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“You wanna know the truth?” asks Jecka. They're crouched in the handicap stall together, the contents of her makeup bag strewn across the bland tile.
Jecka stretched out her legs, leaned up against the door. Locked. “Not really.” But her eyes shimmer with a cat-like interest, critical and judging. Nicole was always so much smarter than any other person in Jecka’s company, witty and dry and cynical. Better than the cheerleaders, than the nerds, than anyone else.
Jecka has never considered herself smart—has never considered herself much of anything, to be honest, she follows along dutifully like a happy little soldier in the war of 21st century America—but she thinks she can read this girl’s mind. Nicole doesn't want her to shut up. Nicole is bored and tilting her head to the side, wearing heavy blue sweatpants that make Jecka distracted. They don't even show any skin, snug at the waist but drooping downward everywhere else, it's just that she doesn't know where Nicole got them and that drives her crazy. They have no brand name.
Jecka is worse than a guy, because she sees unsexy things and thinks of asking a million questions about them. She sees Nicole’s impatient wait and thinks of ripping off her pink tankie and showing that her breasts are real. Not plastic like the whores on MTV. She wants to show Nicole her belly-button (an innie) and the mole on her shoulder, the tan lines, the stretch mark rippling along her stomach from middle school.
“The truth is—” I really like your boobs. I'm not going to live past twenty-three. I hate my dad and my mom and my clothes and this lame town. “—I’m totally going to make it out one day.”
It's a safe truth, one that won't get her excommunicated. Everyone’s okay with lesbians, when they do hot stuff like slobber on girls in front of guys (and have sex with the guys later, put the threesome on some xxx porn website), but it's gross when girls are creeping on other girls, lurking in the locker rooms with them, eating up the sights of their panties or day-dreaming about protesting in D.C. about gay marriage or turning casual girl-group touches into something dirty, acting like guys but refusing to at least try one, being a frisky bitch about it. Not any fun, not hot or sexy.
Nicole snorts. “And go where?”
Jecka flushes.
“I don't know. Los Angeles. SoHo.” She bites on her lip, tastes the cotton candy of her glittery, sticky chapstick. “Salt Lake City.”
That makes Nicole break into a smile. “Mormonlandia? Really?”
It might fix me.
“I like the national parks.”
“No, you don't.” Nicole lets out a laugh, her pink lips stretching thinly. “Lying bitch. You'd get a million mosquito bites.”
A little thrill shoots down Jecka’s spine. Only Nicole can do that, and that's why she has to look away before she tumbles forward and kisses the girl. This is a new urge. She's going to prison for it one day. Psycho Lesbian.
She doesn't match the stereotype for it, but that's just because she isn't allowed to pick out her new clothes. She'll probably start wearing purple too, with the pink, jagged skirts and taunting, jiggling tops—maybe a babydoll dress—with clunky silver bracelets, studded with pink fake jewels, and she'll honor Nicole with her style. Take a part of her best friend to some rally, be delusional.
A streak of black in her hair, beside a lock of hot pink. And no one's gonna stop her, no one's gonna look at her or talk to her and she's gonna be free.
There's writings marked in different colors of pens along the bathroom wall: Christia is a slutty slut slutter. Jeffery needs to get OUT. I h8 CHEMISTRY. The average amount of slurs for a Northern Virginia school. She's going to get out. She's going to get out one day.
Jecka feels her toes go numb. “Do you, like, have any gum?”
An odd silence and then, Nicole flicks black hair out of her vision and they're back at it again. “No. I gave it to Mr. White.”
Jecka chews on her cheek, she can almost imagine how her teeth would feel breaking through the barrier. “But… like… Why?” Mr. White was a creep, like most of the teachers in this hellhole, but he was different because he taught photography and managed to be super pretentious about it. Which was way worse than staring at Jecka’s legs or snotting over her blonde hair every once in a while. She stares at a painted fingernail, chipped away slightly. “God, you couldn't save it for me?”
“Why the hell would I save it for you?” Nicole crosses her arms and, oh, her tits push outward, fabric wrinkled around but smooth on the strained area. She could be a model. She continues, oblivious to the pervert a few inches away, “Besides, it's not like you ate anything at lunch.”
“I,” Jecka overts her eyes to the ceiling. She's no better than a man. She's worse than one, actually, because her want is pooling between her thighs—thinking of soft lips and shared t-shirts and pawing at Nicole’s body in a grassy field full of invasive specieses, or a H&M they'll laugh at, or in a busy city street, packed with liberals, where freakzoids are welcomed—and her scenarios are more lewd than any pickup line or male ogling. It's just not normal. Her dad’s gonna kill her.
(I gotta run.)
“I feel sick.” Jecka runs her hands down her sides, feeling her hips, pretending like it was someone else’s hands. “Like, really sick.”
Nicole stares blandly. She tenses, cleavage creating a line just below her shirt’s headhole. “Go to the nurse's office.”
“Mhm.” Jecka should stop noticing these things. She should sleep with some football dudebro. She should pop a few pills until she's normal. “Yeah. I, um.” She rubs the back of her head, long locks of blonde hair tangling in her grasp. “Sorry I'm so stupid today.”
“Wait, actually—” Nicole nearly stops herself. Her face screws up in that way it does whenever she's doing something she really, really doesn't want to. “You can't leave.”
Jecka’s heart soars, and it soars hard. “Mhm?”
“I'm not going to class alone. We have to pick partners, and you're going with me. I have a protein bar in my bag,” Nicole says, and she looks away first, her fine brows scrunching together.
Her stomach twists.
“What flavor is it?”
Nicole checks the label. “Banana bread. Artificial flavoring.”
Jecka takes it from her hand, and their fingers brush against each other for a mere moment. She thinks, I hope you never find out. She thinks, I hope you're going with me.