The Inside of Out (21 page)

Hannah went quiet. “You have no idea how hard it is for her.”

“I don't care about her, I care about you.”

As soon as I said it, all the anger flew out of me. I cradled my head in my hands.

“What
is
this, Hannah? This isn't us. We don't fight. What is
happening
?”

“You tell me, Daisy. You're the one who's gone insane.”

“Insane? Because I'm fighting for your rights?” I shook my head. “What's insane is that you don't seem to care at all. It's like you're in denial.”

“Maybe I am!” She laughed. It was an ugly sound. An unfamiliar one. “Maybe what I wanted was the
same
life, a normal life where people weren't taking my picture or constantly talking about my sexual orientation. Maybe I wanted my dates with my girlfriend—my
real
one—to be private and not a matter of national discussion.” She let out a low moan, almost a sob. “Did you ever think to stop and ask me what I wanted, Daisy? Ever once?”

I could hardly get my mouth to work. “Everything I've done has been for you.”

“That's not the same thing.” She was quiet for so long that I checked the phone to see if the line was still connected.

“Is this about your dad?” I asked quietly. “You still haven't told me—”

“It's about a lot of things. It's . . .” Her inhalation was shaky enough to hear over the phone. “I feel like . . . the moment I came out, I stopped being
me
to you? I started being an issue. Or, like, a
hobby
.”

I flushed, blinking furiously. “That isn't true, Hannah. I promise you, it—”

“Okay.” The word was a door slamming. “I know you mean well, Daisy. You always mean well. But you shouldn't have outed Natalie. That was . . . cruel. It wasn't like you to do something like that.”

Cruel.
That was the word that stuck to my brain like Saran Wrap, until a few hours later, mulling it over, trying to mentally replay what I'd said in the interview, I
still
couldn't understand what Hannah meant. I'd stated a fact—pointed
out a flaw in Cindy Beck's argument, a glaring blind spot in the debate. What was cruel about that?

Unless . . .

I pictured Jack, buttoning up his polo shirt, shedding his swagger every time he walked into his house. Mrs. Beck, sunny with confidence at the school board meeting. And her crestfallen, floating face tonight.

Oh. Crap.

Natalie's parents didn't know.

When I was little, my heart still intact, the only thing that bothered me about Natalie Beck was that she learned everything more quickly than me. The summer before second grade, we took swim classes at her grandparents' country club, and I watched in grudging awe as she took to the waves like a mermaid, while I stayed behind in the Guppy class for weeks.

One day, I refused to go in her backyard pool, dangling my toes on the side as she did flips in the water. Then her head popped up under my foot.

“I'm your seahorse,” she said—and hauled me in with her. Nat was strong enough to stay above the surface as I rode on her back yelling “Giddyup!” every time she turned. She didn't falter once—not until her mom walked out and stood watching us with the oddest look on her face, like her lips had been broken and glued back on.

“I've made some snacks,” Mrs. Beck said sweetly. “Help me bring them out for Daisy.”

Natalie swam us into the shallow end and slid me off her back. “Mom—”

“Right now
.
”
She walked into the house and Natalie scrambled out of the pool, rubbed herself raw with a towel, and hurried after her.

It felt weird to be unsupervised, so I dried off too and crept inside.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Beck was yelling without raising her voice. “Do you
hear
me?
Enough
.”

She stormed out the other way just as I walked in. Natalie's back was turned, shoulders collapsed. There weren't any snacks on the counter.

“Are you in trouble?” I asked.

Nat turned. She was crying. I'd never seen her do this before. It was like finding out her red hair was a wig. This was not who she was.

Just as I processed it, her tears seemed to retreat back into her eyes, her face relaxing, shoulders straightening, making me question whether I'd seen anything in the first place. But there had been something that remained. A tension. An edge. I'd never forgotten it.

I saw that same edge now, the day after the Shawna Wells interview, as I glanced out the open cafeteria door to the lunch stoop, and Natalie happened to glance back. She'd been crying. And now she was pulling it back in. At the sight of me, she picked up her lunch bag and motioned around the building for Hannah to follow. I was too vile to even be permitted a look at them.

As I made my way through the cafeteria to the Alliance, faces turned toward me like a cresting wave, some admiring, curious, others smirking or disdainful. But when I reached the table at the edge of the room, there was only one face I wanted to see.

Kyle looked up at me with a grin. For someone with a purple shiner, he seemed upbeat.

“How are you feeling?” I whispered, my shaking voice barely coming out.

“Deaf,” he whispered back. It took me a second to realize he was kidding. “I'm fine! Seriously. I saved you a seat.”

The rest of the group was giggling, too giddy to notice me joining them.

“This is
astounding
.” Sean idly drummed a swing beat on the table. “The whole cast?”

“The show's publicist called me this morning to confirm.” Jack's face floated into a grin. “Did that sound official? Do I sound like I know what I'm talking about?”

Sean clapped. “Yes!”

Raina gave me the barest of smiles. “I take it back, Daisy. You sure can deliver on your bat-shit promises.”

“I can?” I leaned over to get a better view of Jack's tablet in the center of the table, seeing only a giant photo of Chase Hernandez, number two on my ever-evolving list of the Hottest Guys on
Triplecross
.

“He came out last night,” Sean breathlessly filled me in. “Really, really, really publicly. The press release said he was inspired by the efforts of Daisy Beaumont-Smith.” He made a tiny flourish of a bow to me. “And would be making a trip to
South Carolina to come to homecoming.
Our
homecoming. And now the whole cast has said they're coming. The entire. Cast. Of
Triplecross
!”

Sean and Jack linked hands and screamed. Clearly they were fans.

“That's a show,” Sophie explained. “On the television, I think.”

And
clearly Sophie wasn't.

Raina's fork hovered in front of her mouth. “Sometimes I swear you just wandered in from a Disney movie.”

Sophie beamed, resting her head on Raina's shoulder. “Aw, thank you!”

“So.” I grinned back at Sophie—who did look an awful lot like Cinderella, now that I thought about it. “We've got our celebs. Now we just need a band.”

“Yes.” Sean snorted adorably. “But not just any band . . .”

Everyone said it together.

“One of the
biggest bands in the world!
”

I cringed, preparing for insults, but they all started laughing. “It could happen!”

In the flush of the
Triplecross
win, everybody seemed to agree with me. So why was there still such an ugly knot in my stomach—like I'd done something terrible and was just waiting for everybody to find out?

Because I was lying to the country, maybe? Seemed like a workable theory.

Stop being neurotic,
I ordered myself.
At least until after homecoming. Everything is great.

Hannah blanked me during bio. And in the hall, after class. I wondered if she heard about
Triplecross
.

I didn't ask.

Everything is great.

Adam looked even nervier than usual as he waited for me outside the Moonlight Coffee Shop, feet tapping, hands stuck deep in his black corduroy pockets. I cocked my head as I neared him, wondering why he wasn't in the corner booth like last time.

Then I heard it. Something inexplicable.

Voices.
Inside the diner
.

The Moonlight Coffee Shop was packed. Every table full, every seat at the counter occupied. It didn't make sense until I pressed my nose against the glass and spotted laptops, tablets, iPhones in front of every customer.

The reporters. They'd
invaded
my hideout.

“Twenty-minute wait,” Adam announced.

“This is an outrage!” I shouted.

He laughed. I stared him down. His grin sank into a gulp.

“Should we pick another spot, then?” he offered. “I've been wanting to go to the beach. What do you say? Change of pace?”

I peeled myself from the sidewalk and fell numbly into Adam's passenger seat, saying a silent good-bye to the desolate diner that was. We rounded the corner and sped off before any of the other reporters could spot and accost me.

It took me several sullen blocks to process the fact that it had started to drizzle. I turned to see Adam's reaction,
whether he'd order a rain check, but he seemed undeterred. When we got to the empty Folly Beach parking lot, he jumped out of the car, standing on his toes to get a look at the waves.

“It's nice like this,” he said, the wind whipping his dark hair into a mop. “Empty. I'd be insulted by sunbathers, if I were the ocean. This ageless, majestic thing in front of you and people bring along neon umbrellas and towels and . . . what do you call 'em? Boogie boards.” He shuddered. “I used to go to Coney Island when it was raining, but nobody ever wanted to come with me.”

I stopped walking. “Say that again.”

He swiped his hair back, one glistening curl dropping down again. “I guess it's kind of a weird preference.”

“No.” I turned toward the surf in an attempt to stop staring. “It's . . . I get it.”

“Thanks for taking time out.” Adam put on Reporter Voice. “I know how busy you are these days. With
Evening News
appearances and all that.”

I grimaced. “Did you watch?”

“You kicked ass.” He squinted over his rain-spattered glasses at me. “So her daughter . . . that's Natalie? The one you—?”

“Yeah.” I picked up a shell and chucked it at the ocean. It arced high, landing a few feet away. Leave it to me to miss the Atlantic Ocean. “I didn't mean to mention her on TV. I guess it was kind of a mistake.”

Adam shrugged. “It won you the debate.”

“Hannah's pretty mad.”

Adam picked up another shell and handed it to me, but it was pink and swirly, too nice to throw.

“So Operation Hannah isn't going so well?”

“No,” I admitted. “I would definitely categorize it as ‘unwell.' We had a fight yesterday, before I even went on TV. She thinks I'm gonna screw everything up. Or bail, like with the opera, among other things. Actually, I think she
wants
me to bail, which is even more confusing . . .”

“Okay.” Adam stepped out ahead of me and dug his sneakers into the sand, hands outstretched to stop me. “That's the third time you've brought up this opera. I
have
to ask.”

“You ask too much.”

“Off the record?” He crossed his heart.

The only way out of this was to answer. Quickly. Pulling off a Band-Aid.

“Freshman year, I started writing an opera about Stede Bonnet. The school got really excited, but I couldn't finish it, because . . . reasons. So we had to cancel and everybody was really mad at me for about five minutes until they forgot all about it. The end.”

Adam looked perplexed, as well you might when hearing someone say they'd started writing an opera. “Stede Bonnet?”

“The Gentleman Pirate?” I offered. “Terror of the seas? Hanged on the Battery?”

He shrugged and my mouth fell open.

“How could you not know who Stede Bonnet is?”

He let out a bewildered laugh. “I'm new here.”

“He's not a
Charleston
thing. He's a pirate legend!”

Adam did not look convinced. “And you started an opera about him?”

“Kind of half opera, half rock opera,” I clarified. “I got like five songs in and realized I didn't know how to make musical notations or play any instruments. So.”

“So how did you write the five songs?”

“In the shower, mostly.” I bent to pick up another shell that matched the one Adam had given me and tossed it over to him.

“You sang them.”

I nodded, my flush creeping higher.

A dangerous glint was in his eye. “You have to sing them for me.”

I stopped walking. “Um. No.”

He kneeled, offering a chipped oyster shell in payment. “
Please.
Just one.”

Apart from the music teacher, the only person who'd ever heard these songs was Hannah. It did seem like kind of a waste.

“One song,” I said. “I cannot believe I'm doing this.”

Adam flopped onto the sand, waiting for me to start. “Just go.”

“Okay, this is called the ‘Ballad of Bloody Stede.' It opens the opera and . . . yeah. Picture a bunch of drunk sailors on a dock at night, standing around the entrance to a sketchy pub.”

Adam grinned. This was too embarrassing. I gripped the shell and closed my eyes.

“
Out on the sea, you see the flag, the flag of Bloody Stede, and you know your fate is sealed as tight as a basket of woven reeds . . . a basket of woven reeds.
”

I opened my eyes. “There's, like, a musical interlude here.”

“Keep singing!” Adam heckled. My eyes clamped shut.

“
A wealthy man from Barbados, a married man was he, but Mary proved a rightly shrew, so Stede turned to the sea . . . so Stede turned to the sea
.

“
A four-gun ship, a purchased crew, and Stede stood on the bow, said ‘I will rule the seas one day. You have my solemn vow . . . you have my solemn vow.'

“
Aboard
Revenge
he sails the coast, a terror on the waves, from Chesapeake to old New York, 'tis plunder that he craves . . .”

I swished my hand to keep from having to sing the chorus again, then Adam did it for me. Emboldened, I kept going.

“
With dandy clothes and hired ship, a gentleman is Stede, but don't mistake him for a fool, you'll walk the plank indeed . . .