“I don’t want to get boba tea again,” Diana says. “I don’t like bumps in my drinks.”
“We can do something else.”
“We just need to figure out the logistics,” Diana’s mom says, flashing a tired smile at me. “I wish we lived closer.”
Ivy says, “Can we do something tomorrow?”
“Sorry,” Diana’s mother says. “This was our only free time all weekend.”
“We have plans tomorrow too,” I remind Ivy. “With Ethan.” And then I feel a weird blast of anxiety. Ethan. What if I’ve been making a horrible mistake? Have I been?
“Okay. But soon?”
“Absolutely,” says Diana’s mother, and follows after her daughter, who has already headed down the walkway toward their car.
I close the front door and trail after Ivy, who’s on her way into the kitchen, where she opens the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of milk. “That was really fun,” she says, putting it on the counter and getting a glass out of the cabinet. “I want to see her again. And again.”
I study her as she pours, frowning in concentration, her tongue thrust out.
She’s careful. Doesn’t spill a drop.
I say, “You really like Diana, huh?”
She puts the milk carton on the table and takes a sip from the glass. “Yeah.”
“Can I ask you something?”
She shrugs, raises the glass to her lips again, swallows.
“If you were stranded on a desert island—all alone there—would you rather have Ethan or Diana come keep you company for however long you were stuck there?”
“Diana,” she says instantly.
“Even if you were stuck there forever?”
“Yeah. Why?” She gulps some more milk. When she puts the glass down, she has two white wings at the corners of her mouth.
“I guess I just didn’t realize how much you liked her.”
“I like her a lot.”
Does Ivy just adore and admire Diana in a best-friend kind of way? Or is there something else going on here?
Even though Ivy is over three years older than me, from the time I could talk, I felt like I needed to tell her what to do, what to think, what emotions to express. There’s a home video of me at age four, ordering seven-year-old Ivy to tell Mom she loves her because it’s Mother’s Day and that’s what you’re supposed to say on Mother’s Day. Ivy turns to Mom and obediently repeats “I love you” with almost no intonation. Mom makes a big fuss over it and slathers her with hugs and kisses, which Ivy endures.
The point is, I’ve always helped Ivy express the emotions I was sure she was feeling and just couldn’t put into words. I’ve been assuming that she does feel something for Ethan—affection, attraction, maybe even lust or love—and I’ve been trying to guide her responses to him.
But right now I’m confused. I’m not sure what she’s feeling, for him or for Diana. I want to ask her more questions and I also want to run away from the whole complicated mess.
She finishes her milk and leaves the kitchen.
I come up to our room a little while later. Ivy’s circling the rug, whispering to herself and gently weaving her hands through the air. I sit at my desk and open my laptop.
“Chloe?” she says, approaching me.
“What?”
“Do you want to kiss Sarah?”
Wow. She’s definitely thinking thoughts. “Not really. I mean, we hug when we haven’t seen each other for a while . . . But I don’t want to kiss her on the lips or anything like that. Why?”
She thumps her hands softly against her hips. “I don’t know. I just wondered.”
“Is something worrying you?”
She shakes her head, but it’s pretty clear she’s feeling anxious.
“Is it something to do with Diana?” I ask.
“Don’t be mad at me,” she says. “But I think I want to kiss her.”
“Why would I be mad about that?”
“You don’t want to kiss Sarah, and she’s your best friend, and I want to kiss Diana, and she’s my best friend. Do you think that’s bad?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why don’t you want to kiss Sarah the way you kiss James?”
“Is that how you want to kiss Diana? Like I kiss James?”
Ivy hesitates and then whispers, “Yes.”
I’m tempted to run away from this conversation—it’s so heavy, and shouldn’t this be Mom’s job?—but Ivy needs me to stay in it with her. “Are you—” I stop. “Do you—” I stop again. Then: “You know how sometimes guys marry guys and women marry women?”
“Yeah. That’s because they’re gay.”
“Right.”
“And that’s okay,” Ivy says, like she’s memorized it. “Boys can love boys, and girls can love girls. And sometimes people are bisexual and love both.”
“Right,” I say again.
We’re silent. I watch her. She stares at the wall and bumps her palms rhythmically against her legs—more thoughtfully now than nervously.
“Chloe?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not gay, right?”
“I don’t think so. I like kissing boys.”
“I don’t. I mean, I’ve never really kissed a boy or a girl, but I didn’t like it when Ethan kissed me.” A pause. “Chloe?”
I’m pretty sure I know where this is leading, and I feel a strange mixture of elation and confusion and shock—and a tiny edge of hysteria. “Yes, Ivy?”
“Could I be gay?”
I keep my voice matter-of-fact. “Yeah. I mean, anyone can be gay. Do you think maybe you are?”
“I don’t know.” Poor Ivy—she’s so used to taking her cues from other people. And we’ve—I’ve—been leading her in a completely different direction, automatically assuming something that might have been totally wrong.
I say slowly, “If you’d rather kiss Diana than Ethan, it could mean that you’re gay. Or that you’re bisexual and you just happen to like that particular girl more than that particular boy.”
“I do like Diana more than Ethan.”
“Right, but . . .” How do I help her figure all this out? “Have you ever wanted to kiss a boy? Or hug him super close?”
She thinks. Shakes her head.
“Any girls other than Diana?”
She thinks some more. “I don’t know. Maybe. There was this girl back in my old school. I liked the way she had wings on her eyes.”
“Wings on her eyes? You mean eyeliner?”
“Yeah! But it went up like wings. I liked to look at her eyes a lot. She was really pretty.” There’s a pause. “Chloe?”
“Yeah?”
“I think maybe I’m gay.”
My first thought is, Oh, crap, this is going to make her life harder. And then I realize that Ivy already feels isolated most of the time. This won’t really change anything much.
Plus . . . she likes someone! Someone in her class. Someone who’s also on the autistic spectrum. Wasn’t that what I wanted for her all along?
“Do you think Diana likes you as much as you like her?” I ask.
Her hands thump a little faster. “I don’t know.”
I hadn’t gotten the vibe from Diana that she wanted to be as close to Ivy as Ivy wanted to be to her, but maybe Diana’s just not all that into being touched—a lot of autistic people aren’t. That wouldn’t necessarily mean she’s not in love with Ivy.
She wears overalls a lot, right? Maybe that’s a good sign?
Okay. Now I’m being ridiculous.
How amazing would it be, though, if Diana felt the same way about Ivy that Ivy feels about her? She could be the friend, confidante, and companion that Ivy will need after I go to college. Maybe they could even get a small apartment together in a couple of years and live happily ever after with a terrier named Eleanor Roosevelt and a cat named Sappho—
Ivy breaks into my daydream. “Chloe? Should I text Diana to say I?
??m gay and ask her if she is?”
“Umm . . .” Why are you asking me? I’m seventeen and don’t know anything about what to do when you’re autistic and gay. But Ivy expects me to guide her, like I always do. She still trusts me, even though it’s starting to look like I’ve been leading her in the wrong direction all this time. I say, “Maybe don’t rush into it yet? This was the first time you guys have even gotten together outside of school. Maybe wait until you’ve spent more time together.”
“Can I tell Ethan?”
Ethan. Oh, God.
I remember how he kept reaching out for her the last time we were all together, and I feel terrible. I’m convinced he really likes her, which means he’s about to have his heart broken—because of me. Two people simply falling in and out of love, that’s no one’s fault. But I’d deliberately pushed the two of them together. Over and over again. Even when Ivy seemed uncertain about it, I slammed them together.
“Why aren’t you answering me?” she says.
“Sorry. I was trying to figure out what you should do. I don’t want him to be hurt.” On the plus side, he can’t take it too personally, right? She wouldn’t have fallen in love with any guy.
“I could text him,” she says, and picks up her phone, just as the door to the garage opens and Mom calls out, “Come help with the groceries, girls.”
“Hold off on texting,” I say, tugging Ivy toward the garage. “Let me talk to David first and see what he thinks.”
“Okay.”
We pass Mom and Ron. They’re both lugging full bags. “There are a few more in the trunk,” Mom says.
“Guess what?” Ivy says to her. “I’m gay!” She continues on into the garage.
Mom stares after her, then swings her head in my direction. “Chloe?”
“Yeah, uh . . . hold on. I’ll explain in a sec.”
Ivy and I grab the rest of the bags and join Mom and Ron in the kitchen. Mom asks Ivy to repeat what she just said.
“I’m gay.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I like Diana more than Ethan.”
“Oh, that doesn’t mean you’re gay,” Mom says with a relieved laugh. “I like a lot of women more than a lot of men, but I’m not gay.”
Ivy’s brow furrows. “Chloe says I might be.”
Mom turns to me. “Chloe? What’s going on?”
“She thinks she’s being funny,” Ron says.
I shoot a brief glare at him and say to Mom, “Ivy’s trying to figure some stuff out. That’s what’s going on.”
“You must have put the idea into her head,” Ron says.
“I think we’re all jumping to conclusions here,” Mom says. “Let’s just slow down. What about Ethan, Ivy? You’ve been spending so much time with him, and I thought . . .”
“He’s okay,” Ivy says. “But—” She stops and looks to me for help.
“She’d rather kiss Diana than him,” I say.
“Did she tell you that?” Ron asks. “Or was it your idea?”
I say to Mom, “Can we please just discuss this with the family?”
“This is the family,” she says. “Ron is part of our family.”
“Yours, maybe. Not mine.”
She breathes in sharply. “That’s a horrible thing to say! Apologize to him right now, Chloe.”
“Are you kidding me? He accuses me of all sorts of things, and that’s fine? But I just ask to speak to you alone, and I have to apologize?” God, I’m sick of this.
Mom crosses her arms. “Apologize or I’m sending you to your room. You’re acting like a child.”
“Jesus, Mom! All you think about these days is your precious husband. You’ve completely stopped caring about me and Ivy!”
“That’s it!” Ron grabs my arm. “You can be rude to me, but I won’t allow you to be rude to your mother. You’re going to your room if I have to drag you there.”
“Let go of me!” I shove at his hand and spin away. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever touch me!”
Ivy puts her hands over her ears. “Stop it! Don’t! Don’t fight!”
“It’s okay, Ivy,” I say, warily keeping an eye on Ron as I circle around to her. “It’s okay. Ron’s being a homophobic dick, but otherwise everything’s fine.”
“I am not homophobic!” he spits out furiously. “That’s not what this is about! I have a ton of gay friends, and if I truly believed that Ivy was gay, I’d be fine with it! But what I’m not fine with is you bullying both her and your mother into believing something just for your own personal amusement!”
“You’re insane! Totally batshit crazy. Why would I ever make this up?”
“Because—” He stops, his face red, as he flails about for a reason. “Because you like to make trouble!”
“I don’t think Chloe’s doing this to be difficult,” Mom says unhappily. “But I do think she’s rushing to conclusions—and she’s definitely not being very mature right now—”
I throw my hands up in the air. “You’re both unbelievable! This is a waste of time. Come on, Ivy. Let’s go upstairs.” She follows me out, her palms still plastered over her ears, her face taut with anxiety.
“Why is everyone so angry?” she asks once we’re in our room with the door shut. “Is it because I’m gay?”
“No. It’s because Ron hates me and wants to make Mom hate me too.” I’m pacing around the room, too upset to settle down.
Ivy perches on the edge of her bed, her fingers fluttering above the quilt as she watches me anxiously. “Does he hate me too?”
“No. No one could ever hate you. I’m the hateful one.”
“I probably shouldn’t have told them I was gay,” she says morosely. “Mom got upset, and so did Ron.”
“Only because they think it was my idea.”
“What was your idea?”
“That you’re gay.”
“How could that be your idea? Isn’t it just how I am?”
“Right.”
“I’m confused,” she says.
“Join the club.”
“What club?”
Sometimes I feel really lonely. This is one of those times.
Twenty-Six
I HAVE TO FIGURE OUT how to tell Ethan, so I text David, hoping he’ll be able to help me.
can you meet me for coffee or something tomorrow morning?
Just me?
Yeah
sure name the place/time
So I do, and we agree to meet at the Starbucks on Montana and Fifteenth at ten.
Mom comes into my room when Ivy’s in the bathroom—she must have been waiting to talk to me alone. She sits on the edge of my bed and says in a low voice, “Is this for real, Chloe?”
“I think so.” I’m still a little pissed at her for not defending me more—and a lot pissed at her for marrying Ron in the first place—but I really need to talk to someone about this, and she’s all I’ve got.
“I’ve been thinking about it, and it actually kind of makes sense to me,” she says. “Even though I never for a second considered it before. There are things about her . . .”
“I know.”
We sit in silence for a moment. Then Mom says, “Do you think I need to do anything?”
“In what sense?”
“I don’t know . . . Put her in therapy? Introduce her to more gay people? There’s my friend Patricia’s brother—he’s gay. I could ask her if he would talk to Ivy.”
“I think that might confuse her more.”
“I just feel like I should do something.”
“I don’t think we have to do anything right now,” I say. “Except maybe try not to be so heteronormative about everything.”
She squints at me. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
I shake my head. “Forget it. I’m just saying we should try to let Ivy know we’re okay with this and that it’s no big deal. She thought you guys were mad at her.”
“Oh, poor baby,” Mom says. “I’ll m
ake sure she knows I’m not—of course I’m not—but I feel so worried for her.”
“Well, don’t.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Can’t you?” I say, and then Ivy comes back in.
Mom gets up and gives her a hug. “I love you,” she says. “You’re the best girl ever.”
“Thank you,” Ivy says. “You’re not mad I’m gay?”
“Not at all!”
“Is Ron mad?”
“No,” Mom says. “No one’s mad about this. I promise.”
There are tears in her eyes as she steps back. Ivy doesn’t notice them, but I do. And I know it’s not because of Ivy’s sexual orientation. It’s because Mom can’t ever adequately explain to Ivy all the complicated nuances of her worries, fears, and hopes for her. Neither of us can.
James can tell from my texts that I’m dealing with something major at home, and so he just shows up at the door half an hour later and tells me he’s taking me out for an ice cream break.
He’s so nice. I’m lucky to be with someone who’s always so nice.
Over a hot fudge sundae, I tell him the whole story, and he says, “Holy shit!” and laughs.
“It’s not funny.”
“Sorry. But it’s a little funny, right? I mean, there you are, wondering why she’s not falling in love more quickly with David Fields’s brother, and meanwhile she’s gay.” He laughs again. “Are you sure, though? How does she know?”
“What do you mean? How does anyone know?”
“Yeah, but this is Ivy—she can be a little confused about stuff. And it’s not like she’s ever said anything about it before.”
“I saw her with Diana,” I say. “I know what lust looks like.”
“Glad to hear it.” His hand reaches under the table and slides along my thigh.
I move my leg impatiently away. I don’t even know why. I just don’t want to be touched right now.
James sits back and folds his arms over his chest. “What’s going on with you, Chloe?”
“Nothing. I just don’t feel like being groped in a public place, that’s all.”
“So let’s go somewhere private.”
“Maybe in a little while.”
“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”
“Sorry,” I say, only I don’t feel sorry. I feel annoyed. And I don’t know why. “I’m just tired, I guess.”