Chapter Summary: So. My little one thinks she can ask me out on a date ... and as a boy? This'll be... interesting. Hm. But I wonder, if she did, given different circumstances, given none of this having happened, would I give her the time of day? Or the brush off? Or ... worse? A poor sheriff's daughter asking Rosalie Hale out? She wouldn't've stood a chance, the poor girl. After all, I'm not Vera to stoop so low. Which means I would've ended up with Royce. Again.
When I say, 'the poor girl,' whom do I mean?
A/N: Reorganized the previously published chapter 74 into the new, smaller chapter 74 ("A Rose by Any Other Name") and this chapter ("If I were a boy..."). Apologies for the reorganization. I blame breaking up the one, long writing spell of fifteen-thousand words into smaller chapters at three am as the culprit. Won't happen again... Today, that is. Maybe.
I felt Rosalie leave my side, and I heard her filling pitchers with water. Just as easy as you please.
Everything was simple and obvious for Rosalie; ever notice that?
And everything was hard for me. Hard for me to understand, and hard for me to do. Did you ever notice that as well? We couldn't possibly be more opposite than if we tried.
I mean, like she hinted before, if I were a boy, we'd be completely opposite. But besides that.
I mean? Me? A boy? I'd have to be in sports and have all my guy friends and have a girl friend and affect a bored indifference to everything and not read at all because I couldn't look smart, because that's a stigma for boys for some reason, nor talk about anything or otherwise people would talk about me.
Uh ... well, actually, even when I talked about anything being a just a girl, they still talked about me.
But being a boy was just so ... uncomplicated. So ... boring! And I suppose that had its appeal, without your body going haywire on you every month. Boys just had their thing for equipment, and, okay, eww! But they didn't have to worry over everything like we girls did, like, for example: what we'd wear today and what everybody thought about us. Boys just slumped into school wearing the same sweater and jeans they did the day before, every day! If a girl did that? She'd be so ostracized and vilified she'd quit school or kill herself the first week! ... and it didn't matter if a girl didn't have pretty dresses, like the other girls did, and how did they have these pretty, pretty dresses, each one different, every day, during these hard times? How did they not have the same pair of jeans and only a few shirts and sweaters? ... like the daughter of the sheriff on the County government's payroll.
And the County didn't pay much to a man looking after his only daughter ... small family, right? So they don't need much at all. Even if his job description was to put his life on the line, every day. He didn't, but that's what the County wanted him to do. And for how much? A few dollars each day?
And he did this without complaint. I never heard him say one bad word, ever, about the hard times, or making ends meet, or him hating his job, because he didn't. He just did what he did, and he got paid what he got paid. And we made ends meet, as best as we could. So I went to school in the same shirts and jeans, and didn't mind what the other girls thought.
I tried not to mind it. I tried not to think what their looks at me meant, then the eyes sliding over me, and past me, not seeing the poor girl of no consequence.
I wasn't their girl friend, after all. I wasn't popular. And I dressed like a boy, because that was all that we could afford. I had one dress for church when we went years ago for Christmas or Easter or whatever. It didn't fit anymore; I had shot up a bit (not 'out', 'up.' If I got lost in one of the farmer's fields, one of the bachelor farmers would pound me into the ground by the crops, mistaking me for a bean pole, and thanks for that memory). So for all intents and purposes, I was one of the boys, who didn't hang with the boys, and wasn't sought after by the girls like the other boys were. I was a — oh, this is just great! — 'boy' ... but I wasn't.
Because boys could just go anywhere they wanted, take any class they wanted, play in the sports and have everybody clap at them, and like it! and say whatever hurtful thing they wanted and everybody was fine with that: 'Oh, that Bella Swan is in the library all the time, she doesn't have any friends, so don't ask her out because there're cooler girls that talk to you and are interested in you, and not just in herself and in the book she's reading.'
I mean, I never heard the boys say that, but I'm not stupid. I could see them look at me curiously in class or in school, and I'd see their girl friends lean up to their ear and whisper as they looked at me scornfully.
If I were a boy, I'd be cool, and have my guy friends and everybody be cool with me, because I'd've been in sports all my life and have my teammates and have a girl friend who'd watch me during baseball games and I'd make a double play, just like Frank Widmann, and instead of my girl friend just sitting in the bleachers, bored, reading her book, she's see me make the play, and smile, and wave and be ...
Oh, God.
And be proud of me.
If I were a boy, there'd be somebody proud of me, not everybody avoiding me and whispering about me behind my back.
But I'm just a girl with her books, and her plain clothes that she couldn't afford to buy dresses and different kinds of dresses from the Sears catalog and wear them into school every day and have my girl friends fawn over me and compliment the colors and style I chose today.
No, I was that girl in the bleachers, bored, reading her book when Frank made that double play.
No wonder why he high-tailed it to that Susie Swanson after that game.
If I were a boy, I would have left me in the dirt, too, and in a heart beat.
... and ...
And, ... I just realized this.
If I were a boy, I wouldn't have ...
I mean, Susie Swanson is nice and all. She's cute, and warm, and friendly, and I can see why Frank went for her, instead of me.
But if I were a boy?
I would've asked Rosalie out.
Oh, ... my God!
I just realized what I would've done. That Rosalie Hale coming into town with her family like that, and her and Edward like ... hissing at each other? Obviously brother and sister or very, very, very much not interested in each other. I would've seen that, as a boy, who was looking, because, c'mon, seriously, which boy isn't? — except at me, but let's not go there — and I would've walked right up to their door, knocked on it, very bravely ...
And asked her out on a date.
I would've.
I swear.
Because I don't care what anybody else thinks, I mean, thinks more, so they could've just hid in the bushes and watched and whisper their vicious whispers to themselves.
'That Bella Swan,' or whatever my name'd been as a boy, 'what's he thinking, asking that new girl from Town out? He just got WAY too big for his britches. That is: if she goes out with him, I give it two days, tops, before that Rosalie figures out she got herself a dud. But that there is a big if, because, asking Rosalie Hale out? Two tight slaps across the face is the most he could expect! You see how she glares at that Edward — WHAT a CATCH! — where does he get the gall to ask her out, seeing how that Edward can't even get the time of day from her?'
Well, they could talk! I don't care, because I'd be a boy, and I wouldn't care about what girls say amongst themselves. I wouldn't even know! I wouldn't even feel it, their eyes on my back, their judgments. I wouldn't be a girl, and feel these things, and die, a little bit, or a lot, every day under their censure.
I'd be a boy, having asked Rosalie out, scared to death that she might say 'no.'
Scared to death that she might, ... just might, say ...
'Yes.'
And ...
And, okay, I'm not ... a boy like I told her she should have. I'm not a big, ruddy, barrel-chested boy with a ready laugh and an easy smile, who'd take her anger and just laugh off her silly seriousness and fury, and pay attention to the real her, her real hurts underneath, and be gentle with her fragile ego, and be strong for her, holding her when she screamed out against the world and stupid me, but holding her, knowing that she could just take my strength when she needed it, because she really did need it, even as she railed against it, her own weakness, and my well of strength.
I wasn't that boy. I couldn't be like that. I can't even see myself pretending to be like that.
But I could be me. And ... maybe that's not enough, but ...
But, I could be shy, and quiet. A shy, quiet boy, bravely asking Rosalie out on a date.
And, we'd just ... walk, is all, into town, and maybe I'd offer my hand, because Rosalie? she wouldn't offer her hand. Not first. 'Tain't proper, and she's very proper. But maybe it'd be proper, or polite, to accept a hand offered? Maybe.
And we'd walk into town, her and me, hand in hand, or arm in arm if she wanted. And we'd go to Deb's Coffee Shop and order a root beer float, to split. She'd have to look after her figure, you see. So we'd have two spoons and two straws, and share, and would she take a spoonful of ice cream?
Of course not. She never ate anything.
And I'd wonder about that, as a boy, but, being a boy, I'd just wonder, then forget about it, right away, and not think and think and think about it, because I wouldn't be a girl, to worry about such things. No, I'd be a boy, and see that, and wonder, and then just ... let it go.
Just like Pa — God bless him — when he saw everything in me, all my failures, and he didn't worry about them or worry me to death about them. He just saw them, then let them go.
How in the world can men do that? How could Pa, year after year? Just see me, as I was, that is: the screwed up little girl I was, and just let that all go?
I wonder if girls are like girls are, because they have their mothers to worry over every little slip they ever make, all the time? I wonder ...
No, I don't wonder. Rosalie told me she's just like her mother. I guess ... I guess that's what mothers do: they make their daughters perfect.
That is: 'perfect' meaning: 'just like them.' Or just like the way they want them to be, if they were perfect.
But women — and this may be a shocker to hear — aren't perfect. So instead of mothers making their daughters perfect, they make them perfect duplicates of every single flaw they have and every single flaw they fear.
Perhaps Ma did me a favor? By leaving me to myself, instead of raising me to be just like her?
Perhaps she did something much, much worse? Because ...
Because I'm not a boy. And so, the little worrier-girl me, ... I raised me to be ... myself.
And I'm the worst person I know.
And all Pa could do is show me what it is to be a man, which didn't help me at all when it came to being a woman: what I should do or how I should be.
Pa could only show me what it is to be a man. That's all he was; that's all he could do. But I'm not a man.
So the upshot is that I don't know how to be a girl, and I can't be a boy ... I don't even really want to be a boy, anyway, regardless of all their 'perks' and entitlements and the easy way they walk through everything in this world, regardless of who or what they crush in their blind arrogance.
Because ...
If I were a boy, ... I'd be a girl.
I swallowed hard at that realization. I can't even pretend to want to be something that I'm not, because it always just boomerangs right back to me being me.
Because I'm me, I can't even hope to be anything else.
And, being me?
It sucks.
It sucks bad.
Because I'm a girl who all the other girls make fun of: a slip of a girl, gawky, awkward, and a whole bunch of other weird words with double-u's in them... weak, willful, wallowing ...
God, I'm a girl who looks like a boy who needs a haircut!
A weak, wimpy girl-boy, who can't stand up for herself, and when she does she gets slapped down — hard — and runs right off to fantasy-land, wishing to be anywhere but here, anyone but her, but still being stuck in this little tub that isn't even a tub, stuck right here in the here and now being only 'just her' and nothing else, nothing of consequence.
Just her.
"...Lizzie?" Rosalie's voice called to me.
I sighed, just noticing now that I wasn't alone with my thoughts. Of course, Rosalie was still here. Of course, she was talking to me. I mean, not 'of course,' I mean, I was lucky she was speaking to me at all after what I said, and right to her face.
Somebody tells you 'fuck you!' ... do you ever speak to them again? Would I?
But Rosalie was still reaching out to me, even after I said that to her.
Why?
I wondered how long she'd been calling to me? I wondered if I could pretend not to hear her? I wondered how long I could keep that pretense up?
"Were you going to answer my question?" she asked patiently.
I was facing away from her, curled up into a ball in the tub, but in my mind I could just see her standing there, waiting, patiently, for me to answer her question, wondering to herself how long she's have to wait before she just tossed me in the river like all the other trash she'd thrown out, ...
That is: the trash she didn't burn.
"Yes," I said, then added, "what was your question?"
"You weren't listening to me at all!" she exclaimed.
I heard the smile in her annoyance.
"Uh," I contributed helpfully.
"Where did you go?" she asked, and maybe 'again,' because maybe that was her question in the first place. I didn't know.
Rosalie came around the tub and sat in front of me, examining me quizzically.
"Nowhere," I said sadly. "I'm right here..." stuck right here in this body that's me.
She smiled patiently and tapped her temple as she said, "Yes, you're right here. But you went away... inside. I lost you just now. Where did you go?"
My lips quirked up in a sad, shy smile.
Ma left me, but Rosalie didn't leave me alone to myself for even one second.
I don't know whether I should hate her constant prying, her being in my head all the time, or if I should ... admire it.
After all, nobody bothered before with me, because I wasn't worth the bother.
Why was I now worth the time of day?
"Oh," I said carelessly, "I just went to my happy place, is all."
Rosalie was silent for a while, then I felt her present fill my not-field-of-view.
I opened my eyes to slits to confirm it, and, yes, there she was, in all her glory, sitting down in front of me, Indian-style again, looking into my face with interest.
She saw me looking at her, so I shut my eyes again, quickly, feeling caught.
"What is this 'happy place'?" she asked quietly, and I heard the control in her voice, the deliberation, and wondered at it. I took another peek at her, and saw her looking at me intently, before I shut my eyes again.
"Oh, nothing," I sighed sadly, "I just had a fancy, but then it involved me being me, and that pretty much killed it, so ..."
I didn't have the strength to shrug.
It was quiet for a long time. I couldn't stand her silence anymore, so I opened my eyes to look at her.
She was sitting as before, but now she looked at me sadly. When she saw me looking at her she brought her hand to my face, and very lightly brushed her fingertips across my cheek.
She smiled sadly at me.
"Those words," she said quietly, "were such a beautifully evocative description that told me absolutely nothing."
"Yeah..." I said sadly. I'm such a failure. Tell me something new.
She tilted her head to one side. "You are whose?" she asked quietly.
"Yours, Rosalie," I said despondently.
I was hers, and what I was sad about was ... I didn't even deserve that.
"Then, baby, ..." she said, "your happy place is mine, too, right?"
My lips quirked up. She had me. "Yeah, I guess so."
"So," she continued, ignoring my equivocation, "I didn't ask for your judgment on you happy place, I asked you to tell me what is it. Lizzie," she continued, determined, "please tell me what your happy place is."
At least she said 'please.' That was nice of her.
I smiled up at her. "I just so provide you opportunities to laugh at me, don't I?"
"Yes, you do," she said easily, then, seriously: "Thank you."
I sighed and capitulated. Now I couldn't even ask her not to laugh at me.
"Okay, Rosalie," I said, "it's like this. If I were a boy, I'd've gone right up to your place in Ekalaka, and asked you out. And maybe you'd've even've said 'yes,' and I was thinking about that, just us, and none of this ..." I waved my fingers weakly, because I couldn't wave my arm, "would've happened, 'cause ... well, I'm not Edward, nor Royce, nor that boy who'd be just right for you, but I'd be ..."
I gulped, looking into her intense, puzzled, amused, affronted eyes, and pressed forward.
"I'd be me, not big and strong and jovial just like that perfect boy'd be for you, but just this wiry, lanky kid, shy, quiet, but there for you, you know? And not mean to you, like Edward or Royce, nor like me and you shouting at each other but just ..."
I blew out a gust of air.
"... you know? Just ... there, and okay and accepting and not screaming and fighting and ..."
I looked away.
Rosalie took all this in, and smirked down at me.
"Your happy place?" she asked quietly, incredulity lacing her voice.
"Yeah," I said sadly.
"And if you were a boy ..." she tasted the words as she said them, entertaining the novelty of it. "Your girlfriend wouldn't mind you dumping her for the new hottie that moved into town, the current flavor that caused a stir when we swept into town?"
"Me?" I asked shocked, "Have a girlfriend?"
That thought never entered my mind. I stuck to myself as a girl, so I just assumed I would do that as boy, too.
She smirked down at me at my outburst. "Even better. So you don't have a girlfriend, my little boy-Lizzie; and," she added not kindly, "I'd wager you never have had, so where did you magically work up the courage to brazen your way to the Hale's doorstep? I'm curious."
She did sound curious, in that condescending way of hers.
I looked down at my hands. "You saw me, Rosalie. I walked right up to your door and let myself in. Several times. Boy or girl, I'm still me. It would've been hard, and scary for me, because it was, when I did it, but I did do it, because I'm ... me."
Rosalie didn't shift at all, but I saw that calculating, measuring look come into her eyes as she watched me saying this.
Then she snorted. "You'd ask me out? This I've got to see."
I couldn't look into her scornful eyes. "If I were a boy, I'd do it." I whispered petulantly, but so softly that I was only staying it to myself.
"Well, then, do it, little boy." Rosalie commanded. "Ask me out."
Of course, she'd hear what I said, with that hearing of hers. And even if she didn't hear me say it, all she'd have to do is see it written in my mind.
And, of course, she'd hold my words against me, like she always did.
"What? Now?" I asked, surprised, although I shouldn't've been.
"No time like the present," she said irritated, "or did you want to beef up your manly arms with free weights first, Miss Staller?"
Ouch. I didn't know I was stalling. That's what it looked like to her, though. I swallowed my bitterness, ashamed of my cowardice.
"Rosalie, ..." I began.
"What are you doing?" she cut in sharply.
"A-asking you out!" I shot back angrily.
"Not lying nearly face down in a tub, you aren't," she shot right back, affronted. "Sit up and face me like a boy would ask a girl out properly."
She was just heaping on the hurts with her stinging words.
"Rosalie," I entreated. "I can't. I can barely feel my arms; they hurt so much they're like ... numb."
Rosalie regarded me dispassionately, then leaned back, shaking her bangs out of her eyes and resting on her hands.
"Well, then," she said coldly, "you're not going to ask me out, if you can't face me and look me in the eye."
She was giving me an out from this cruel exercise? I supposed I could take it, if she were.
Her cutting voice interrupted my thoughts: "So much for your bold proclamation. Is this how much your word is worth?"
I sighed.
She wasn't giving me an out. I don't think she ever would.
I regarded the tub floor. It looked so ... heavy, just pulling me down into it. And I looked at my weak, little spaghetti arms, not at all beefy nor manly as Rosalie implied with her teasing.
They didn't look they could manage to lift a feather.
Well, good thing little ol' me is a featherweight.
I lifted my head slightly and let the arm I was resting on fall to the tub bottom, just as I let my other arm resting on my tummy fall just a bit more.
All that: just letting my arms fall, took so much effort.
Now the hard part.
I pushed against the tub floor.
Nothing happened. The floor didn't recede, and my head didn't lift from tub lip.
I looked up at Rosalie pleadingly. "Help?"
Her eyes narrowed. She looked down at her hand and examined her fingernails. "No," she said. "I don't think so, little drama queen. You sit up, or ..." she shrugged, "... just quit, like the quitter you claimed me to be, little quitter."
My face burned with fury. Her? Her calling me a drama queen?
If that doesn't take the cake!
And calling me a quitter, too. I had thought she didn't even notice that I had called her a quitter. But she did: only to use it against me.
I pushed myself up into a seated position in the basin.
It was hard. But that was nothing to the searing pain I felt when I shifted by body to sit on my super-sensitive butt, then, after that, the slow, continuously nagging burn on my posterior seated on the basin.
I did it.
Oh, well. As they say: no pain, no gain.
I glared at her. "Rosalie ..." I said forcefully.
In a flash, Rosalie straightened up from her almost-casually slouched position, sitting erect, giving me her full attention.
Her sudden move surprised me. I thought she would be snarky, but her attitude was that of respectful attention.
It was like she were treating me seriously.
Nobody had ever listened to me before. Nobody had ever taken me seriously before.
Rosalie was doing that right now.
I swallowed and took a deep breath and began again.
"Rosalie," I said quietly, "uh, ... would you ... go out with ... me?"
Rosalie regarded me coolly, and I waited for her answer, my stomach in knots, and I knew what it was to feel like a boy, asking a girl out.
It felt like I was so scared that I wanted to puke.
A/N: Of course, the title of this chapter is based off that famous Portal 2 song: "If I were a core..." youtube-dot-com-slash-watch?v=4U_RvUYINpo ... no, wait, that's based off another song, right? That song being "If I were a bro ..." youtube-dot-com-slash-watch?v=WaS6mlUS5Kw