Too bad I already don’t.
* * *
It’s Taylor’s turn to present.
The name is called and there is an audible inhale, like the class is sucking in one breath. Fluid as a dancer, Taylor stands and moves to the front of the classroom, wearing ripped jeans, a clunky metal wallet chain, a backwards baseball cap, and an open black leather jacket over a white T-shirt with a golden lion’s snarling face. There’s something about the way Taylor moves that makes you take notice, but it’s the haircut that fascinates me the most: long on top, short on one side and shaved on the other. It’s tough and daring and everything I wish I had the guts to do.
A few desks over, Billy lounges back in his seat, slips a pen between his teeth. He’s grinning, there’s a twinkle in his eye, and I feel my forehead break into a sweat.
Biology on Tuesday and Thursday is the only class I have with Taylor, but I’m well aware of the rumors. According to Sharon, the Matthews family moved here from the UK at Christmas and Taylor is an only child. But that’s not the crazy part. The crazy part is that no one seems to know if Taylor is a boy or a girl. No one. Supposedly Taylor has been known to use both bathrooms and is pushing the principal to add a gender-neutral bathroom. When the teachers talk about Taylor in class, they use the pronouns they and their, which always makes the students snicker and some of the teachers turn red.
Another glance at Billy confirms he’s grinning mockingly. Waiting.
My fingers knot together under the desk as my breathing becomes shallow. It’s a weird feeling, almost like I’m worried for Taylor. The very same clenching of the gut I get when Audrey is about to do something weird. But why do I care? Taylor has nothing to do with me.
When they begin to speak, the room immediately quiets. That accent. It makes the back of my neck tingle, and the tingle travels all the way down my spine. Halfway through the presentation, I realize that I have no idea what the topic is—something to do with plants?—because I’ve been so focused on the sound of their voice.
Then Billy coughs. It’s a simple clearing of the throat but enough to make Taylor pause and glance up. Billy’s still smiling his usual mischievous smile, the one he busts out when he’s about to make fun of someone, but as I watch, he pulls the pen from his lips, runs it along his tongue seductively. Then his eyes close and he starts pumping it in and out of his mouth.
I sputter-cough, masking my shock. My heart’s thumping and it’s like my eyes are glued to Billy and the way he’s making out with the pen. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and my arms break out in goosebumps. Billy’s tongue, Taylor’s tongue. The thought pops into my head and it won’t go away and I feel the heat crawling up my chest and into my face. I pray no one looks at me.
Beside Billy, Jason covers his mouth with his fist. His shoulders are shaking with smothered laughter. Billy flips the pen, starts from the other side, his eyes still locked on Taylor.
The room suddenly goes strangely silent, and I follow Billy’s gaze to see that Taylor has stopped speaking and is smirking instead. The expression is unfazed—daring, even. It says they aren’t going to be intimidated.
“Taylor?” A voice breaks through the fog. “Are you finished?”
Ms. Dunphy is standing at the back of the classroom. I don’t turn around to look at her. I can’t.
Out of the corner of my eye, Billy taps the desk with the pen. Once. Twice.
“No,” Taylor says in that sexy British accent. “I’m not even close.”
Then their gaze shifts to land on me, and I smile in what I hope is a reassuring way. As they start speaking again and our eyes lock across the room, I feel a strange sensation, like our bodies are linked as well. Like when my breathing slows, their breathing slows. It doesn’t matter what is happening in the rest of the room. Taylor’s words vibrate down through their body, through the floor and up my legs.
When the presentation ends and Taylor breaks eye contact, I feel cold. Instead of walking down Billy’s row, Taylor walks down mine. I quickly look down at my desk and hold my breath, but I still feel them pass, still smell the leather mixed with—what? My face is burning. I just focus on my desk, willing my breathing to slow. Emotions tumble through me: relief, excitement, fear.
Someone else’s name is being called—Stan—and now a gust of Axe body spray hits me instead. My heart is still slowing, my fingers are sore from gripping the desk so tightly, and all I want is to escape from the room. I should ask for a bathroom pass but I’m too afraid to stand.
My legs are shaking.
* * *
At lunch I walk with Sharon & Co. to the park a block from school and sit on the baseball bleachers. Sharon and I sit on the top row because we’re “best friends,” and Charlotte and Rhiannon sit on the row below us. Sharon claims this is so we can all see one another better.
It’s one of those perfect May days that feel like summer, even though we’re not immune to a freak snowstorm—you never know what to expect with Calgary. Some winters we have a white Christmas, and others we have a chinook—a warm wind that blows down the Rocky Mountains and into the prairies—and all the skating rinks melt.
We take off our sweaters and lean back in the bleachers like we might actually get a tan.
“Who’s going to the year-end dance?” Sharon asks.
I don’t say anything. I’m still annoyed at Sharon for her earlier comments. I’m also not interested in a stupid dance.
“I’m going with Jacob!” Rhiannon announces, and bounces on the bench. “He asked me this morning.”
Charlotte kind of deflates. “I’m going with Sam. But I, uh, kind of asked him.”
“Burn,” Rhiannon says.
“Shut up, Rhi. Everyone knows guys are scared to ask the hot girls. I’m going with Jeff.” Sharon turns to me. “What about you, Clare? Hoping for Billy to ask you?”
As soon as she says Billy, I think of the way he sucked on the pen in front of Taylor. Then I’m thinking about the way he kissed me at the dance last year. It was the sloppiest, most disgusting experience of my life—like kissing someone whose tongue had been frozen at the dentist. I think I vomited in my mouth.
“I don’t want to go,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes at Charlotte and Rhiannon in a way that implies they saw this coming. Like I’m determined to just stay at home and be sad. But it only lasts a second before she switches the conversation back to herself, biting her bottom lip the way she does when she has juicy gossip. “I’m gonna go all the way with Jeff.”
Charlotte’s mouth falls open at the same time Rhiannon says, “What?”
I’m just as shocked as them. It’s no secret her and Jeff have done more than kissing, but is she ready to have sex with him? They only started dating last week.
“Yeah. We’re fifteen now”—Sharon pauses to look at me—“well, most of us are. We’re not kids anymore. Back in the day women had children at our age.”
“That’s gross,” Charlotte says.
Sharon shrugs. “Our bodies are ready. I feel ready. Jeff is the guy.”
I have trouble imagining Jeff as the guy. He still looks like a boy to me. He wears pants that are two sizes too big for him and always has an unlit smoke between his lips. Has anyone ever actually seen him light the smoke? Anyone?