It's a thing you don't talk about admit to acknowledge even in your own mind, that's all I know, all I've been taught about it in hushed whispers as they pass, girls with boyish hair, boys with girlish faces, rainbows plastered across their bodies and smiles plastered across their faces, gay. And it's been confusing me for a while, how a word that used to mean happy is the one that makes my parents flip, old-school Catholic values and reading the riot act because this is An Abomination, even though I've read the Bible back to front, and I don't think Jesus would care that I like girls. But my parents, they're a whole other story.
It's a new day new school year and there's a new girl in my school, and she's all anybody's talking about. I don't understand why until she breezes into my second period history class, bright blue eyes and flicky blonde hair, throwing smiles at everyone and sliding into her seat like she's always been there. It takes me by surprise, how aggressively bubbly she is – not that she's aggressive, but the bubbles hit you from miles away – and when she turns to me and holds her hand out with a grin – "I'm Arizona," – I just stare dumbly at her hand. That's when I notice the rainbow beads around her wrist. I'm trying to process everything that just hit me when the teacher walks in and demands silence. She withdraws her hand and turns to face the front, probably coming to all the wrong conclusions about my lack of a response, and my mind is racing and so is my pulse, for reasons I've been trying for years to ignore.
The bell rings for the end of the period, and she pulls out her schedule, narrowing her eyes slightly in concentration. "Do you have volleyball next?" I jump, almost drop my notebook. I nod. She grins. "Me too. Don't worry, I won't peek in the changing rooms," she winks. "Lesbian code of honour."