“And why did you say no? He’s awesome.”
“Because I was seeing someone else. Only, I couldn’t tell Diego I was seeing someone else. So I didn’t have a choice. I assholed him.”
“You what?”
“I put up a total asshole front. I blew him off. I pretended he wasn’t asking what he was asking. I made it seem like I was a conceited jerk, so he wouldn’t think there was anything wrong with him. I tried so hard to keep him in the friendzone. You have no idea.”
I don’t tell her he cried. That wouldn’t be fair. But he did. The third time was the worst. I don’t understand, he kept saying. And what could I do? I just want you as a friend, over and over until even I was having a hard time understanding it. Say anything enough times and it’s only words.
“I’m sorry,” Katie says.
“Not your fault.”
“Not your fault, either.”
“But it is, isn’t it?”
“And Ryan’s. Indirectly Ryan’s.”
“But he never asked me to do that, you know? I think he would have been happy if I’d gone out with Diego. He would’ve been thrilled. And it would have killed me, to see him that happy for that reason.”
Katie does some math in her head. “So the whole time you’ve been with Ryan, there hasn’t been anybody else?”
“There hasn’t been anybody else ever. He’s it. My only. How about you?”
“You know that stereotype that lesbians get married after the first date?”
“Is that a stereotype?”
“Committed to commitment—that’s us. Only I seem to be the control to that experiment with my placebo heart. I rarely make it through the first date. The first half hour, maybe. Then … I just don’t like them much. And I don’t like me very much when I’m trying to impress them. So I stop. Escape when I can. And, of course, long painfully for the one girl I can’t have.”
“Until, of course, she leaves the circus and comes to town.”
“Something like that.”
We sit there silent for a moment. I’m sure Katie’s thinking about the way the night ended, and I’m not sure I want to speculate about boys anymore. Because it raises the whole question of what I’d do if I actually found the right one.
“Look!” Katie says. “Here comes a very special guest! My ex!”
It’s Quinn Ross who’s walking over—Quinn Ross, Ryan’s big poetry rival and the editor of our school’s “underground” literary magazine.
“You dated Quinn Ross?”
“Yes. In third grade. For two weeks. It turned us both gay.”
“Hey, Katiegirl,” Quinn sings when he gets to us. “And hello, Markus-oh-really-us. School is wrapping up, and you two look like you’re laying it down. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to your gallery thing last night—I’ve been volunteering down at The Angel Project in the Castro. It’s a pretty big week for us, fundraising-wise. Let all the people come and party for Pride—when they leave, there will still be homeless teens, and they’ll still need help. Hey—you should come tonight. I’m hosting a poetry slam.”
“Maybe,” Katie hedges. “There are a few things we have to attend to first.”
I’m hoping this means she’s going to see Violet. But I don’t say anything with Quinn there. He is an ex, after all.
“Well, I hope to see you at the slam,” he tells Katie. Then he turns to me and says, “And I really hope to see you.”
“Um … sure?” I say.
Quinn laughs to himself and walks away.
“I’m not sure I like your exes,” I tell Katie.
“Quinn? He’s harmless. All snark and no bite.” She looks down at her phone. “I hate to say it, but we should probably head in. It would be lame to fail out in June because of attendance.”
“Are you going to call her?” I ask.
“Yes. No. One of the two.”
“Promise me. By the time we meet back here after school, you’ll have communicated with her in some way.”
“No. I can’t promise you. Because I don’t want to break any promise I make to you, and I’m not really sure that’s a promise I can keep.”
“You should call her. You should try to explain.”
“I know. I will. Unless she doesn’t want to talk. I wouldn’t blame her for that.”
“No, but you’ll blame yourself.”
She slides off the car. Gets her bag from the backseat. Says “I know” one more time, then heads off into school.
*
Ryan finds me right before lunch.
“This isn’t cool,” he says.
I’m at my locker. Caught.
“What isn’t cool?” I ask dumbly.
“The silent treatment. The look of terror on your face right now. The way you’re acting like this is all my fault.”
“I never said it was all your fault.”
“You might as well have.” He stops, stares down at the floor, then stares back up at me. “You disappeared last night.”
“I was right out back. If you’d looked for me, you would have found me.”
“But you didn’t want me to look for you, did you?”
Now it’s my turn to stare down at the floor, be honest. “No.”