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The night Jackie froze, Shauna experienced three distinct emotions. Each followed the previous, as if patiently waiting their turn. It was as if Shauna’s mind was too crowded to house all three at once. Or, maybe, she just wasn’t willing to.
The first was horror: it was the natural response, the visceral response. The next was guilt: it was the human response, the psychological response. The last was relief: it was exclusively Shauna’s response.
When Jackie’s eyes closed for the last time, frozen shut, she took a piece of Shauna with her; and that was fine with Shauna. In fact, Shauna was thrilled.
Jackie was the first person she’d told about, well, how she’d felt about that lipstick red “boob-dress.” It wasn’t that she felt any particular way about that itchy hunk of lace; that was the problem. Judging by Jackie’s enthusiasm turned insistence turned exasperation, her brunette eyebrows curved as if to suggest that the dress was the obvious choice, Shauna was supposed to feel something particular. She was supposed to feel so attractive, so desirable in that dress - features she so desperately hoped to highlight on display for the world. She was supposed to want, so desperately, for boys, like that stalky, sweaty football player whose name she never remembered, to notice her. They were supposed to be in awe of her, their eyeballs practically popping out of their heads when they saw her in her ensemble. The boy part, most of all, seemed like a waste to her. If the end goal was for the boy to get her naked, why wear the dress to begin with?
Still, Shauna could have played along. Nothing was stopping her from zoning out and pulling the dress over her head, flinching as the fabric scratched her shoulders. Yet, that night, she found herself unusually fed up with Jackie, or maybe herself - enough so that she was compelled to say Jackie’s least favorite word right to her face.
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“Shauna,” Jackie calls out condescendingly, rolling her eyes and glancing over in Shauna’s direction. “Just wear the red dress I got you.” Enunciating “red,” she specifies, “The boob-dress.” Jackie leans back onto Shauna’s pastel spring comforter, waiting to hear Shauna concede.
And Shauna waits to hear herself concede, for her lips to mutter in agreement and her hands to reach towards the hanger. She pictures the likely musty dress in her hands, instinctively zoning out. Then, she hears it. She doesn’t immediately process that the “no” came from her lips. It was powerful and confident, as if it came from a place of normalcy. At least, it must have come from somewhere.
Jackie is taken aback, her doe-eyes widening with a combination of surprise and apprehension. She isn’t quite a deer in the headlights, but even her popular girl poker-face can’t disguise the flinch that shakes her body. She stares in Shauna’s direction, eyes glued to the rack of clothes that separates the two. No matter how intent her gaze, she can only make out Shauna’s still silhouette between the gaps in sweaters and blouses. The room is dim, only lit by a litany of fading lamps and the occasional candle.
Refusing to let the silence settle, Jackie retorts, “No?”
After a quick pause, Shauna confirms, “No.”
Jackie waits, posing her legs along the bed like a supermodel on the cover of Vogue. Such is a habit of hers; often, if she appeared attractive enough, any argument was handed to her. Against the collage of jumbled colors and images that is Shauna’s assortment of posters, she is practically framed. Anybody, anywhere in that room is framed. It is only after a few moments that she realizes that this isn’t going to become one of their standard arguments. As Shauna emerges from behind the barrier of gloomy colors and a rainbow scarf, Jackie doesn't see Shauna’s usual indignation. Shauna’s eyebrows arch, allowing her deep brown eyes to widen. Neither can tell who is the deer and who is the headlights.
The attic floorboards creak as Shauna cautiously steps closer to Jackie, refusing to meet her gaze. Shauna is framed by a floral wallpaper that appears to suit Jackie’s tastes more than it does Shauna’s. Jackie should have adorned her popular-girl nonplussed glare - the twist of the eyebrows and exasperation that communicates, very clearly, how right she is. Jackie should have launched into a train of gaslighting, creating the illusion of choice in the matter. All these shoulds, and all Jackie can do is watch and wait. Something deep down tells her that she needs to listen right now.
Shauna can’t identify what had possessed her, and seemingly, Jackie. However, it is powerful: powerful enough to keep her from Jackie’s hazel eyes, which ordinarily captivate her into submission.
She glances rightwards, above Jackie’s head, and notes the poster of Kurt Cobain that she’d haphazardly stuck to the slanted wall with packing tape. Jackie had asked her why Courtney Love wasn’t up there too - wasn’t she part of that scene - and Shauna wasn’t able to answer. She had commented, too, about how Kurt’s flannel was the same color and design as the curtains. Shauna merely offered a stern look.
Jackie should have said something by then - berated or insulted her. The tension in Shauna’s chest is building, and she wishes that she could turn back time, put on the dress, and get out of this. Yet, as her silence continues to convey the seriousness of her statement, she grows further and further from the point of no return.
“Are you going to ask me why?” Shauna bursts out, before anxiously looking to Jackie for a response. Jackie merely smiles comfortingly.
“Do you want me to?” Jackie asks hesitantly. Hesitance isn’t something that Shauna sees from Jackie often. “Because I will. Like, I actually will.” She’d deemed this a sensitive situation, and even Shauna can’t express why it is so sensitive. Why can’t she just fake a smile and wear the dress? Better: why can’t she enjoy the dress?
“I don’t,” Shauna admits, allowing her gaze to meet Jackie’s. Jackie is ready to let that be the end of this, but Shauna adds, after a pause, “But I think you should.”
It is the type of comment that you don’t think about, because if you had, you wouldn’t have let it slip past your lips. Recently, Shauna decided that some secrets are better kept secret, and whatever this is should probably be one of them. What’s another lie for the road?
“Why don’t you-“ Jackie is cut off.
“This is stupid,” Shauna asserts, sighing and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. It falls back quickly, since it is a shorter strand: the type that curls and tickles her ears when her hair is up. She has always loved that feeling.
Shauna expects Jackie to laugh, agree, and tell her to put on the boob-dress. That is the arrangement, usually. She should feel grateful that Jackie played along for this little outburst.
“Why is it stupid?” Jackie questions. When it comes down to it, however, Jackie is a caring person, especially when it comes to Shauna. “Do you just not like the dress? It’s okay if you don’t like the dress, Shauna. I mean, I think it’s really hot, and I think that you’d be stupid not to wear it, but if you really do hate it, you can just tell me. You can disagree with me.” The last aside is often necessary.
“I want to like the dress. I really do.” Shauna admits slowly.
“Okay?” Jackie replies, impatience setting in. “Then wear the dress or don’t wear the dress. Why does this matter to you so much?” The question appears mocking, but there is genuinity to it.
“Because I think I should like the dress.” Shauna replies slowly, slouching. She takes in Jackie’s silhouette, noting how revealing her low-cut floral dress is. Yet, Jackie seems anything but uncomfortable. Shauna could call it exhibitionist, but really, it’s just Jackie being secure in her body - allowing others to see all of her.
“Yeah,” Jackie nods. She offers, matter-of-factly, “I think you should like it. It makes your boobs look fantastic. You know what Randy-”
“I don’t care about Randy,” Shauna blurts out, taking a moment to get her breath under control. She focuses on the multi-colored Christmas lights strung across her room, offering a dim, festive glow that she can’t help but find ironic.
“Okay, then some other boy,” Jackie replies, attempting to be helpful. “Like Jason from Lottie and my’s third period French, or that tall guy - what is his name? Eric? - that Taissa sometimes hangs out with. They’d both-“
“I don’t want a boy to look at my boobs,” Shauna shouts. It almost seems as if the attic shook with her eruption. As is the case with most of what she’d revealed that evening, Shauna doesn’t know where the energy is coming from, where the words are coming from. She’d opened a Pandora’s box that she’d barely been able to admit was there, and now, its consequences are flooding out.
“But they look great, Shauna,” Jackie offers sympathetically. “Any-”
“At all,” Shauna clarifies firmly. “I don’t want to draw attention to them. I don’t want anybody to look at them. I don’t want anything to do with them.” Each assertion is stronger than the last.
“Shauna…” Jackie frowns as she attempts to understand. Rarely has Shauna ever seen this level of concentration, this amount of thought from Jackie. “But you’re a girl,” Jackie states obviously. “That’s what…” She trails off as a sudden realization hits her. “Are you like Van and Taissa?” Jackie blurts out. It’s not derogatory; it’s an epiphany. “I know there’s a word for it…” Shauna knows it, but allows Jackie to figure it out. Jackie whispers, “Lesbian?”
Van and Taissa are an open secret. They are obviously more than friends, but how each Yellowjacket interprets that is up to their own discretion. Lottie thinks it’s adorable, and always smirks when she sees them together. Laura Lee, although never directly acknowledging them, occasionally mentions how there is a Godly plan for both of them. And Jackie, well, Jackie’s priority is leading the team to Nationals. As long as Van and Tai’s dynamic doesn’t mess with their team cohesion, Jackie wouldn’t care if they begin making out on the field. Shauna herself, however, is never quite sure how to feel about Tai and Van. Nonetheless, making out with Jackie in secret doesn’t seem like a hypothetical solution to her problem. Not that she would mind it.
“I don’t think I’m like them,” Shauna states, walking over to the bed. As she sits, the bed springing down under her weight, she instinctively leans over onto Jackie’s shoulder, before stopping herself and shifting back. Jackie doesn’t let this fly. She pulls Shauna back onto her shoulder, allowing Shauna’s head to fall into her lap. Shauna is enveloped in Jackie’s perfume - a rosey, floral scent that she can barely name or describe, but is uniquely Jackie. “I don’t want girls to look at them either,” Shauna continues, “I don’t want anyone to look at them.” She glances up at Jackie, noting the way her curled hair falls. “I think there’s something wrong with me. I’m supposed to want boys to look at them, aren’t I?”
Jackie doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t because she knows the answer to Shauna’s questions. At least, she knows her answer. But what good would it do? Jackie is a talker, but now, she’s setting a new record for silence.
Shauna is shaking, her breath coming out in arrythymic bursts. Jackie leans over and begins to stroke her hair, calming her, and then pulls her out of her lap, bringing her upright and next to Jackie. Once Shauna is balanced, Jackie pulls back, leaving them face to face a bed’s distance apart.
Jackie brings a grin to her face, offering her signature wide-eyed look of understanding. It’s the kind of look that, for that moment, only belongs to you. “Enough about what you don’t want to be, Shipman. It’s exhausting,” she rolls her eyes mockingly, and then smirks. Putting her hands on Shauna’s shoulders, she asks, “What do you want to be?”
“I don’t know.” Shauna admits after a moment. It terrifies her, not knowing. She’s supposed to be the more intelligent of the two, the one with the logical counters to Jackie’s constant patter. Yet, she can’t even figure out herself.
“Alright…” Jackie considers, “Next question: How do you want to look?” Before Shauna can reply, Jackie elaborates, “Like, what parts of your body do you want boys, or uh, girls, uh, people to like see and want to look at?”
The answer comes quickly. “My shoulders.” Shauna isn’t sure where it comes from, but she is sure that it’s true.
Almost on cue, Jackie stands up and strides over to Shauna’s racks of clothes, unbothered as the creaking floorboards mark her steps. After disappearing into the racks, she emerges with a lipstick red, vertical striped shirt and a matching flannel, the colors of both of which reminding Shauna of the boob-dress that had started this ordeal.
“Okay,” Jackie begins, talking herself through her process. “This shirt always makes your tits look flat.”
“That’s why you always tell me not to wear it,” Shauna retorts matter-of-factly.
“Shut up, Shipman,” Jackie quips kindly, tossing the shirt over to Shauna, who catches it in her lap. “And I think you stole this from Kurt Cobain,” she gestures to the poster above Shauna’s head. Then, she pauses, turning to stare at the red plaid curtains. “Or maybe a home supply store.”
“Is this supposed to be comforting?” Shauna asks sarcastically, catching the flannel in her left hand. Jackie ignores her.
“The flannel has a bit of padding on the shoulders,” Jackie continues, “Kinda accentuates them without making it obvious. And,” she adds, acknowledging Shauna, “it will kinda cover your chest.”
As Jackie speaks, Shauna begins to pull off the shirt she’s wearing and replaces it with the striped one. “Aren’t you now, like, an accessory to a fashion murder?” Shauna questions, adjusting the flannel on her shoulders. “Why are you letting me go to a party like this?”
Jackie inhales deeply, as if she has the same question. “‘Cause it’s clearly what you need,” she answers, taking in Shauna smoothing down the flannel, noting how Shauna’s shoulders are not stronger because of the flannel, but rather, because she’s standing up straighter. “Sure,” Jackie admits, “I think that this is not, at all, what you should be wearing to a party. But if you like how you look, well-”
“I’ll just get over it,” Shauna cuts her off, letting her shoulders slump. “The whole boob-dress thing,” Shauna specifies, “ I can get over it.”
Jackie ignores the statement, shooting Shauna and incredulous glance and an eyeroll. “So, you don’t want people to look at your chest, but you do want people to look at your shoulders…”Jackie processes, looking to Shauna for confirmation. “Who do you want to look at your shoulders?”
Shauna bites her lip. She knows the answer is Jackie, that she wouldn’t mind if Jackie looked at her the way Jackie looks at Jeff: the way a girl looks at a boy. Still, she can’t. One secret at a time. So, she simply shrugs, adjusting the flannel. Jackie accepts the answer.
“I mean, is there more to it, Shauna? Do you want people to look at you like they look at, well,” Jackie begins stuttering. “A boy?” She barely chokes it out. Jackie doesn’t know what it means. There’s the popular girl in her, telling her that this is wrong, that Shauna needs to conform, that all the flannels and music she listens to are different enough. Yet, this is Shauna. Beyond the facade that dictates her behavior, there’s a type of empathy that Jackie rarely acknowledges, yet knows must be wielded here.
Shauna stares down at the floor. Of course, she’s never announced, to the world, or to herself, for that matter, that she wants to be a boy. Frankly, she’s not entirely sure that she does. However, when you put the pieces together, such a statement makes more and more sense. She wants people to notice her shoulders, not her chest; she likes how the shorter strands of hair frame her face, extenuating her jawline; she wants to be loved as a girl loves a boy. She doesn’t know where it comes from, but she knows how much of “her” is disingenuous.
“I-” she stutters, looking at Jackie, as if she needs Jackie’s permission. Jackie’s eyebrows are furrowed, and for a moment, Shauna stops, interpreting it as disapproval. However, Jackie offers a slight nod, smiling and leaning back. It’s not permission, but it's a request for honesty. “I don’t know.”
“Then what do you know?” Jackie asks quickly. She’s wearing a heavy rosey pink eye shadow that almost makes her eye sockets look bruised. She begins putting fingers down, as if she’s counting options to herself. Yet, she never gets the chance to reveal them.
“Cut my hair.” It’s more of a question than a request. It takes Jackie aback, and to an extent, Shauna herself. This time, she knows where it came from, that she’d been stroking the shortest strands of her hair and wishing that they all brought her that same joy. But she doesn’t know why it got past her lips, why any of this is getting past her lips. She’s unguarded and vulnerable in such a way that she may as well be naked. She feels like the tawny, clay rabbit figure posed underneath her desk lamp, every emotional curve and angle on display.
“I, umm, sure, umm,” Jackie stutters, taking in Shauna’s stone-faced glance. “Shauna, I don’t know how to cut hair.” Shauna shrugs, confirming that any lack of experience is a non-issue. “Can’t you wait until somebody who knows how to do it is available? I mean, doesn’t Nat cut her own hair. She’ll probably be there tonight. Bring her a bottle of your mom’s Vodka and she’ll probably do it no questions asked.”
For a moment, Shauna considers it. Yet, that plan contains a problem: Natalie. Whatever this is, Shauna doesn’t want word to get around, for rumors to spread. That is Shauna’s preferred mode of operation, anyway, but this especially. Sure, Natalie isn’t the rumor spreading type, but anything that happens outside of the comfort of her home is free game for the rumor mill that is any high school. So, she shakes her head.
“I want you to do it,” she didn’t specify why, and Jackie probably didn’t fully understand. However, what she does understand is that Shauna needs this, that Shauna needs her. Hesitantly, Shauna leads Jackie to the bathroom.
She doesn’t remember much about what happened. Jackie keeps asking if she is sure; she keeps asserting that she is. Shauna figures that she must have taken off the flannel and her shirt: more vulnerability. They settle on a length near her chin and Jackie wraps a towel around her neck. Jackie lets the chunks of hair pile onto the tile floor (if I’m doing this, you’re cleaning it up by yourself.) Jackie laments the choppiness of her work, but Shauna loves it. She keeps running her hands through the back, delighted when the strands end near her neck.
As she recalls, only Lottie comments on her hair; the rest of the team remain preoccupied with their own troubles, and frankly, that’s how Shauna prefers it. This is for her to figure out, to ignore or embrace.
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As Shauna looks over Jackie’s corpse, the wind blows her thick hair against her exposed neck. It’s an itchy sensation - a sharp, gnawing discomfort that Shauna knows is more than physical. She supposes she’ll just have to get used to it.