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"I have noticed several times that people don't think I know how to behave, even when I'm trying as hard as I can.”
Pippi Longstocking
It’s a Saturday afternoon, and Darcy finds themselves on their own front step, hand-in-hand with Tara as they put their key in the lock. Their parents are up North for the weekend for a distant relative’s wedding (Darcy hadn’t wanted to go, and their parents hadn’t asked anyway, which suited them just fine) so, for a few days, they can breathe easy.
They had spent Friday night at Tara’s, as had become their shared routine. Darcy hadn’t been planning to mention it, really, much preferring the warm glow of Tara’s house to the pervasive chill of their own, but as they had sat on Tara’s bed this morning and watched her pull out her childhood dance memorabilia – delighting in the tiny tap shoes, and the long skirt she used to wear for her character classes, lined around the hem with a two-tone pink ribbon – they had been overcome with a warm wash of affection, and an irrepressible desire to share in the sharing.
Tara had held the skirt up to the lesbian pride flag Darcy had helped her tape above her bed a few months before, laughing as she compared the colours with the ribbon. Well, she’d said, maybe I should have always known.
It had tumbled out, then, before Darcy had a chance to stop themselves: come to mine, please, and I’ll show you my room. Tara had paused, and looked over in surprise, before grinning and jumping back down onto the bed with delight, Darcy laughing as they both bounced with the force of it. Tara’s immediate enthusiasm for the idea had gone a long way to soothing the queasy feeling that had risen as soon as the suggestion left their mouth; there wasn’t much they wouldn’t do to keep her smiling like that.
Now, as they walk up the driveway, Darcy feels… normal about it, they think. After all, without the oppressive presence of their parents, it’s just a house. And it's Tara. Tara, who had never once judged them, or tutted, or rolled their eyes, exasperated, and told them to quiet down or chill out. Tara, who deserved to be let in - who Darcy wanted to let in.
Still, after a lifetime of being two very different people on either side of this door, Darcy doesn’t quite know how to behave when they push it open; as soon as they are over the threshold, it’s like the house itself presses down around them with a sense of foreboding. Darcy stops for a moment, Tara colliding with the back of them as she tries to follow behind.
“Darce? You OK?” Tara asks, confused.
“Just, one second… Mum?” Darcy calls, suddenly terrified that they’ve got it all wrong: that their Mum will be here after all, and they’ll have to watch, helpless, as her thick, poisonous cloud consumes Tara - all Darcy’s efforts to protect her from it laid to waste.
There’s no answer though – the coast is clear. Darcy’s shoulders loosen slightly. They glance at Tara, who’s looking back at them, eyes searching and concern clear as she bites at her lip. When she sees the look on Darcy’s face, though, she smiles encouragingly and pulls them a little closer by their joined hands.
“We can just go back to mine if you’d rather, babe,” she says, lifting her other hand up to cradle Darcy’s forearm, and stroke a thumb over the thin skin of their inner elbow, “no pressure.”
Darcy takes a breath. “Nope!” They say brightly, “I promised you a room tour, and you’re getting a room tour. Come on and step right in – please keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times.” They want to be the person they should be, for Tara: the half of them that they know for sure she loves.
Tara narrows her eyes slightly, even as she lets herself be pulled inside, and gives them that look she gives when she knows they’re faking it.
The thing is, Darcy is loud, is gregarious – they’re pretty sure that would all still be true even if they weren’t overcompensating for the tense silence at home – but Tara’s the first one who’s ever been able to tell when they have stepped over that thin border from self-expression to performance.
Darcy had even asked her, once, a little suspiciously, if she could read minds. I just know you, Tara had said, shrugging and laughing fondly as she looked up at them with that smile of hers, school tie hanging loose around her neck.
(That had been somewhere between kiss three and four, Tara still oscillating around the edges of her feelings about it all. Even then, though, Darcy had known that they would be brave, and bold, for the both of them for as long as it took: Tara was worth it.)
Darcy lets themselves settle back into that now-familiar sensation of being seen. “I mean it,” they say, with a little less pomp, “I’m excited to show you.”
Tara looks at them for a moment, then breaks out into a wide smile. “OK,” she nods, “I’m excited to see.”
They giggle as they run up the stairs together. Darcy doesn’t bother showing her the rest of the house, and Tara doesn’t ask. They both know it’s not really home, anyway.
Tara gasps, delighted, when Darcy pushes the door to their room open, the beige of the hallway giving way to their own little oasis. The walls and the linens are in line with the rest of the house – beige, and unforgiving – but Darcy’s spent years now assimilating bright and beautiful things: stealing supplies from art class to make paper bunting, and streamers; picking up odds and ends from charity shops when they could afford to; and shoplifting little trinkets from chains like Urban Outfitters when they couldn’t. Every possible surface is covered in colour, and there are little oddities scattered everywhere: a cracked disco-ball dial-up phone, a singular, very ornate cowboy boot, and a stretchy He-Man action figure with a mohawk, to name a few.
It’s the one thing Darcy has never budged on, and, consequently, the one thing that their mother had ever backed down about. When Darcy had determinedly started to rebuild it all again after their mother’s third attempt at clearing it out – home-made decorations torn down, and prized items swept into the bin over Darcy’s tearful protests - she had thrown her hands up in defeat and elected for indifference instead, save the occasional pointed comments about Darcy living in filth.
Even still, it felt like a victory.
“It’s a bit of a mess,” Darcy admits, darting forward and moving a pile of dirty clothes from the bed to the washing basket.
“Darcy,” Tara says, still standing by the door with a look of wonder on her face, “it’s amazing. This is going to sound silly, but it looks like you.”
Darcy feels it again, then: the warm glow of recognition.
“Are you saying I look like He-man?” Darcy challenges, picking up the figurine by his elasticated arm, not quite ready to lean into the vulnerability of the moment.
Tara just shrugs. “That depends. Do you want to look like He-Man?” She asks it in the way she always does – genuinely, without an ounce of artifice – and Darcy knows that no answer they could give would phase her. It was one of the things that had first pulled Darcy in: this girl with the kind, calm energy radiating from her, who didn’t join in with the sighing and the nudging that went on when Darcy was sent out of class for talking, or daydreaming, or being distracted again. Darcy always had the sense that they could tell her anything, even before they got locked in that music room.
Darcy smiles. “Maybe sometimes,” they admit, before pinging him over to the other side of the room by the stretchy body. He makes a satisfying slap as he hits the wall, and they both laugh as he slowly peels off and falls to the floor.
Tara walks over to Darcy, putting her hands on their shoulders, and sliding them up their neck until she’s cupping their jaw, thumbs sliding over the skin of their face. Darcy hums at the touch, marvelling that something like this could be happening in the same room where they had once read Sugar Rush, before hiding it under the mattress and closing their eyes, imagining what it would be like to kiss a girl.
Imagining it quietly, like they would be overheard somehow.
“The room looks like you because it’s beautiful, and bright, and absolutely uncategorisable,” Tara clarifies, and leans forward to plant a kiss at the side of Darcy’s mouth.
Darcy catches her round the waist and pulls her forward for another kiss, suddenly bubbling over with gratitude that she’s here, in Darcy’s childhood bedroom. There’s a strange comfort in showing someone the fire that forged you.
“I love you,” Darcy says when they part.
“I love you, too,” Tara replies, and for once, every part of Darcy hears it, “thank you for showing me this. When we get you out of here for good, you can paint our room whatever colour you want.”
Darcy smiles at her, already knowing what they’ll pick; Tara’s bedroom at home is painted a light, sky-blue, and over the years it’s become the colour Darcy sees behind their eyelids whenever they feel any strong, positive emotion. Even on the nights Darcy doesn't stay at Tara’s, and they don't sleep particularly well, it brings them unimaginable comfort to know that Tara is lying there, a few miles away, surrounded by that soft hue, and with two people who love her as deeply as Darcy does just down the hall.
“I can’t wait,” they say, because it’s true, and the whole making it out of here for good thing has never felt more possible than when they’re with Tara, “now, come on, I want you to see all of it.”
*
They pass the next few hours with Tara rifling through Darcy’s things, as Darcy sits on the bed and talks her through her the origin of each trinket, or poster, or tapestry. Tara is equally thrilled with each tale, and Darcy loves watching her move around the room like she belongs there. For the first time, their room feels like a place they want to be, rather than somewhere to retreat to.
The sun is getting low, but Darcy is relaxed, knowing that their parents are staying the night in whatever mid-rate hotel they had found in York. Darcy is sure that at this very moment their mother is complaining to the staff about the cleanliness, or the noise, and their father is standing a few steps behind as he answers work emails and nods along with her tirade. There is a comfort in predictability, too.
“What’s this, then?” Tara asks, reaching down into the bottom shelf, past a pile of half-finished braided bracelets.
(Darcy had decided to make each of their friends one with the colours of their respective pride flags, as both a surprise and an offering - a thank you for putting up with me and sorry for being a bit much, sometimes sort of thing. They had sat unfinished for weeks now, though, after Darcy came up against that predictable, aggravating wall where the thought of doing something wrong became worse than the thought of not doing it at all.)
Darcy feels a familiar stab of guilt and inadequacy as they watch Tara gently place the bracelets off to the side, promising themselves that today will be the day they see it through to the end.
Tara is paying the bracelets no mind though, instead reaching down to the shelf again to pull out a book with a bright yellow jacket, and a cartoon of ginger, pigtailed girl smiling brightly from the cover. “Pippi Longstocking! Cute! I think I used to have one of these, too,” Tara exclaims, turning the book over in her hand.
Darcy’s breath catches slightly when she sees the familiar tome. They feel caught out, somehow, even though there’s no reason to be. After all, Tara has a shelf of her favourite children’s books on proud display in her room. They had even looked through them together, once, as Tara had talked her way through the memories she associated with them, Darcy rapt with attention at the precious glimpse into her childhood.
Whilst they had been sitting there together, pouring over Ballet Girls, and The Velveteen Rabbit and The Little Prince, Tara’s mother had popped in to check on them. When she’d first opened the door, Darcy had gone to cover up the books for a split second - acting on reflex to try and protect Tara’s precious trove of memory from unwelcome eyes - knowing that if their own mother ever walked in on a similar scene, she would laugh derisively and make some cutting comment that would forever mar the comfort of them with her bitterness.
This had been relatively early on, before Darcy knew Tara’s family properly. Tara had placed her hand on their arm and squeezed, murmuring it’s alright, and Darcy had laughed, embarrassed, before quickly pulling their arms back.
Tara’s mum hadn’t commented on it, instead apologising for startling them, and telling them both that dinner was nearly ready. She had paused on her way out, though, and turned back around to gently remind Darcy that they could stay over whenever they needed to. Darcy had just nodded, and picked up The Little Prince again, studying the lonely little boy on the cover to avoid eye contact.
Tara reaches further back in the shelf again. “You have more! Is this the whole set?” She asks, sounding delighted.
“Yeah, every single one,” Darcy confirms, “the comics too.”
Tara smiles as she runs a finger down one of the well-loved spines. “They were your favourite,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
“Still are, to be honest,” Darcy admits as they walk over and pick up one of the other volumes.
“Oh,” Tara exclaims as she flips the cover of one open and turns it round to face Darcy. “Property of Harvey Greene Grammar School Library. Explain yourself, sir!”
Darcy giggles at the plummy voice Tara has put on. “It’s not what you think,” they promise.
“Really?”
“Well, I did steal it,” Darcy admits, and they both look at each other for a second before dissolving into laughter again. “It’s not a very exciting story, though,” Darcy continues.
“I want to hear all your stories,” Tara replies stubbornly, and how can Darcy argue with that?
“Fine, it was in Year Seven, and we were doing some joint event with Truham - I can’t remember what - and this smarmy little Truham boy was going about asking all the girls if they had to wear a bra yet.”
“Oh, ew,” Tara interjects. “Did the teachers not do anything?”
“Nah, I don’t think they noticed, and you know me and my mistrust of authority,” they smile at each other, “anyway, when he asked me, I stamped on his foot – hard – and made him cry.”
“Oh, excellent.”
“Yeah, well, I was pretty chuffed with myself. But, one of the teachers saw and sent me to the library for detention.” Tara frowns in consternation, and Darcy laughs. “It’s OK, Jonesy, it was, like, five years ago!”
“Still.”
“Anyway, I got to the library and didn’t fancy writing my lines, so I went and hid in the back and started scratching my name into one of the shelves to exact my revenge.”
Darcy is, admittedly, glossing things over a little. They had stamped on that boy’s foot, and had been sent to detention, and they did hide round the back shelves to commit their act of petty vandalism, but, in reality, it hadn’t been out of any particular drive for revenge. Rather, they had been desperate to find something to channel all their nervous energy into after the confrontation in the classroom.
The boy in question had been slinking around the room, leaving a trail of discomfort behind him from the moment he arrived. Darcy had clocked him immediately – he clearly thrived on manipulating insecurity, and would use whatever tools he needed to do so. There was a hard glint in his eye that Darcy recognised all too well; if there was one thing they abhorred, it was a bully.
Still, when he reached their table, the question had taken them by surprise, and hot, angry tears had risen to their eyes almost immediately. Not because it was a horribly invasive and crass thing to ask – although it was both those things, too – but because it was a stark reminder that with every passing day, everyone around them was straying further from the middle ground that Darcy had grown so comfortable on. Darcy was eleven, and suddenly boys were boys, and girls were girls, and everyone else was acting like that made total sense.
So, they had stamped on his foot. Darcy already knew at this point that they didn’t really want to be a girl, but, god, they didn’t want to be like this boy either - or like any of his friends who jeered and whooped as he limped back over to their table. That incongruence had been what was hammering through their mind as they scratched down on the wooden surface of the shelf with the edge of their ruler, desperate to leave a permanent mark.
“And then you saw the book?” Tara prompts gently when Darcy has been silent for a few second.
“And then I saw the book,” Darcy echoes. “It just… caught my eye.”
It had been the illustration on the front that had done it – the patchwork clothes, the too big shoes, and the grinning look of defiance on the face of the child staring out from the cover.
Then, after they had picked it up and started reading, ruler lying forgotten on the floor, Darcy had felt a strange squeeze of jealousy when they’d realised what Pippi really was – a motherless child, with limitless freedom to roam. She was brave, and strong, and even had a bit of a temper, but she was always forgiven. She got to wear what she wanted, and be who she wanted, through sheer force of will alone.
“I get it,” Tara whispers, looking down at the illustration of the book she’s holding - a volume of comics titled Pippi Fixes Everything. “Do you… would you want me to read some to you?”
Darcy blushes and leans forward slightly so they can touch the smooth skin of Tara’s ankle, noticing that her socks have tiny daisies stitched on them. The gentle, genuine way she has asked the question makes Darcy’s skin tingle.
“If you want to,” they reply, “I mean… I wouldn’t be opposed.”
“I want to,” Tara nods, “come on, lay your head in my lap.”
Tara sits back on the bed and smooths the front of her skirt down, gesturing Darcy over. Darcy goes gladly, laying down on their back so they can lay their head onto the pillow of her soft legs. They let out a breath, melting into the warmth of her body.
Tara smiles down at them. “Your hair is tickling my leg,” she remarks, running a hand over Darcy’s head.
“Sorry,” Darcy says, going to tuck it behind their ear.
“No, no,” Tara pushes their hand away, and smooths the hair back into place. “I like it,” she says, grinning.
“Are you trying to make this lovely moment all sexy?” Darcy asks, raising their eyebrows. “Because I don’t think Pippi wants to see that.”
Tara throws her head back and laughs, and Darcy revels in it. “Hush, now, and let me read.”
“Ok, ok.”
“Do you want me to scratch your head whilst I do?” Tara asks gently, and Darcy just nods, closing their eyes against a sudden tide of emotion. Sometimes, it still feels like a fairytale, having affection so freely given like this.
Tara pushes a hand into Darcy's hair, clears her throat, and begins: “Way out at the end of a tiny little town was an old overgrown garden, and in the garden was an old house, and in the house lived Pippi Longstocking.” Darcy lets the familiar words wash over them as Tara’s nails move lightly across their scalp. “She was nine years old, and she lived there all alone. She had no mother and no father, and that was of course very nice, because there was no one to tell her to go to bed just when she was having the most fun…”