Chapter 33: Crimson and Clover
"Ah, now I don't hardly know her
But I think I could love her
Crimson and clover
Ah, when she comes walking over
Now I've been waitin' to show her"
Saturday. February 22nd, 1986.
POV: Winter Reid
"Well, you were out there for quite some time."
That's the greeting I get from Helen as I find her sitting crisscross in the middle of my room, my sketchbook open in front of her.
"Did you have a nice time snooping?" I ask.
"I did, but it was over pretty quickly," she flicks the page, surveying a sketch of Alpine buttercups. "You are a woman with very few possessions."
"Hmph," I sound out happily. "Just the way I like it."
I shut my door and slide out of my shoes, a pair of patent Mary-Janes Helen insisted I take from her room because, in her words, my old sneakers would simply ruin my dress.
"You have a giant suitcase under your bed," she adds.
"Oh yeah," I say. "I forget that's there sometimes."
I unzip my dress and wander to my tiny closet to slide it on a hanger.
"Are you planning on running away?" Helen asks, looking up and watching as I rifle through my drawer for a sleep shirt.
"Not anytime soon," I reply. "I just thought it would be good to have."
"Why?"
"Well, I was given exactly fifteen minutes to pack up my childhood bedroom in California, which was stressful and traumatizing, to say the least. I just wanted to be prepared if we had to move again in the middle of the night."
"Oh," Helen wrinkles her eyebrows. My explanation revealing a sad childhood memory wasn't exactly what she expected. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," I smile gently, tugging an AC/DC shirt over my head.
I pluck another one from the drawer, a red tee that says McGuire's Irish Pub across the chest, and toss it at Helen's head.
"Thank you?" She replies, reading it once and tilting her head.
"I have no idea where I got that, so don't even bother asking."
She shrugs and drops it on the floor beside her.
I flop in front of her, and she pushes the sketchbook in my direction.
"I also found this!" She exclaims, reaching behind her back and sliding a shoebox between us. "It was stuffed in the corner of your closet, but it didn't feel right opening it without asking first."
"So, you went through all the steps to find my most hidden possession but didn't actually open it?"
"Yes," she says, straightening her spine and flicking her curls over her shoulder. "I do have a moral code."
"Fine," I giggle. "You can open it."
Helen squeals with delight and chucks the lid, causing it to land near my desk chair.
"I'm going to put on some music," I say, sliding on my knees over to the cardboard box of vinyl.
Helen lifts a conch shell and observes it carefully, then presses it against her ear and closes her eyes.
"The Beach Boys feels fitting for this moment," I murmur quietly, watching as she squishes her nose and listens to the call of distant waves.
I find Pet Sounds and slid it onto the console. The opening chords of Let's Go Away for Awhile float into my room as I plant myself back across from Helen.
"Nice," she murmurs, observing the shell.
I reach out one hand for it, and she passes it over so I can hold it against my ear.
"I used to hear this sound every night," I say quietly. "The waves crashing on the shore. When I got here, and the night was filled with only crickets and the occasional owl, I thought I was going to lose my mind."
"My house creaks," Helen replies.
"Because of the gh-"
"There are no ghosts!" She cuts me off.
I sigh and drop the shell to my lap, cradling it against the hem of my shirt.
"One day, we're going to see something very haunted, and I'll be proved right."
She ignores me and continues to search through my box of keepsakes.
"Postcards," she announces, holding up a stack tied together with a purple ribbon. "But, they aren't addressed."
"I collected those on our drive out here," I explain. "Didn't have anyone to send them to, though."
"Broken bottles?"
"Sea glass," I reply. "It gets weathered by the salt water and turns out like that, all smooth and psychedelic."
"A single gold coin? What are you going to tell me this is? Pirate treasure?"
"No," I snort. "That's from a casino in Nevada."
"More shells, some twisty wood, a knife?"
"Oh!" I exclaim, jutting out my hand and plucking it from the box. "I wondered where this went. As I said, I had 15 minutes to pack, so a lot was left behind or shoved into this box."
"And you took a knife?"
"It's handmade," I say defensively. "My old babysitter gave it to me."
"They gave you a knife? When you were a baby?!"
"I was like eight, Helen," I giggle. "It's pretty rugged, but she gave it to me as a parting present. I think she moved to New Zealand or something…"
Helen only looks more confused.
"Anyway, she made it. Amber, that was her name," I smile. "She was the only woman in her blacksmithing class. She always kept a knife on her hip when we went on walks along the sand, just for protection, but it also came in handy when we wanted to pry open clams that had washed ashore."
"Okay, she sounds really cool."
"She was!" I nod my head. "I learned all my best babysitting skills from her."
"So, you're going to give the kids you watch knives when you graduate?"
"No, they already have their own."
Helen's mouth opens to reply, but she decides against it and shakes her head. Her fingers dive into the box for another discovery.
"That's it," she calls. "We've reached the bottom of your box of memories."
"And what good memories they are," I reply, slumping against my bed.
"I was hoping for baby pictures."
"We don't have any," I shift on the carpet. "Left them all behind in California."
"Oh… that's too bad."
"It's fine," I brush it off. "I probably looked like every other baby - jiggly and drooling."
Helen laughs and puts everything back gently, then lays out an open palm for the knife.
"No, I think I'll keep this on my bedside table," I say softly, turning it over in my hand. "For protection."
"Don't accidentally stab Eddie with it," she jokes.
My smile fades at the mention of his name. Helen takes note of the change in my demeanor and scooches closer, scrutinizing my face with squinted eyes.
"You guys were out there for a while…" she says. "What were you talking about?"
"Theo," I shrug. "Amongst other things."
"But mostly Theo, right?"
"I guess so…"
"What does he have to say about him?"
"He didn't say much," I hesitate. "Well… just that he's surprised that he's my type."
"I think Theo is kind of every girl's type. He's very noble and handsome, and that's coming from me, a person who does not like boys, so you know it's an objective fact."
"He's nice, isn't he?" I ask softly.
"Very," she shrugs. "Do you want someone nice?"
"Of course! I don't want someone like my father."
"That's not what I meant," Helen replies quietly, running the tips of her fingers over my beige carpet. "Nice is good. But plenty of people are nice. Don't you want something exciting? Passionate?"
"Passionate?" I choke out.
"Yes!" She exclaims. "Someone to sweep you off your feet and make you feel dizzy. Like, high on love."
I stretch out my leg and lightly kick her calf.
"Does Robin make you feel like that?"
"Mhmm," she nods slowly. "If she touches me, like even the slightest bump in the hallway, I feel like I'm going to crumble."
"Isn't that kind of scary?" I ask, wide-eyed. "Knowing someone has that power over you?"
"It's only scary because I don't know if she feels the same way I do," she says evenly. "But the feeling is good. It's almost enough… feeling it at all. For so long, I had to keep those feelings under lock and key. It feels nice letting it out now... letting myself crush."
I smile gently as she heaves out a dreamy sigh.
"I've always felt that way, too. Like, I was removed from it all. I've had crushes, but just baby ones. But, big feelings…" I shake my head. "I didn't think I could handle them."
"You're handling it well," she smiles. "With Theo."
Right, Theo.
"Well, he doesn't make me feel like I'll crumble…" I shift uncomfortably. "He makes me feel seen and wanted, and he's so sweet. But I think I'm still waiting for the lightning strike."
Helen studies me carefully.
"I've never been the best at recognizing my feelings," I continue softly, pushing out a deep exhale and fidgeting with the conch shell in my lap. "When my father was around… it wasn't safe to feel. And it wasn't useful. I just had to stay on high alert, live in anxiety so I could react."
Helen crawls over, settling on my right and pressing her back against my bed.
"I'm feeling more now. But it's scary, Helen. It's all new."
"You have to let yourself feel, though," she says.
"Yeah... I know," I agree. "And I want to feel everything. It's all I want. But my anxiety consumes so much that it's hard to trust myself. I'm good at reading other people. I can tell how I should act, but most of the time… I don't know what I want."
Sometimes I'm too introspective, too trapped in my head that I can become self-centered and oblivious. I combat that by trying my hardest to observe, not only scanning for threats but seeking to understand others. At my worst, that's all I can do. Exist for others. I'm over-aware of myself and under-aware of life happening around me. I'm worried that I'm defective, broken, and most days, that feels true. But, if I can make myself lovable, maybe the love will follow.
All my coping and defense mechanisms do is push me further from my emotions.
Perceiving, not feeling.
That's what Ms. Kelley told me last week after listening to me spew some long-winded metaphor about the ocean and my anxiety. I couldn't bring myself to simply state: I feel lost. Instead, my brain bulldozed such a matter-of-fact statement with allegory, replacing flat-palmed truths with tight-fisted reason.
I can funnel everything through logical deduction, squeezing the sharp edges of anger and viscous body of fear until I'm distanced. Far enough away to point and say, well, that teenage girl slumped in her chair is the byproduct of a manipulative father and a lonely childhood, resulting in a hypervigilant, sociotropic 16-year-old with people-pleasing tendencies.
"Perception builds your reality," I whisper, aware of how cryptic it might sound to Helen, who isn't privy to the waterfall of thoughts rushing through my brain. "And I've never perceived myself to be tough."
All I know is all I've ever known. But my father is gone, and things are shifting.
Helen reaches over and gently touches my wrist, a sweet reminder that she's here, listening to me. It's nice.
"How long have you known you like girls?" I ask.
She pushes the back of her skull against the mattress and purses her lips.
"Um… well… I told you about Faye, right?"
I nod and offer a gentle smile.
"She was kind of the person that broke me," she whispers.
"You're not broken," I respond firmly.
"No, I know. At least… I know that now. I always knew I was different. And then she happened, and it all became crystal clear."
Faye.
Helen did tell me about her. The best friend she had before she met me.
Her name reminded me of a garden fairy, and Helen described her in almost the same way. Intuitive beyond her years, mischievous, and she fought every battle for Helen. Whether it was bullies or mean girls or snide remarks from their teachers, she carried her shield, and Helen loved her for it.
It was back in middle school, when everyone seemed ready to walk across the rocky cliffside between childhood and early adolescence. Happy to leave the sweeping meadows of youth, with its bumblebees and innocence, and trade it for the uphill climb of teenagedom, with all its insecurities and doubts.
While everyone around Helen was doodling initials in their diaries and holding hands on the swing set, exchanging Valentines and plastic rings, she stood in the meadow watching, unsure how to make that same leap.
It didn't make sense to her.
When girls sat cross-legged in a circle and tried to factor out which boy was the cutest in their grade, when they began cropping their shirts and batting their eyelashes, she sat at the lunch table, observing her peers around her, and thought… Why is everyone acting so funny?
Faye was different, though.
She was a girl who always kept candy in her jacket pockets and had a gap between her two front teeth, through which she would squirt water at the boys in the cafeteria, a trick that always made Helen double over with laughter. The two friends were inseparable, passing notes in class, building daisy crowns at recess, sharing cherry lip balm and secrets.
Helen loved her in a lot of ways, though she wasn't entirely aware of it at the time. All she knew was that she needed Faye. And that every kid in her class could become love-obsessed, hormonal monsters if they wanted, but she didn't care. Because she had Faye.
They exchanged their own rings under the slide. Faye plucked a long-stemmed daisy and tied it in a circle around Helen's index finger. Helen wore it as long as she could, avoiding getting it wet when she washed her hands or showered because it made her feel tethered to someone. It was a promise, and she never wanted it to be broken.
Their arguments began in the springtime of their twelfth year. Both girls tried out for junior cheerleading, and the popular crowd accepted Faye with an easy swipe. But, it was okay, Helen told herself, because Faye was her best friend… she was still hers.
Soon, Faye joined the other girls in cross-legged circles, where they gossiped about crushes and first dates. She doodled the initials of the boy who sat behind Helen in class, adding her's underneath and enclosing it with a heart. Helen watched with trembling hands, wondering why was she acting funny too?
Still, she didn't want to lose Faye, so she tried to do the same. She picked a boy with glasses who sat alone at lunch and told the other girls that he was her crush. She went to parties where they played spin the bottle and had her first kiss with Marty Walsh. Still, she thought, what's wrong with everyone?
Helen wasn't interested in dating, but admitting that out loud would've made her a pariah of the social scene. Her peers would've scrunched their noses at her and asked Why not? What's wrong with you?
What's wrong with you?
That's the final question Helen always settled on when she tried to map it out in her brain. Her thought process took her down many roads. Maybe she was a late bloomer. Maybe romance wouldn't strike her until she was 21. Maybe the boys in her class were just too smelly. But, every winding path inevitably led her to the same conclusion… that something must be wrong with her.
She tried to talk to Faye about the feelings that bubbled inside her chest and lodged in her throat. About the lump that formed thereafter, a hard mass that her words had to maneuver around, a knot that made eating impossible, a brick she tried to swallow down every day with the hope it would dissolve in her stomach, but it didn't move. The lump stayed, and she was left asking herself what is wrong with you?
Helen started her freshman year still holding onto the frayed rope that connected her to Faye. She still wanted her to defend her from bullies and pick her daisies, but Faye got a boyfriend. All the girls seemed to get boyfriends as if it was some part of back-to-school shopping that Helen had missed. New notebooks, gel pens, a boy to walk down the hallway with…
Soon, Faye didn't have much time left for Helen. And Helen grew desperate. She needed Faye. Faye was the only thing Helen understood.
But there was a strain on their relationship, a razor's edge slowly slicing through the last few strings holding them together. When Faye talked about her boyfriend, Helen's blood would boil. When Helen grabbed her hand out of excitement, squeezing it tightly in her palm, and Faye yanked backward, Helen's heart cracked a little. She thought she was doing her best to salvage their friendship, following her, dressing like her, taking everything in stride, but something had changed.
On the day their friendship splintered for good, Helen walked home from a party, shoes in her left hand, her right pressed against her lips, trying to muffle the sobs that poured from her throat. She couldn't understand why this was happening to her. What did she do to deserve this? Why couldn't she be like everyone else?
It was Faye's fifteenth birthday. Helen wasn't technically invited, but she thought that was an oversight, or maybe Faye thought an invitation was obvious, considering they'd been spending birthdays together since they were seven.
It was a big party, and Faye was in the middle of it all, telling some story in the kitchen that made everyone roar with laughter. Helen stood on the outskirts of the circle, smiling at how her best friend easily accepted attention and didn't bother to lower her voice. She was soaking it all in, and Helen felt proud of the confident teenager she had become. Until her gaze landed on Helen, her standing there with a carefully wrapped pink box, and Faye's eyes narrowed.
What happened next was a short bout of harsh whispers in the downstairs bathroom. Faye explained that she didn't tell Helen about the party because she wouldn't know anyone, that it would be weird, and that this just isn't your crowd. Helen tried but failed to brush off the hurt, shoving the pink present at Faye like a patchwork peace treaty, a feeble attempt at fixing the situation.
Helen would've taken anything from Faye. She had taken her daisy ring and favorite songs, her jolly ranchers and secrets. She would've taken Faye's increasing ignorance for the rest of high school if allowed. She would've taken the back seat, the canceled plans, the leftovers of her attention. She wanted anything Faye had, but Faye wouldn't even take her birthday present.
She told Helen to go, so she went. The gift-wrapped box landed in the rosebushes by the front door, where Helen chucked it as her eyes blurred with tears.
On that long walk home, bare feet on pavement and nausea in her throat, Helen understood what she was feeling.
Heartbreak.
Faye moved away at the end of last year, and Helen pulled herself together.
Her heart burned for her best friend until the day she plunged a knife into it. The cut was deep, and Helen had to stitch it up alone. No words exchanged in their argument defined it as a breakup, but it felt like one, so Helen treated it as such.
She stood in her en suite with scissors in one hand and the other running through her curly dark brown strands. She had read somewhere that a woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life. But Helen didn't really want to change her life.
So, she was different. But, she knew on some molecular level that she couldn't change.
Cutting bangs haphazardly above her sink wouldn't change how she felt when she used to hug Faye, and her nose would linger against her soft hair, inhaling her lemon-scented shampoo. Throwing out all of her Clinique makeup and trading it for dollar-store black eyeshadow wouldn't change how her heart leapt when the cheerleaders crammed in the back of someone's Ford and soft thighs pressed against soft thighs.
No, changing the surface wouldn't solve anything. She couldn't change. She couldn't start attending church with her parents and commit to self-flagellation. She couldn't kneel until she bled, hands clasped tightly, lips whispering prayers for salvation and promises for redemption.
And why would she want to? Why would she want to hear sermons about the type of love she should be pursuing? Why should she commit herself to the narrative of boy meets girl, to chase that life, one that included marriage at 21 and cold mansions devoid of laughter or family game nights?
Helen lived in one of those idyllic, normal nuclear families - and it sucked.
There was no affection behind closed doors. Her mother bought her little brother every new toy or gadget, so he would entertain himself alone in his room and not bother her. She kept a clean house and cooked four-course meals that she never sat down to eat and convinced herself that it made up for her disinterest. Helen's dad dragged himself home every night, weary but rich enough to keep up appearances. They dressed up to take Christmas card photos and went skiing at Crystal Mountain, but nobody really talked. Not her mom to her dad, or her dad to Quincy, or her mom to Helen. Maybe her house did have ghosts, just not the traditional kind.
Helen put down the scissors and made a new plan. She would paint herself perfect. A picture of elegance, with every hair smoothed and pinned and shoes shiny enough to see her reflection. She would remain polite and courteous. Helen was always eager to talk to people, and sometimes she became so excited she couldn't quite help herself, but she would try to keep her thoughts to herself. No one but her could know her secret. No one should suspect a thing. She would hide under ruffled dresses and baby blue sweaters.
Feminine, Traditional, Normal.
That was the plan.
Helen had always fancied herself aggressively normal. Nothing terrible had ever really happened to her, save for that Halloween night in the Creel house or the time she had opened the window for her parakeet just so he could have a nice view, and the turquoise feathered creature flew away without a second thought. She thought she spotted him from time to time, a poof of blue hidden in the green maple in her backyard, and she envied that bird.
Helen knew her life wasn't exciting or rebellious, and she often wished upon a twinkling star or an exotic bird sitting on a branch. She wished she had something unique about herself. She wanted to have anything remotely interesting happen to her. Maybe she would wake up one day, and her hair would've turned silver in the night. Maybe a long-lost relative would send her a postcard from Siciliy, inviting her to spend the summer at their villa. Maybe she would ride her bike through traffic and collide with a sedan, then hobble down the school hallway where her peers would push to lay sympathies and smiley faces upon her cast.
She didn't expect being a lesbian in small-town Indiana to be the mystery trait she had wished for every night. Helen cursed the parakeet and the twinkling stars for making her this way. And she cursed herself for wanting to be different in the first place.
I was the first person she ever told. The first person besides herself that knows. Although, she expects her mother is suspicious because Helen hasn't already had four boyfriends like she had when she was 16.
"Faye broke my heart," Helen mutters sadly. "But, I'm stronger because of it… even if I cried myself to sleep a lot ."
"Well…" I squeeze her hand and feel her squeeze back. "I'm glad you're letting yourself feel. You don't want to shove it away."
"I couldn't even if I wanted to," Helen replies. "It's just who I am."
"You're braver than you realize."
"How am I brave?" She snorts.
"Because you're honest. I wish I could be more honest with myself. I wish I could figure myself out. You and Eddie are good at that, knowing who you are."
"I've never thought about it that way," she responds. "I guess I've always felt it was a burden, the knowledge that I was different. But you're right. At least I know. Whatever happens next… I'm me."
I lean my head against her shoulder.
"I want to become me, too," I say. "I think it's getting clearer, but it's kind of a lot. And I worry I'll shut down, switch on my defense mechanism, and just... check out."
"Are you talking about Theo? Is he making you open up?"
"I guess so," I murmur. "But everything feels heightened lately. I've always kept myself so closed off, only doing what I could handle, and I couldn't handle very much. But everything is bigger. It all feels more… intense."
Helen nudges me gently.
"Passionate?" She asks, a teasing tilt to her voice.
I groan in reply.
"Are you having passionate feelings, Winter?" She prods. "Does Theo make you all hot and bothered?"
"Ugh, Helen," I grumble.
It's not what I meant, but I don't tell her that.
Theo didn't bring the intensity. The sunlight did. The sunlight that cast off my darkness.
I grew up with the darkness. I spent years detached from my body and huddled in shadows with my head tucked down.
I understood the darkness. I could anticipate it and control it, so I made it my friend. It was always there, and it was solid... stable... secure.
Nothing bad could happen to me back then because I didn't let anything happen to me. Nothing besides the darkness.
Now, things are more intense. The curtains have been ripped down, and sunlight floods the room, casting a glow over my cobwebs and fears, forcing me to squint into the light and let it wash my skin.
What I'm really afraid to discover, what I'm scared will inevitably catch up to me... is that I need the darkness. My father's darkness. My anxiety. My shadows.
What if it's kept me safe? What if I can't live without it? What if I'm not strong?
My friends think I deserve sunlight, and I love them for it. But, they don't really know all of it... not the way I know my darkness.
The chiming sound of Helen's laugh pulls me back into my body.
I keep my head on her shoulder so she can't see the fading vacancy in my eyes. I blink to clear it away, to refocus on this moment, and Helen asks, "Hey, do you remember our first sleepover?"
"Um... yeah…" I wrinkle my eyebrows, caught off-guard by her subject change.
"We listened to Eddie's mixtape and had that talk about She-Bop -"
"Oh yeah, the song about masturbation."
Helen audibly winces, still not totally comfortable with discussing that topic.
"Uh-huh, sure." She rolls her hand through the air dismissively. "Anyway, after that conversation, you said we should take charge. Make something happen instead of waiting for it to happen to us."
"I said that?" I peer up at her. "That's surprisingly sound advice coming from me."
"It changed my perspective," Helen admits. "That's when I knew I could trust you… and myself… in going after what I want."
"I'm proud of you," I admit. "You've figured yourself out. You're like… kind of a badass now."
She laughs lightly in response.
"Well, I grew," she shrugs. "And I feel happier than ever before. Closer to happiness than ever before. I just want you to get there, too."
"I think I am," I sigh. "But, my feelings are all jumbled and loud. I can't tell them apart. And I worry I'm going to keep doing what I think I should be doing, then wake up one day and realize it's all been a mistake. Like, I made the wrong choice."
"Hmph," she sounds out thoughtfully. "I think you're just trying something out, something new. And that's just part of being sixteen. We're not supposed to know. We just have to try."
"Guess so," I reply. "And I want to… y'know… be with somebody. I want to feel special and desired, but it's also so exposing."
"I just want to kiss Robin," Helen admits.
I giggle.
"It'll happen before the summer," I smile. "I'm putting it out into the universe."
"God, I hope so," she replies. "I don't know how many more foreign language films I can check out from Family Video. I need her to notice me."
"She does!" I exclaim.
"You're far too positive about my situation," she mutters.
"You go see her every Saturday morning," I furrow my eyebrows. "And she has a stack of tapes waiting for you to check out. Her special Robin recommendations!"
"Yeah…" she hesitates. "But, I don't know. Maybe she's just being helpful. Maybe she takes her job very seriously or saw the movies I'd rented before and thought I needed an intervention."
"Yeah, right," I roll my eyes.
"I'm serious!" She scoffs. "It's quite literally her job to give people videotapes."
"Hmm, it's not exactly in her job description to painstakingly select obscure films that contain deep feminist undertones or have some profound social commentary buried within."
I sit up to fix her under a knowing smirk.
"She could just hand you the new releases, but no, last time she gave you Klute. That's a move if I've ever seen one."
Her cheeks flush scarlet.
"Giving me Klute was definitely not a move!"
"It's Jane Fonda!" I cried in response. "Jane Fonda is sexy! Everyone knows this!"
"Ugh, please, sometimes your support is suffocating."
"Too bad, Helen!" I shout. "I support you wholeheartedly. I would break up with Theo tomorrow if it meant you and Robin would drive off into the sunset together."
"I don't think he'd be too happy about that," she mutters, trying to peel her hand away from mine. "Besides, we don't even know if… if she's… y'know…"
Gay?
Her mouth assumes the position to say the word aloud, but the syllables tangle in her throat.
"Helen, I know it's hard because you can't guess if she likes the same people that you like, but from what I'm hearing… she's putting a lot of effort into showing you she's interested."
Her starry-eyed expression cuts to gloom, and she shakes her head madly as if trying to rattle away thoughts of reassurance settling into her brain.
"No," she says curtly. "I can't read into it like that. There's too much at stake. I've done that before, and I got seriously hurt."
"I know…" I sigh. "So…we'll become her friend, then."
"We?" She arches an eyebrow.
"What?" I raise my eyebrows in response. "You don't seriously think I'm not going to meddle, do you?"
"I'd rather you didn't," she replies coolly.
"Excuse me!" I scoff. "Who shoved you in her direction at the basketball game? Who encouraged her to watch over you at Theo's party? I'm the Machiavelli of your love life. You're welcome."
Helen squints her eyes, but her mouth threatens to spread into a wide grin.
"So you don't know if she's gay-"
She releases an audible wince.
"Sorry!" I blurt, then drop my voice to a whisper. "Are we not saying that word out loud?"
"I've just, um… I've never said it."
"Oh," I reply.
"I mean… I've read it."
"You've read the word gay?"
Another wince, this one a bit softer.
"Yes, I was trying to do some research at the school library."
"Research about…?"
"About, y'know… that topic," she says, carefully omitting the word. "I don't know. I just thought something could help me understand, maybe make me feel like I wasn't insane."
"I don't think Indiana public schools have the best collection of queer literature, Helen."
"Yeah, the closest I got was the collected poems of Emily Dickinson."
I laugh, and she smiles tentatively.
"You can say it…" I bump my shoulder against hers, causing her to finally crack into a smile. "With me, if you want. It's just a word, Helen. You define you. Not your mom, not me, not any singular word."
She sucks in a deep breath and nods.
"Anyway, so we don't know if Robin is…."
I tilt my head and wait for her to signal how she wants to discuss this, to let me know what she's comfortable saying.
"Violets," she replies softly. "If she likes violets."
"The flower?" I ask. "Are we still talking about the same thing?"
"It's a symbol, Winter," she sighs.
"Oh! Okay, violets. Got it. So, maybe Robin likes violets, or maybe she doesn't. Still, you can be her friend. She seems pretty cool, and maybe… who knows… eventually you'll figure out what her favorite flower is."
"You're getting my hopes up," she mumbles.
I push my temple against hers and pull her in for a cuddle.
"I know," I chirp. "I just think you deserve the world."
She tightens her arms over my middle and squeezes.
"Oh!" I sit up quickly, wriggling out the hug. "Stay right here!"
"Wha-"
I dash out of my bedroom and make a beeline for the bookshelf in the living room. I begin tossing through the novels with haste, until my hands land on the tattered copy I found under the bleachers at school while I was avoiding gym class.
I stuff everything back to their rightful spots and skip to Helen's side, falling onto my knees and shoving the book in her lap.
"For you…" I smile. "I want you to have this."
Her fingers gently brush over the gold script on the cover that spells out Emily Dickinson.
"Y'know, she talks a lot about death," I muse. "Which I thoroughly enjoy, but I reread it recently and found some other poems I thought you'd like."
Her fingers tug on the blue ribbon I added as a bookmark. She shuffles the pages and runs her gaze over a few stanzas.
"See…" I point. "I drew stars near the ones I wanted to share with you."
"Wow, this is really nice, but… I'm not the best at reading poetry."
"No one is, Helen," I say matter-of-factly. "But it still makes you feel something. Besides, haven't you noticed how male-heavy the authors we have to read in English class are? No one better captures what it's like to be a teen girl than Emily."
"Wasn't she a spinster?"
"So? I might be a spinster. Only time will tell."
Helen giggles in response and closes the book gently.
"Besides…" I lean forward. "I am out with lanterns looking for myself. That's angsty as hell."
"Point taken," she smiles.
"And, there's plenty of poems about moons and violets," I add in a knowing voice, lightly swaying side to side. "Sparsed between the stuff about the cold embrace of death."
"Great!" Helen says. "So if my love life doesn't work out, I guess I've got that to look forward to."
"But first, we'll be spinsters together, right?"
"Sure," she shrugs. "Why not?"
"Cool," I reply.
The Beach Boys record has finished, and I stand to switch off the console, then slide open my window to let in the cool breeze.
Helen folds her clothes and tugs on the shirt I plucked from my drawer, then slides underneath the covers, settling onto her side with her back against the wall.
"Hey, that's my side of the bed," I hiss.
"So?" Helen calls.
"I always sleep closest to Sodapop! I told you that!"
"And I told you that you have a weird attachment to your Outsiders poster."
"It comforts me! I don't have a teddy bear… I have Rob Lowe."
"Just get in bed, Winter," she murmurs, her eyelids drooping and her voice slowing.
"Ugh, fine," I grumble and pull the chain on my lamp, plunging the room into darkness save for the glow of the moon and the red numbers on my alarm clock.
I squeeze in beside her, flipping my pillow over and mimicking her position, curled into the covers and hands folded alongside my head.
It's quiet for a long time, and I listen as the crickets begin their chorus, orchestrated by one rather noisy owl.
"You sure Eddie didn't say anything else tonight?" Helen asks quietly.
"What?" I whisper.
"You seemed a little shaken when you came in. I didn't want to mention it because you guys have your own unique friendship. But… you can talk to me about it if you want."
"It's not that unique," I reply softly. "We're just best friends. We're close."
"I know," she says. "But you two seem to exist in your own world."
"Yeah," I nod, the movement rustling my hair against my pillowcase. "We had to build our own world. Because reality sucked."
"That makes sense," she says with a loud yawn.
"But, it's expanding now… our world. Everything is shifting."
"Mhmm," she says softly. "I like him. You were right… he's not mean and scary."
I smile in the dark, feeling cozy under the weight of my duvet and with the thought of my two favorite people forming their own friendship.
It's been growing steadily since Eddie drove us to the party. The three of us have settled into a snug triangle, our varied personalities meshing into a happy trio.
Eddie and Helen talk about traveling. I'll listen and sketch postcards of the places they mention, a temporary slip of white notebook paper they'll one day trade in for the real thing. The pyramids of Giza. The leaning tower of Pisa. The world's largest ball of twine in Lake Nebagamon, Wisconsin.
They talk about politics, too. Mostly, it's Eddie going off about the man while Helen listens intently and nods along. It's adorable, really, how fascinated she is by Eddie Munson. They couldn't be more opposite, in both wealth and presentation, but in her eyes, he's a spark of rebellion, something she's always struggled to find. He encourages her to speak her mind, and she does. Helen leans against my locker and exhales a few ideas of her own, sprinkling in phrases like patriarchal society and antiquated gender roles, buzzwords that make Eddie glance at me with a proud smirk.
Eddie lives with his head in the clouds, and Helen walks with her feet glued to solid earth. He paces with sonorous confidence, his mind buzzing with possibilities and his ideas unraveling as he speaks. Helen watches with her back straight, finding pockets where Eddie has to suck in a deep breath to fuel his rants, and inserts her grounded responses, reminding him of the rules he'd be breaking or redirecting him away from the metaphorical cliff's edge.
I lie somewhere between them, mostly in my own world, but always painfully aware of reality.
Eddie and I view everything in the abstract, and without Helen yanking us back down to earth, we'd float so far into space and spend the rest of the day amongst the stars. We talk too much, burning through politics, religion, and psychology like wildfire. Helen adapted quickly to our tendency to nerd out about pretty much anything. She watches us like a tennis match, her head swiveling on her neck and her mouth drawn into a smile. I'll glance over and catch the sight of that smile, which always looks like it's concealing a secret. Like, she's made some discovery she isn't likely to share.
Next to me, Helen's breathing indicates that she's fallen into a deep sleep. I can't follow into my dreamscape, not until I replay what Eddie said on the swings. I think about every minute movement, every twitch of his mouth, and every emotion that shone in his brown eyes.
Yes, things are shifting. We're all on a precipice, Helen, me, and Eddie. But I can't guess what's next. Right now, everything is good, and I want more. More sunlight, more laughter, more experience.
I feel myself opening up.
With Theo, I let him touch places no one has ever touched, kiss my neck, and hold my hand. I'm opening myself up to be desired. To feel worthy of desire.
With Helen, I tell her about my worst fears, about the doubts that exist between the pockets of happiness. She talks in exchange. About Robin, about Faye, about being a teenage girl with dreams of New York and love. She's opening up after too long spent hiding.
And… Eddie. I've always been open with him, and he with me. But, a new door opened tonight, just a crack. Not enough for me to know what's on the other side of it… but I'm curious.
Am I being selfish?
Is it wrong to want to feel so much?
Is it dangerous?
I squish my eyes shut tight and force myself to sleep. I hope I dream tonight, a peaceful dream. I hope I don't wake Helen by thrashing the covers and bucking from the remnants of a nightmare.
I hope everything stays alright for a little while longer.