I neglected most of my roses. But to my shock, and no one else’s, my garden didn’t go to complete and utter shit just because I took a few weeks off from my usual routine. I wasn’t able to see it when I was down in the dumps, but it’s really not that bad. Maybe it could’ve looked nicer by now, the Honors a little brighter, the Midas Touches less sparse, the Keepsakes a bit fuller, but they’ll do. So will I.
I don’t know what Zaq is going to wear, but I assume as Talia’s date he’ll somewhat match her color scheme, so I set aside Olympiads for them both. Despite my questioning-my-straightness-induced breakdown, those damn Olympiads just wouldn’t die.
I gather the three blooms I clipped off earlier and trim their stems horizontally with just enough room to bind them together with floral wire. Stabbing Talia on top of everything else doesn’t seem like a great idea, so I double up on the floral tape until all the sharp edges are covered and repeat both steps with some of the filler flowers. I twist more floral wire around the bundles to attach them to a faux diamond band and manipulate one of the expertly crafted bows Wesley’s made and ta-da: corsage!
Only three more to go, then on to the boutonnieres.
“Ugh,” I moan into my hands. “Remind me, again, why I agreed to do this?”
“You didn’t agree,” he says, tossing me the silver ribbon meant for Lindsay. I still don’t know what her dress looks like, but Wes said he was told to wear a silver tie. Interesting choice for his navy suit, but not my concern. “You volunteered.”
“Even worse,” I complain, and he laughs. “Do not let me volunteer to make graduation leis. Straight Me really didn’t take into consideration how much work this would be.”
Wesley glances up from where he’s tying together sparkling white ribbon, the bow for my corsage. “Straight You, huh?”
I shrug, feigning casual. It probably would’ve been more convincing if Wesley hadn’t seen me cry enough that I could’ve watered my garden with my tears twice over in the past few days. “It feels weird, but there’s no point denying it anymore. I don’t have a label for it, but I’m okay existing in the gray space. Not-Straight Me can take her time.”
He hands me my bow. “Any predictions for tomorrow?” he says, getting to work on the hot pink ribbon for Ags.
“I’m guessing you and Linds will look adorable during your first dance together after she wins prom queen,” I say, and enjoy watching his blush return. “Agatha and Sammie will be the best dancers, no doubt. Talia and Zaq will be the best dressed,” I add, and mean it, even if it stings. “And I’ll be the best friend I haven’t been lately.”
He frowns at me. “You’re seventeen. You’re allowed to be a not-so-great person every once in a while.”
“I know, but I still have to apologize. Unfortunately, not being straight doesn’t give me a free pass to be an asshole.” I sigh. “Pass me the next bundle.” He hands me the Tequila Sunrises. “Speaking of apologies though, I hear Sammie has one coming your way tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah?” Wesley says, and with a dangerous flash in his eyes, turns around to face the wall dividing Sammie’s and my yards. “Is that true, Sammie?” he shouts.
I don’t see his mop of curls over the wall, but it’s impossible to miss the hushed, “Shit,” as Sammie runs from his hiding spot back to his house.
Wesley and I fall atop each other, laughter burning my lungs and my eyes watering so badly that I wonder, after this week is done, if I’ll have any tears left in me.
TWENTY-FIVE
My favorite quote from Hamlet, because you need one when you’re named Ophelia, has always been, “Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.” In the context of the play as a whole, it seems silly to focus on such a romantic quote, knowing Ophelia and Hamlet’s love is doomed. But in a tragic play in which the character I’m named after dies by suicide, heartbroken and alone, I’ve tried to look on the bright side and remember happier times.
But when I pulled out my nicer makeup for prom this morning, I found the old copy of Hamlet that Mom gave me for my thirteenth birthday wedged among the palettes in my dresser. I had a few hours to spare before getting ready, so I decided to flip through and read my old annotations, remembering that I’d highlighted every single one of Ophelia’s lines, because of course I did. I stopped on act 4, scene 5, Ophelia’s mad scene, and amid her convoluted meltdown, noticed the line “Lord we know what we are, but know not what we may be.”
I’d read it before, obviously, but never paid it much attention. And I’m not sure why.
Or, maybe I do know. I’ve spent most of my life telling myself I know who I am—a lifeboat of identity in the turbulent waves of growing up. A hopeless romantic, a rose gardener, a chismosa, a girl who falls for every boy who looks her way. I forgot that there are parts of me I’ve yet to discover, versions of me I’ve yet to become.
I’m tempted to say I have a new favorite quote, but it feels wrong to abandon my old favorite, to give up on the sliver of true romance buried beneath all the tragedy. I could try, with the power vested in me as the modern-day Ophelia, to propose my own mashed-together quote and boldly rewrite Shakespeare. But instead, I’ll give myself this:
I may doubt the truths of the world, but never again will I doubt whether or not the person that I am, or may be, is loved or worthy of love. I know myself, and I don’t. Both can be true.
I am not Ophelia: daughter of Polonius, sister of Laertes, lover of Hamlet.
I am Ophelia Rojas: daughter of Miguel and Stella, best friend of Sammie and Agatha, aspirational lover to many, many boys and one girl.
And I am so much more, just waiting to be discovered.
For now though, I’m just a girl who needs to get ready for prom.
* * *
I never knew I could look like this.
Facing my mirror, still wearing the daisy-print pajamas I saved for the occasion, I can’t quite believe those are my eyes staring back at me. I watched a couple of eye shadow tutorials this morning, having a decent enough grasp of makeup to think I’d be capable of handling the task myself. But the silver glitter on the inner corner of my eyes, the blended gray in the creases, and the way my lashes fan out, thicker than usual with the extra coats of mascara, have me convinced I’m a magician.
I finally tear myself away from my reflection, only because everyone will be here soon and I can’t let Sammie catch me making kissy faces at myself or he’ll never let me live it down.
Mom did my hair earlier according to Agatha’s suggestion, curling the ends on a low-heat setting so my waves would be more pronounced but wouldn’t look unnatural or like the curled ribbons on a birthday present (Ags’s words, not mine).
And yeah, when I woke up, my chest was heavy with the uncomfortable realization that I did come out to a bunch of people this week. The high of it was finally wearing off and turning to anxiety, worsening as I remembered I’m facing Talia and Lindsay today.