You Should See Me in a Crown(50)

We stare at each other for a moment, breathing hard. I’m frustrated, so freaking frustrated. She doesn’t get it. She couldn’t possibly. She doesn’t understand that the stakes are always higher for me, that I don’t get the option of not being in control. Joining the race and then dropping out or going to a party without a game plan and strategy are decisions that have no consequences in her life. Amanda gets to do things because they’re fun or easy or sound good, not because she has something to lose. But that’s not how things work for me. That’s not how they’ve ever worked.

My eyes are burning a little, and I know it’s because I’m not too far from crying. “I told you I had to be cool about this. You don’t understand. It’s … it’s different for me.”

“It’s not different, Liz! You like girls, so do I. So what? It’s 2020.” She shakes her head. “Campbell is backward, but it’s not as bad as you make it seem. I’ll be there to support you through your coming out. This is only this hard because you’re making it this hard.”

Now it’s my turn to be indignant. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! You didn’t grow up here, so you don’t know how people can be. If people knew that I … that I, um, whatever. If they knew, I wouldn’t have even the slightest chance of winning—”

My hand shoots up to cover my mouth. I didn’t mean to say it.

I know what it sounds like. I know how it feels when I hear Gabi say it, and I know how it feels to believe it myself. I don’t want Amanda to see me that way, but it’s the truth. No queer girl is ever going to have a chance at winning prom queen in Campbell. The race is hard enough for me as it is without adding the fact that I’m queer to the mix.

“Wait.” She takes a step back toward the sidewalk. “This is about prom? All these secrets? All this hiding has been about you wanting to win that stupid crown?”

“It’s—it’s complicated! You don’t understand—” I wave my hands around as I try to find a way to explain it to her. Explain everything—that every time I tried to tell her the truth about the scholarship and the secrets, it felt like bursting the bubble where things between us were simple and light. But I’m coming up short. My stomach flips instead.

“I do understand, Liz. I understand that you are not who I thought you were.” She pulls her keys out of her pocket and starts walking backward toward her car. She stops for a second and just looks at me in a way she never has before. Like she’s seeing me for the first time. I hate it. “You can do low-key all by yourself. Because I’m not interested anymore.”

She turns and runs the rest of the way to her Jeep without stopping to look back at me, and I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to kick myself for not just saying “Who cares?” and doing this the right way from the beginning. And worst of all, I wish I knew what the right way would have been.

I feel terrible. Sweat is beading at my brow, and my heart is beating faster than it should be. I haven’t felt like this in a long time, like I can’t control my breathing. My stomach clenches, and I wrap an arm around it. God, it’s just like elementary school again. I feel like—

“Lighty,” Jordan’s voice comes from behind me. “What’s going on—”

And he doesn’t even have a chance to get it out, because as I turn to face him, I puke all over his precious Yeezy hoodie.





“Up and at ’em, Lighty!”

I jolt upright and immediately wish I didn’t. My mouth tastes disgusting. I don’t know where I am.

I look down at the oversized Ohio State crewneck I’m wearing, bleached and threadbare from years of washes and wears, and then around the room I don’t recognize. Sunlight streams in through the curtains and across the huge flat-screen on the wall connected to the Xbox with its cords knotted together and strewn about. The pile of dirty clothes overflowing in a basket in the corner. Framed pictures of the Jennings men in different football jerseys from peewee to professional.

My eyes finally settle on a smirking, shirtless Jordan Jennings in the doorway, and I remember how I ended up here. I’ve become such a cliché.

“You look like hell, my friend.” He pushes off the frame and sits on the side of the bed. He grabs my hand from where it’s clutching the blue plaid comforter close to my chest and drops two aspirin in it. He sets a bottle of water on the end table. “You did your anxiety-vom thing. You looked so pitiful afterward, I just brought you upstairs to relax for a second, and by the time I came back, you were asleep.”

I look at the time on my phone and see it’s just past nine o’clock.

“If you think I look bad”—I pop the pills in my mouth and swallow them down dry. I can’t even muster up the will to open the bottle—“then you should see the other guy.”

He snorts. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, killer. We’ve all had our nights. I peed on Lawson’s dad’s cop car last summer after the Fourth of July bonfire.”

He stands up and crosses the room to his dresser. He grabs a fresh T-shirt for himself and a pair of sweatpants, which he tosses to me. He’s smiling again as he heads to the door.

“Come on, sunshine! What you need is some good ol’ greasy cheer-up food.”