“Mom—” I whisper.
“I love you, Ophelia. You could ditch school every day and dump punch on my boss and I’d still love you.” She takes another unstable breath, steadying herself with the exhale. “But please don’t do those things, because I’d really like for you to graduate and not get me fired.” We share a teary laugh. “I won’t lie—I don’t understand it all. This stuff about your … sexuality? But I’m willing to be the student for once. Because I love you whether you love Romeos or Juliets or both or neither or live out the rest of your days with Dad and me and your garden. No matter what changes or who you do or don’t love, I will always love you. That is the legacy I want for you, not to be the girl who loves too much, but to be the girl who is loved more than enough.”
“Thank you,” I say, a little frozen. She kisses the back of each of my hands and cups my face for a second before reaching into the bag and pulling out two more papas, handing me one.
“Now, why don’t you tell me all about you and Talia?”
* * *
In the end, Mom didn’t let me off scot-free for ditching. Turns out identity crises don’t actually excuse you from your educational obligations. I’ll be helping clean her office all next weekend and doing extra chores around the house, including learning how to make papas rellenas with her as a surprise for Dad’s upcoming birthday.
As for this weekend, however, I still have prom. And quite a few explanations and apologies to give before then. Luckily for me, Agatha and Sammie are sitting on my front porch when I get home, laughing about something on Sammie’s phone.
They sit up as Mom and I pull into the driveway. She shoots Sammie a loaded glance as she unlocks the door and heads inside without me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” Ags says. She nudges Sammie, who mumbles a greeting as well, looking more embarrassed than mad. She lifts the bag in her hands. “I brought you some ribbons for the corsages and boutonnieres.”
“Thanks,” I reply, shifting my weight. “So … last night,” I start as Agatha scoots away from Sammie and pats the space between them. Her thick, neon green plastic rings smack against the porch bricks.
Sammie clears his throat as I sit between them. “Your mom told mine about my, uh, well, about what happened last night. My parents sat me down, full intervention-style this morning. They were embarrassed on my behalf for showing up here like that so late, but mostly they were disappointed I didn’t come to them first. Honestly, I’m surprised they’re still letting me go to prom at all, but they’ve never bought into the sunken-cost thing, and my suit was pretty expensive.” He ducks his head, rubbing at his neck. “They want me to start seeing someone. Like a counselor, therapist, whatever.” His voice quiets. “I think it might be good for me.” He leans back on his palms, stretching his legs down the steps. “Just thought I should let you know.”
I lean into him. “I’m proud of you.”
Agatha pats his knee. “Me too.”
“Whatever.” He ducks his head, but I catch his small smile. “But, uh, you and Talia, huh?” he says, ruining the tender moment. I groan into my hands, hanging my head.
“Ignore him,” Agatha says, and I feel her arm reach over me again to slap Sammie. I lift my head and tuck my hands beneath my legs, bouncing them with nervous energy. “You don’t have to tell us anything if you don’t want to.” My eyes stay trained on the ground, watching an ant scamper around a broken leaf by my feet.
I could leave it. Save this conversation for another day, for another Ophelia who will maybe know how to explain everything that’s happened over the past few weeks better than I currently do. But here they are, my best friends, so ready to let me hide my heart away again. And I don’t think I want to anymore.
“I liked Talia, a lot. I probably still do. But I kissed her and messed everything up.” I suppose part of me still expects the ground to split open and swallow me whole, for their faces to swell with disgust, betrayal, and anger. But it doesn’t. But they don’t.
“So you’re…?” Sammie wafts his hand, waiting for me to finish, his expression unreadable.
“I don’t know.” I shrug, honest. “Maybe I’m bisexual or pansexual. Maybe I’m queer.” The word still feels a bit sour on my tongue, but there’s something thrilling about it too. Like it’s a dare just to say it this way, adoptive instead of vicious. I hope Jeremiah is spilling punch on himself somewhere. “All I know,” I start, taking a deep breath, “is that I’m probably—no, definitely—not straight.”
“So you did have a secret crush,” he says, a sly grin slipping over his face. Agatha and I groan loudly before all three of us burst into a fit of laughter. It’s unexpected, but I welcome it. I think I should do that more often.
When we finally settle, Ags tucks a strand of hair out of my face and pouts at me. “So this is what’s been bugging you out lately? Why didn’t you just talk to us?”
“I was scared,” I whimper, feeling my lower lip quiver. Sammie wraps his arm around me, grasping for Agatha’s hand over my shoulder.
“But you know we don’t care about that stuff,” Ags says.
“Yeah, half the fun of being your friend is making fun of your crushes. If you like girls too now, that’s like double the material to work with,” Sammie adds, both helpfully and unhelpfully.
I sob and laugh at the same time, something broken and beautiful croaking out of me. “I didn’t know if you’d care.” I turn to Ags. “If this would change our sleepovers and us sharing makeup and you calling me ‘babe.’” I turn to Sammie. “If this would just be some big joke or fetish for you.” I look down. “It’s been hard and messy and scary. I want you guys to care about it and what it changes for me, but without it changing us.”
“Of course we care, O.” I can’t tell who says it, my ears buzzing with the sound of my own snot and tears leaking out of my face. For a few minutes, we sit like that, my best friends holding me together and letting me pour it all out.
I don’t feel relief, not exactly. There isn’t a massive weight lifted off my chest. Because I realize this is something I’ll have to do for the rest of my life, correct the assumption my heart belongs to boys, and boys alone.
I’ll never stop coming out.
And yeah, that really sucks. But in this moment, it doesn’t suck as much as it could. It kind of feels like the first big dip of a roller coaster, all nausea and fear and excitement and knowledge of more dips to come. I’ve never thought of myself as a fan of adrenaline rushes, but I also never thought of myself as a fan of kissing girls. Things change.