“I can’t even housesit because I worry I would just open up mail that isn’t mine, just to see what’s inside. It’s like a daily birthday present,” she once said.
“But isn’t it just bills and junk?” I asked her.
“Yeah, but someone still took the time to lick that envelope, tear off a stamp, and slip it through a blue mailbox. Time and appreciation, Eleanor.”
Flor used to keep even her junk mail until Shirley went over to her house and saw the piles and piles of magazines and envelopes, half-torn open.
“You can’t just keep everything,” Shirley said between cigarette inhales. “You’ve got to let go.”
Maybe this is why they’re such good friends; they aren’t afraid to tiptoe around each other. They just tell it like it is.
“I’m a lesbian, Eleanor,” Flor said a few months after our first meeting, “So I’ve learned to get used to making room for myself in spaces that try to exclude me.”
This was the moment I knew I really liked Flor. I liked knowing someone who understands how to exist even when others don’t want her to because of stupid reasons like just wanting to kiss girls or whatever.
What happens when we say something out loud? Does it become more real? Is it any less real when we keep it to ourselves?
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Then math class started, and it was super awkward between Dara and I, and we didn’t see each other again until our bus ride home. We always sit next to each other and we still did, but most of the ride was in complete silence.
“Hey, listen,” I started, “it’s . . . I don’t know . . . I left your house and I just wanted to scream. Didn’t you? I mean, we didn’t really know him, but he was our classmate for so many years. And then I thought about Shirley and almost losing her in the same . . . anyway, so I just cut my hair. That’s it. It’ll grow back. Who cares?”
“No, yeah, I know, Eleanor. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . say what I said. I think I have a gay uncle so . . .”
“So . . . what?”
“So, a gay person is probably related to me. So, it’s not mean.”
“I don’t understand. And anyway, so what if I was a . . . a lesbian?”
James, I can tell you this because you’re not my bully anymore, you’re just a piece of paper. Before I became an atheist—my parents know, though they wish I’d reconsider—I had my Bat Mitzvah. That was kind of the end of my Jewishness. I was newly thirteen, begrudgingly (vocab word!) finished Hebrew school and completed the whole experience. I lead the minyan, read from the Torah, all of it. Anyway, at the party part, my friend Kelly kept asking me to dance. When Good Vibrations came on by Marky Mark, she grabbed me, and we just swung our limbs around like animals. It was incredible. I mean, everyone was dancing. When it was over, she yelled into my ear that she wanted to give me my present. I told her she didn’t have to get me anything, but that I could just open it later. But she kept insisting. So, we left the room—my Bat Mitzvah was in this giant hall where, like, weddings probably happened. We went down the stairs and into this smaller room. I just looked at her because she didn’t seem to be holding a gift, and then she kissed me.
You probably think it’s lame or gross to imagine two girls kissing. I could tell you that I was shocked. I could tell you that I immediately pushed her away and wiped my lips, but the thing is, I wanted only one thing for my birthday and it wasn’t until Kelly kissed me that I realized what it was. It’s like my whole body opened up and I became something else. I remember walking in on Greta and her high school boyfriend Vegetarian Todd kissing and I couldn’t get over how gross it looked. But I guess it’s gross until it happens to you by someone who means something.
So when Dara called me a lesbian, it was like something got louder in me. After my Bat Mitzvah, every time Kelly and I saw each other, we kissed. A few times, Kelly took off her shirt and let me stare at her and once, she even let me touch her. She never really wanted to touch me. She called me her secret boyfriend. I didn’t think much of it then. I just liked how she made me feel. Less than a year later, she moved away. Her dad got a job in Texas, and we wrote for a little while, but then she stopped, and I stopped and well, I guess it went away . . . you know . . . the feelings.
“I just think it’s weird, El,” Dara said. “I mean, you cut your hair and made it . . . purple. I guess it’s not like you.”
“Okay, well, maybe it isn’t. But maybe I don’t even know what I am or who I am or . . .”
“You weren’t even friends with James.”
“Dara, are you kidding me? It’s so much more than that.”
“Just tell me if you are. That girl Jacqueline who was in our science class last year? She shaved her head and then told everyone she was bisexual. I mean, you and I have had sleepovers. We’ve slept in the same bed! I changed in front of—”
“Okay! Okay. Yes. I am. A . . . lesbian, or whatever. Jeez. I don’t know, I never said it out loud. Can we just . . . can we not—”
“Oh my gosh, you are? Wait, I was just . . . I mean, I didn’t think. Eleanor, I . . . I’m not sure how I feel about this.”
“We’ve been friends since we were seven. Why does this even matter?”
“I’m not sure. Can I think about it?”
“Can you think about how this doesn’t even affect you?”
James, there’s no need to continue the rest. I can’t believe I told Dara something I barely ever thought about (actually, even as I write that, I know it’s not really true—I’ve thought about it more than anything else) and now suddenly it was apparently the end to our friendship. I mean, I guess I kind of have feelings for Aggie, but I just saw it as like, a friend-crush, even though she’s not exactly my friend and . . . oh, you wouldn’t understand anyway.
Thursday, October 21
Dear James,
Tonight, I had my suicide support group. We meet every Thursday. Flor came along and while we were on our way there, I asked her about what it’s like to be a lesbian. Super weird, I know, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“What’s it like to be a fifteen-year-old?” she immediately asked back.
“Umm . . .”
“Eleanor, why are you asking me this?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to know more about you.”
“Okay,” Flor was looking at the road (since she was driving), but I could see her face tense up as though she was thinking big thoughts. “Well, it’s been a long time, I’m almost fifty. Wooh, don’t say that out loud much. It’s difficult and wonderful and challenging and . . . even at my age, I still have to come out to people. You never stop. I’ve had some good reactions, some horrifying ones. I’ve lost friends. I’ve gained friends. Funny, when I first met your mom, I thought she was gay. I thought everyone at the book club was gay. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. And when I realized she wasn’t—nor was anyone else—I wasn’t mad or anything, I was just worried. I really liked your mom and didn’t want to lose her as a friend. It had happened so many times before. Of course, she didn’t care one bit. I’ll never understand why something that has nothing to do with anyone else makes people so uncomfortable.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“If