vocalists in Kittredge, and she has been pretty ambiguous about her sexuality over the course of her career. Tabloids are always snapping pictures of her leaving clubs with women or on the red carpet with men, and asking super intrusive questions about her life during press conferences.
She’s even been rumored to be dating Davey Mack, the band’s hot bassist slash colead singer and the closest thing to a real-life Finnick Odair anyone could ever ask for. But she refuses to come out and say what people already assume to be true about her, because, like she croons on their ballad “My Life, My Story,” what she chooses to do should belong to her and the people she shares it with. She doesn’t owe anyone anything.
Their entire last album was about those rumors, and in my opinion, it was easily their best one yet. Because, okay, Teela Conrad is kind of my hero.
“I mean honestly, has she not thought about how this will affect her in the race? She has a pride flag hanging up in her locker and everything.” She waves her hands around her face. “People love drama, a little novelty, but they won’t vote for her if they think …”
She trails off, suddenly at a loss for words.
“If they think she’s queer,” I finish for her. I cross my arms over my chest and look out the window. “It doesn’t go over well in small-town Indiana. Yeah, I get it.”
“Jesus, Marino,” Britt snaps. “This isn’t the forties.”
“Look, that’s not what I meant!” Gabi tries to backpedal. “Like, Liz, it’s different for you! Nobody would ever guess that you’re into girls. I mean, you hide it so well.”
But that’s just it, I’ve never tried to hide it. Not exactly. I just … never made it a thing. Being into girls has never been a huge point of contention for me or my friends. Hell, when I came out to my grandparents, the only thing Grandad asked me was, “So are we giving up them waffle fries at Chick-fil-A now? Because, I’ll tell you what, them things are the closest I’ve ever felt to Heaven.”
No one baked me a cake, no one threw me a party. It just was. And a huge part of that is because I already know what it would be like for me to be out and proud in a place like Campbell County, Indiana.
Silence and shame aren’t the same thing—not by a longshot. But sometimes silence is simpler.
“Well, good thing I canceled the order on my GIRLS JUST WANNA DO GIRLS T-shirt, then, huh?” I laugh, but it’s empty.
I’m looking down at my shoes, a pair of Chelsea booties that used to belong to Gabi’s mom, and holding my wrist like I used to. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, and my eyes are burning at the rim like tears might be inevitable. Sometimes I’m convinced that it’s never going to be enough—the good grades, the low-key clothes and hairstyles and attitude. I’m never going to be the type of person who makes sense to other people. I’m never going to be able to own every part of myself.
“Lizzo, I think what Gabi means is—”
I shake my head quickly and wipe at my nose. I gotta go. I gotta get out of here.
“It’s fine. It’s cool. I get it.” I stand up and walk toward the door. “I’ll meet you guys before first period to hang up the new posters tomorrow morning, okay?”
I say a hasty goodbye to G’s mom, who’s in the kitchen stress-baking some new vegan apple pie recipe, and rush out the front door. I hop onto my bike, which is leaning against the Marinos’ garage. I’ve passed the homes in this neighborhood a thousand times before, pedaled down Gabi’s street and thought of all the lives I could be living inside those big, beautiful houses if I wasn’t me.
I’ve never felt quite like this though. Like I don’t know if I’m running away from something or to it. All I know is that I’m tired, so incredibly tired, of having to run at all.
Gabi has called me no less than ten times since last night, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to answer. It’s not her fault, I guess. Not really, anyway. She was right about Mack, and she was right about Campbell. There’s just no room for any crushes like that for me, at least not now, when so much is riding on this prom thing working out.
But still, it stings that she would say it so frankly. Like my sexuality is a light switch I can flip on and off when it’s convenient. I feel guilty for ignoring G’s calls, but I know what would’ve happened if I’d answered. I would’ve accepted her apologies, and I would’ve pretended like I wasn’t still burning up on the inside about what she said.
I show up to school early anyway though, so that we can hang the posters from Britt’s parents. And it’s a good thing I do, because we’re not the only ones with that idea.
“What the hell happened here?” I ask as I meet Stone and Britt in the Commons. Britt has two venti cups of something hot from Starbucks in her hands and passes one to me when I walk up. I take it graciously. I’m never in a position to turn down good caffeine before eight a.m. “It looks like The West Wing and Carrie had a baby and named it Pretty in Pink.”