If I Was Your Girl (15 page)

“It was almost better,” she said. “Before I knew how I was different it was just a vague notion. So much easier to ignore.”

“But then Bee showed up?”

“Yep,” Chloe said, sniffing sharply and tossing her stick aside. “Come on.” She took my hand and pulled me through one of the corn walls. It was slow-going off the path, but I assumed she knew what she was doing.

“How long were y'all together?” I said as I tried to avoid tripping.

“'Bout a year,” Chloe said.

“Wow,” I said, thinking about how much I'd come to care for Grant in just the short time we'd been together. I paused for a moment, wanting to be careful with my next question. “Do you love her?”

“Thought so,” Chloe said, pushing a cornstalk out of her way so hard it tipped over like a tree. “Till just now I thought so.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans to clean the dirt off. “But what'd we really have in common?”

“Honestly?” I said as I sidled through the gap she'd made. “I'd have to say nothing.”

“Right,” Chloe said. “I just felt like she was my only option, and maybe in this town she is, but being alone's a perfectly good option for now.” She stopped and turned to face me, her eyes glowing in the moonlight. “And I've got friends.”

“You've got friends,” I said, and this time she was the one who hugged me. “And hey,” I said, as we pulled apart. “You're about to graduate. It's a big world.” As I said the words, I couldn't help thinking about what I'd told Grant last night.But here in Lambertville, I realized, I didn't feel that same choking, desperate need to run away. For the first time ever I was living
my
life, the life I was supposed to live—I was finally the truest version of myself. I just happened to be keeping an enormous secret at the same time.

“You're right, I know. The world's waiting,” Chloe said, parting the final wall of corn to reveal the concessions area at the end of the maze.

“See,” I said. “We found our way.”

Chloe smiled wanly. “Somehow.”

 

18

I opened the door to find Grant standing in a black sweater, black jeans, and black sneakers, with mussed hair and his face painted to look like the cover of a Misfits album.

“Happy Halloween!” he said. His white teeth looked out of place in the middle of his messily painted face.

“No way,” I said. He looked down at my bandolier, brown-and-tan tunic, leather pants, and knee-high boots and his eyes widened. “Is that really your costume?”

“Yeah?” he said, looking suddenly sheepish, which was strange coming from a face that could have belonged to the grim reaper. “This is what I do every year.”

“Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “Not this year. Come with me.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward my bedroom.

“Hi, Mr. Hardy,” he said, waving and nearly stumbling over the coffee table.

“Happy Halloween, Grant,” Dad said without looking up from the book he was reading. Grant had been coming to pick me up and dropping by to say hi after work more often. Dad and I hadn't talked much since our fight that day in the Walmart parking lot, but we'd reached a sort of uneasy truce as we both went about our lives, getting ready for work and school, dinner in front of the TV.

“What are you supposed to be anyway?” Grant said as I plopped him on the bed and started digging through the box I'd had Mom ship to me a few weeks before.

“Remember in
Return of the Jedi
, when Leia disguises herself and comes to Jabba's palace to save Han?” I pointed to the helmet with the segmented mouthpiece and solid visor hanging off my bedpost, and Grant grinned like a little kid.

“Awesome,” he said, only to widen his eyes when I showed him the Boba Fett helmet I'd just pulled out of the box. “What the hell? Where'd you get these?”

“Made them,” I said absentmindedly as I handed him the helmet and started pulling out the painted motorcycle jacket, pants, boots, and gloves that went with it.

“How'd you learn to make stuff like this?” he asked, holding the helmet out to inspect it, his voice reverent.

“I don't know,” I said, tossing him the jacket and shrugging. I did know, of course: I had learned to make costumes the same year I learned to make sushi. “I used to have a lot more free time.”

“Are you sure this stuff'll fit me?” Grant said, standing and holding the jacket against him. His face was already hidden behind the green-and-red helmet's opaque, T-shaped visor.

“It'll be tight,” I said, “but yeah. We're almost the same height.” I shrugged, embarrassed. “Sorry I'm such a giantess.”

“I like it,” he said, holding the helmet under his left arm and holding my hand with his right. “You're like … an Amazon.”

“Nope,” I said, poking him in the ribs with my elbow as I slipped my helmet on. “I'm not an Amazon. I'm a bounty hunter.”

We made our way to the door, but Dad called for me just before I was out of earshot. Grant gave me a reassuring wave and jogged down the stairs while I stepped back inside.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“I've been thinking about what I said,” he said, closing his book and sighing. “You're smart as a whip, and from everything I've heard from you and your mother you missed out on a lot of good years. It's okay if you want to cut loose a
little.
I haven't missed the fact that you're a teenager.”

“Really?” I said, smiling despite myself.

“Do be careful though,” he said, pointing his book at me.

“Of course,” I said, nodding once, my heart lifting as I stepped toward the door. But before I left I turned around and met Dad's watery blue eyes. “And Dad? Thanks.”

*   *   *

Our costumes were a sensation at Layla's Halloween party.

Half the people present weren't in costume at all, but Layla had had the forethought to put face paints out on the kitchen table next to the beer, and within an hour everyone who hadn't come with a costume had painted one on. Layla was dressed as Morticia Addams, skintight dress and all, and from the way she had to shuffle slowly to get anywhere I knew she had made the same style-over-function trade-off as Grant and me—our full-coverage helmets and leather jackets were a sweaty nightmare to dance in. Anna wasn't wearing a costume, because her parents would've killed her if they'd known she was coming to a Halloween party at all. Chloe's face was painted like a skull, and she was wearing black jeans and black boots. The only difference between her costume and Grant's original one was that she had on a flannel shirt instead of a black sweater.

“Aren't you glad?” I said, leaning on him as we rested in a corner and caught our breath. Our helmets sat on a side table next to us. He was on his fourth beer and I had just finished my second, feeling like a lightweight to already be as giddy as I was. “Aren't you glad I spared you the embarrassment? Nothing worse than showing up to a party in the same outfit as another girl.”

“Is that a thing?” he said.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Stuff like that can be a
total
social disaster.”

“Being a girl seems like it has a lotta rules,” he said, sounding suddenly thoughtful.

“Oh totally,” I said, thinking of the million things I had to learn to fit in. “It's way harder than being a guy.”

“What?” Grant said. “No way. When's the last time you got in a fistfight? You ever been popped in the nose?”

I remembered all the times guys had hit and kicked me because they didn't like me, but decided it was best not to mention those. “Whatever, tough guy.” I poked him in the chest and put a hand on my hip. “A fistfight gets you a black eye but girls
destroy
each other with just a couple of words. Guys could never handle what we go through.”

“Challenge accepted!” Grant said, setting his beer down and grabbing his helmet. “Come with me.” He grabbed my wrist and dragged me to Layla's hall bathroom, slamming the door shut behind us.

“What're you doing?” I said, confused.

“You called me out,” he said as he unzipped the Boba Fett jacket and tossed it to my side of the bathroom. “Now we gotta switch costumes.”

“What?” I said, the room tilting ever so slightly. I leaned against the sink for balance. He was down to a tank top, boxers, and socks. “Why?”

“You said I ain't got the guts to be a girl,” he said, “and I don't back down from a challenge. Gimme your costume.”

I stripped down to a cami and boyshorts, giggling the whole time, and watched as he clumsily got into the bounty-hunter Leia costume. Once everything was zipped up and the helmet was on I had to admit that besides the broader shoulders and a certain flatness across the chest, nobody would know the difference—provided he kept the helmet on, of course.

“What am I supposed to wear?” I said.

“You get to be Boba Fett,” he said. “Let's see if you got the
guts
to be a boy.”

I looked down at the Boba Fett mask, then at myself in the mirror, and started laughing. I doubled over, wrapping my arms around myself and nearly falling over.

“What's so funny?” Grant said.

“Nothing,” I gasped, slowly getting myself back under control. I wiped away a tear and started getting dressed, shaking my head. There was something hilarious about the idea of me dressing as a boy, after so many years of trying to escape it. “Nothing. You go on. I'll come out once I'm dressed.”

I stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later to find the party even more raucous than we had left it. The beer was almost completely gone, and the way the partygoers leaned on one another and howled out of key to “Monster Mash” and “Thriller” told me exactly where it went. I stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do. Wearing boys' clothes, even a costume, felt like a skin I'd long ago shed.

“Grant!” somebody called from over near the kitchen. I looked around for Grant, and then the voice called out again and I realized they were calling to me. Two guys I recognized from the football team were standing in a cluster near the stove, beckoning me. Parker stood just behind them, a beer in his hand, trying to look nonchalant. I walked over to them, only to realize a few steps in that my wrists were too loose, my elbows tucked in at my sides, my hips swaying slightly. That wasn't how boys walked. I pushed my elbows and knees out and tried to keep my spine as stiff as possible. When I reached the kitchen Grant's friends looked confused.

“You okay?” one of the guys said. He had whiskers and a cat nose painted on his face.

“Yeah,” I said, deepening my voice. I was glad to hear the helmet muffled my words.

“You were walking like you shit your pants,” Kitten Face said, wearing a look of genuine concern.

“I know what it is,” the other guy said. He had fake stitching painted from the corners of his mouth up to his cheekbones so he looked like a rag doll. He leaned over and punched me hard in the arm. I tried not to make a sound. “I saw you go in the bathroom with that chick.”

“She's so hot, dude,” rag-doll guy said. “What'd you guys do in there?”

“Yeah,” Kitten Face said, leaning close. “She finally put out?” I saw Parker trying to pretend he wasn't watching us. He snorted and rolled his eyes.

When I didn't answer, Rag Doll leaned close. “She at least let you see her tits?”

I punched him in the arm harder than I meant to and headed back toward the keg. “I'm gonna grab another beer.”

“What crawled up his ass?” I heard Kitten Face say behind me as I walked away from them and through the crush of bodies in the living room.

Outside, I got in Dad's car and turned the radio to the classical station that just barely came in. With the helmet off and the window rolled down I could breathe again. My stomach felt like it was on a gyroscope, spinning and twirling. I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel and groaned, trying to center myself. I knew how guys talked about girls when they weren't around, of course. I shouldn't have been surprised. But those two reminded me of the guys who tormented me when I was younger, and it still struck a nerve with me, no matter how much had changed. A knock at the window made me jump.

“Give up already?” Grant said. His hair was plastered to his scalp. He panted as he sat in the passenger seat.

“Yeah,” I said, turning just enough that I could keep my forehead on the cool steering wheel while also making eye contact with him. “Your friends are creeps, by the way.”

“What friends?” Grant said.

“The guy with the cat paint and the one with the rag-doll paint.”

He thought about that for a moment. “Oh, those guys are assholes. They're not my friends, they're just on the team.”

“Good,” I said, squeezing his hand and smiling. “How did you do?”

“I'm not sure,” Grant said. “Chloe hugged me and thanked me for ‘that corn thing the other day.'” I laughed. “And, uh, I kind of…” He mumbled something I couldn't make out.

“What was that?” I said.

“I got flirted with a bunch!” he said, his cheeks glowing bright pink.

“By guys?” I said, sitting up straight.

“They thought I was you!” he said, crossing his arms.

“Did you flirt back?” I said, leaning forward and grinning.

“No!” he said. “Jesus.”

“You liked it!” I said. He rolled his eyes but the pink on his cheeks didn't go away. “Come on, admit you had fun. It's okay. The whole point of Halloween is pretending.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking thoughtful. “It's weird to be someone else for a little while.”

“Yeah,” I said, shifting closer to him and resting my head on his chest. The bass, still audible out here, formed a steady rhythm, with happy shrieks of partiers rising above the din.