“If you throw up on me, I’ll never forgive you,” I say, and pull his leg hair. “What’s going on?”
Mash’s face is redder than the radishes in Grandy’s garden. He has a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose that look like sprinkles on a cupcake. They make him look innocent. His blush makes him appear guilty. “Einstein is currently rescuing our love lives.”
“It’s going to take more than Einstein to do that,” I tell them. “We can blow up a sock and burn down a church, but limitations, people, limitations. I thought we were brainstorming KickFall and fund-raising.”
I’ve thrown off Woods’s ju-ju with my negativity and he has to refocus. “We are. But delay of game. You, Billie McCaffrey . . . are just in time to . . . help us . . . figure out the Sadie Hawkins part of Harvest Festival.” Every pause, he adds some unseen stroke to Einstein. Every stroke, my stomach knots.
“That sounds like a terrible way to spend a Sunday afternoon,” I say.
Last year, the dance flew under our radar. We watched the Corn Dolly competition—a token year, the Corn Dolly was given posthumously to Reagan Gentry, our Spanish teacher, who died of a brain aneurysm—and then square-danced our asses off in a large group. I didn’t think it was strange that we were the only people our ages not looking for a corner away from the watchful eyes of adults. I thought it was marvelous.
“But the girls ask the guys.”
Leave it to Fifty to state the obvious.
“That means four out of six people in this room have no say,” I tell Fifty, peering around Woods’s body to read Einstein. Only the top of the board is visible. “‘The Hexagon of Love,’” I read. “The whole thing is a little pretentious. Couldn’t we just go for the standard love triangle?”
No one is listening. This happens when Woods is in full swing.
“Elizabeth Rawlings is an interesting choice,” he says to Davey.
Elizabeth Rawlings is a junior with a good first name, a bent for Sylvia Plath, and the most perfectly straight teeth God ever made. We were on the softball team in middle school. She bounced around through various groups and wound up being one of those tights and cat T-shirt girls. She’s probably biding her time in Otters Holt, dreaming of a commune in California. Is this who Davey believes is his equal? I reject the idea.
Her friends call her Lizzie. This has always been a point of consideration for me. There are many ways to shorten our name—Liz, Lizzie, Libby, Lib, Beth, Betsy, Liza—none of which I tolerate. I can’t imagine being a Lib. I’d rather run naked off Rock Quarry Cliff or fall off Vilmer’s Beam.
Mash gives a half laugh at the board and at me. Maybe he’s surprised at his cousin’s choice. Maybe he’s just glad I’m here. I too am slightly surprised Davey hasn’t named Thomas, and I’m not the only one. Fifty mouths “Audi Thomas” to me. He stops smiling when I flip him off.
Despite Fifty’s comment, Davey could come out to this group if he wanted to. None of us would flip our shit. Especially not Janie Lee and me. We’ve heard it all. Two inseparable girls: must be gay. I saw them holding hands. One of them is dyke-ish. They cooed at each other when they were reading Romeo and Juliet.
There are a few students at school who are out. Not an easy path. Most people wait until college, and then move to bigger cities. The price of their sexual freedom is paid for with a loss of home, and often a loss of community respect. In 2005, a beloved woman in town, Corn Dolly winner 1984, married her girlfriend, whom everyone had thought was her roommate, in Canada. The committee didn’t ask for her Dolly back, but they “accidentally” printed the calendar without her name in 2006. This is the kind of thing you don’t forget. It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to control the Corn Dolly committee. The kind of thing that makes you want to override the system.
I’d like to believe my generation is different. We’d give a Corn Dolly to a gay woman. We’ve all read enough, watched enough, YouTubed enough to understand sexuality isn’t black and white. What do we care who someone finds attractive or falls in love with? But that doesn’t mean you don’t need a machete and some body armor if you want to walk the openly gay road in Otters Holt.
Dad is always up my ass about wearing jeans and muscle shirts. And it’s not because he’s worried about skin cancer on my arms. “Billie, people think where there’s smoke there’s fire.”
If Davey went openly gay, I can predict the consequences the way I predicted the state of this room when I arrived. My dad would reread his youth ministry textbooks on Generation Z and Sexuality and Raising Conservative Teens in a Liberal World. People would wear oven mitts to handle him. They’d say, “I should have known. Did you see his eyeliner?” Girls my age would say, “It’s a shame” or “I wonder if he’s bi.” Who knows how his parents would feel, but they would certainly have opinions.
Elizabeth Rawlings is a safe choice, but Davey’s never struck me as someone dedicated to safety.
“Doesn’t Elizabeth Rawlings draw pentagrams on all her notebooks?” Fifty asks.
“Why aren’t we doing something fun?” I ask in return. “This is lame.”
Davey pulls a pillow into his lap and goes back to his drumming. “We’re not allowed. Woods decided we have to lose our man-cards by charting out the dance.”
His expression says: We should be in your garage.
Mine says: Let’s blow this pop stand.
Against better judgment, we both stay put.
“So let me get this straight. You five are trying to figure out how to get dates?”
Five noses scrunch. Five semi-nods. My disapproval is so visible, Fifty lands the lowest of blows.
“You look like your dad.”
“Oooooohhhh,” Woods and Janie Lee say together. Each watches my response.
“Good thing I’m against murder on the Sabbath,” I tell Fifty.
“I’m terrified,” he says.
Fifty and I are two Betta fish in the same tank. Eventually, I’m going to eat him. But for now, it’s easier to join the chaos. There’s history between us. Dance history. Sadie Hawkins is held outdoors in the middle of town if it isn’t raining, in Vilmer’s Barn if it is. Eighth grade, Fifty and I did some very G-rated experimenting and missed the whole dang Corn Dolly presentation and half the dance. That was the year Mash’s mama, Jeanelle, won. 2013. Fifty and I never told a soul we missed it. We certainly wouldn’t tell them why. For an asshat, he’s got the softest lips.
“All right, deal me in,” I say.
Davey says, very matter-of-factly, “Just remember this Hexagon of Love all started with Woods.”
“It started with wood all right,” I joke.