Saturday's Storyteller: "Oops, that last one should have had a period at the end."

by Belinda Roddie

"Oops, that last one should have had a period at the end."


"That last what?"

"Sentence."

"Sorry, which one?"

I pointed to it with my pen. Emily scrutinized the scribbled line cautiously, the fingers of her right hand drumming out an awkward rhythm on her left forearm.

"Okay," she muttered. "Cool."

I sighed and rolled over on my side on the bed. Emily stayed sitting on the floor, watching me as I pretty much gave up on my essay brainstorming session. The assignment was due in two days, and try as I might, I had nothing significant to add to the prompt.

What was the prompt, one might ask? Nothing like a good, old-fashioned kick to the brain from Mister Tyrone, who thought that getting his students to tell personal anecdotes was a sure-fire way to inspire them to become the new heroes of the jaded growing generations. Or at least get them to try to cure cancer; the growth behind his ear that he reminded us of every day in class wasn't going to go away all by itself. This week's installment of over-sentimental bullshit was talking about adversity, and thus far, I didn't think I had confronted any. Save for the fact that I couldn't seem to become interested in any boys around my school.

Emily had tried to probe that idea already. "Couldn't that be adversity?" she had asked as we walked back to my house, the school only being a couple blocks away. "Like, you could call it 'The Quest For Perfection.' 'Cause no guy ever seems to satisfy your expectations."

"It's not about expectations or perfection," I argued. "It's more apathy."

"Well, that's way less interesting," she grumbled, sticking her tongue out at me. "Eldridge Cleaver wouldn't approve." She had Mrs. Worthy to thank for remembering the name. Mostly because she kept hammering her students about every time she had a chance during history class.

Now, two hours later, I was busy stabbing my spiral notebook instead of writing in it, and Emily ws lying on her stomach, head propped against her knuckles, her very short haircut looking very cute as she tilted her head to look at me. I stared right back at her.

"What?"

"You blinked!" she teased. "I win."

"Seriously, what's up?"

"Are you going to keep idling, or are we go something more fun?"

"I have to finish this."

"Well, you're doing a fine job."

"Okay, whatever," I groaned. "What do you think would be more fun?"

Emily pursed her lips, a light pink against her face, like she was actually thinking hard about it. The way her face lit up a second or two later was an excitement I'd seen before, whether it was about chocolate milkshakes or soccer games or seeing the Big Dipper every night when we walked back from Henry's Subs together.

"I know!" she cried.

"You know what?" I demanded.

"I think," declared Emily, "it'd be super fun if we..."

"If we what?"

She looked triumphant. "If we totally made out with each other."

***

There is one detail I have not mentioned in this whole tirade so far. I get it. And that's the fact that Emily, in all her boyish yet sassy ways, was super duper gay. And I mean, really gay. The kind of gay that you find out you have when you're four years old. The kind of gay that makes you think about the same sex when you're in kindergarten when you joke about getting married. The very-out, overtly-confident, self-expressive kind of gay that either frustrates you or makes you proud you even know this bold and brave of a person at all.

And the thing is, Emily was the awesome kind of gay. She was not afraid to talk about it in school. We met in freshman year of high school, and she whistled loudly during a volleyball game in P.E. when an older girl's shirt rode up against her bust. Emily was still pretty scrawny back then, not filled in yet, with more shaggy hair than pixie cut, and hearing all that from her startled everyone, especially the teacher.

"Woo-whee! Flaunt it, girl!" she cat-called. She was written up a referral rather quickly for sexual harassment. It made it even funnier when the same girl she had directed her comments to asked her out the next day.

It had gotten to the point that, instead of spewing hate, the boys were jealous of her. The way she snagged girls' attention during sports games, the way she seemed to swoon even heterosexual ladies when her sly grin, her swept back bangs, and her slick jeans and T-shirt, making her pretty much a stud. I even remember Greg, the token football jock in our school, asking Emily for tips on how to pick up the token cheerleader captain and ask her to homecoming.

And now that it was senior year, there was more talk going around about Emily. About how she could be nominated with another girl for Homecoming King and Queen (which would never happen on our principal's watch). How she could beat a guy's record in most goals scored in a soccer game at the school. How she had caused a shitstorm with several parents who felt like she was a bad influence to their sweet little daughters. She caused buzz, and good buzz, too. Not exactly something you'd imagine in a lousy high school environment.

The thing was, though, that Emily was my closest friend, mostly because she was more genuine around me. Sure, she stayed snappy and brash and goofy, but she also knew how to read me. When I was sad, while my other friends asked, "Are you okay?" she'd immediately hand me a tissue and go, "Go on, blow all the snot out. Not on me, though." When I was happy, while my other friends asked, "Why are you so happy?" she'd slap me a high-five and shout, "Atta girl! Sub sandwiches after school to keep that smile on your face!" And whenever I was lacking confidence, while my other friends tried to give me sage advice, this was Emily's token comment:

"I'm not going to re-affirm your awesomeness. You remember how cool you are and shut the Hell up."

It was refreshing, to say the least, and we had been close for three years.  I sure as Hell didn't care if she was gay or not. She was someone special to me, someone who didn't throw me off guard and was the most honest person she could be. Which meant that if she ever decided to, I don't know, ask to make out with me, I would most likely have responded in the most startled and disoriented way possible.

Which is exactly what I did.

***

"Are you joking?"

She arched an eyebrow. "What's the matter? Don't like girls?"

"Shit, I don't know."

"You don't know?" she repeated. "Seventeen years old, and you still don't know what you like?"

"Not everyone's as intuitive with their sexuality as you are, Em. No offense," I remarked.

"Fair enough. So why not try it?"

"Why? I've never liked kissing boys. Why would I like kissing girls?"

"You think you're asexual or something?"

"Maybe."

"How would you know if you haven't even kissed a girl?" chided Emily.

She had me there. But I was frozen on my bed. I wasn't going to approach her on that offer. It didn't scare me or anger me; it just confused me. I mean, right now, my best friend was asking to stick her tongue in my mouth. My mouth. When this sexy young lesbian could snag any other girl she wanted who swung in her favor.

I just called her sexy in my mind, didn't I?

"Well?" She was definitely growing impatient. "You want to make out or not?"

"This is super weird, Em."

"I know. But I'm bored."

"You're bored. And to solve that problem, you want to kiss me."

"Yeah?"

I shook my head like I was trying to clear it. "I'm sorry, did I fall asleep while writing? Because this is just - "

I guess she had had enough of my shit, because she pushed herself right off the rug in my room, leaned against the bed, and pushed her lips against mine.

I had expected us to lick at each other like dogs, trying to figure out a way to make our mouths mesh without our teeth hitting each other. Like an awkward, sloppy mess a lot like the way Benny from chemistry class in sophomore year tried to kiss me. But Emily didn't do any of that. She just curled her lips against mine, holding them there, like she was testing me out. And after a while, she pulled away, a tiny sucking noise that you'd normally hear in movies lingering behind her.

"Um."

I couldn't speak. My cheeks were tingling.

"Uhhhh."

This was really, really weird.

"Okay," Emily muttered. "That was the test kiss. Want to do it some more?"

I was stuttering. "Emily, I - "

"Shhhh shhh shhh. Yes or no, honey."

You know how normally, when something like this happens, you start trying to piece together the puzzle that makes up your messed up brain and get some ideas as to why you're doing something? Because that didn't happen to me. I just sat there, mumbling and going pink, the only thing keeping me alert being Emily's eager face.

"Um..."

"C'mon."

"Sure," I heard myself say.

"Cool," Emily whispered, and she kissed me again.

***

I woke up suddenly with my face buried in my pillow. Two firm hands were rubbing my back, smoothing out the skin like it had creases. My head was swimming, and as I lifted myself off the mattress, I looked steadily at Emily.

"The Hell just happened?"

"I don't know," she replied, and as I gazed at her, I saw worry wrinkling her nose. "We were kissing, and you just kind of passed out."

"Passed out from kissing?"

She gave me a smile that was more coy than confident. "Was it that bad?"

"No," I breathed. "No. I just..."

"You just what?"

I shook my head. "I just want to know why."

We were sitting hip to hip now, feet dangling against the bed. I was still readjusting to gravity. Emily was looking at the floor.

"I don't know," she said. "It was fun."

"Fun?"

"Yeah." She sighed. "But I'm bored again."

"Then what do you want to do?"

That's was when, as her arm snaked around her shoulders, that I suddenly understood what the Hell was going on in my brain.

I was quite possibly gay for my best friend.

***

We kept it low for a while. Didn't know what to call it. Thought about calling it off. Questioning. Trying to make sense out of it. But in the end, sense didn't matter. What was was. And Emily was the only person so far who, when kissing me, had actually made me faint from ecstasy.

I finished the essay and turned it in to Mister Tyrone and pretty much expected the C he gave me. Because I basically gave him the middle finger. That adversity didn't have to be what we focused on, but perhaps the ways we explored our relationships to focus on the things that kept us strong. He said I didn't get the prompt. I didn't really care.

I went to the soccer field after school to watch Emily square off with the boys. For the first time, I really focused on how she moved. How she laughed. How she high-fived and fist-bumped her buddies. And how she flashed me a smile as if to remind me of what we'd do after the game was over.

Maybe if Mister Tyrone had assigned us a paper on surprises, I would've done much better. Instead, I was happy to swoon, happy to dabble, and really see what made me happy.

And any sentence I'd write stating that happiness would definitely deserve a clear, defined period.

This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.