11. Naomi

CHAPTER 11

Naomi

M y ear is throbbing so bad I can feel every beat of my heart reverberating through the skin around my piercing, but I can't stop smiling. Even when my cheeks start to ache from the strain, I keep beaming as Shal finishes paying at the counter.

She ended up getting the same piercing as Priya, in a rare instance of them doing anything remotely the same to their appearances after being forced to dress identically for the first eight years of their lives.

The irony makes me want to tip my head back and laugh, but then again, pretty much everything seems worth laughing at right now. I feel like I'm high again. I don't think my body has ever produced as much adrenaline as it did in the moment Leila the piercer said, "I'm going to go on three." The relief now that it's done has me feeling like my feet are floating a couple inches above the floor.

"You good?" Andrea asks from beside me.

I realize I've been swaying and will myself to be still, but I'm grinning like a stoner when I turn to look at her.

"So good! I can't believe I did it."

She bumps my shoulder with hers. "It suits you."

I'm so loopy I don't even find that hard to believe. In fact, I totally agree with her.

When Leila told me to go check myself out in the piercing room's full-length mirror, I couldn't help squealing as soon as I caught sight of the little metal hoop around the outer edge of my ear.

I got a piercing—a really freaking cool piercing that looks amazing on me—and I didn't faint or throw up or cry at any point in the process. I let some woman I don't even know shove a giant needle in my ear, and now I'm smiling about it.

I start swaying again.

Andrea chuckles at me as Shal tucks her wallet into her purse and leads us out of the shop. The afternoon sun feels so good on my face it's a miracle I don't burst into song. I take a deep breath of air in through my nose, and even though the parking lot smells like dust with a hint of car exhaust, I still close my eyes like I'm savoring the balmy scent of a tropical breeze.

I'm going to have to tell my therapist I've discovered a new cure for anxiety. Forget beta blockers; the post-piercing rush is all you need to feel like you could blast any unexpected social interactions life throws at you into smithereens.

I open my eyes and find myself staring at the collection of businesses across the street from the strip mall, which just so happens to feature a used bookstore I didn't notice before.

"You guys!" I say, stopping dead in my tracks to point towards the store's faded orange sign. "Look! Books! We have to go."

Shal and Priya groan in unison.

"Every time this girl gets within a five kilometer radius of a bookstore, we have to go spend like two hours inside," Shal says to Andrea.

"I'll be fast!" I insist. "Come on. They usually have really pretty old editions at places like this. Maybe there's some—"

Priya turns from where she's already reached the van and puts her hands on her hips. "Please do not say William Butler Yeats. The hold that old dude has on you."

I gasp to show my offence at one of my favourite poets ever being referred to as ‘that old dude' and then march over to loop my arm through hers. She gives in after a few seconds of me tugging on her, and once Shal realizes resistance is futile, she and Andrea join us in a procession across the street.

A bell above the door tinkles once we reach the bookstore and step inside. The familiar scent of musty pages fills my nose, and the smile I haven't been able to wipe off my face gets even bigger. A silver-haired woman behind the counter greets us before she goes back to putting price stickers on a pile of new arrivals.

We fan out to browse on our own. I trail my fingertip along the edges of the shelves I pass, tilting my head so I can read the titles on the books' spines. I find the poetry section at the very back of the store. They do have a couple volumes of Yeats, but nothing that stands out enough to add to my already extensive collection.

I move onto the next section and squat down to get a better look at the lowest shelf when I notice a book with the title spelt out in rainbow letters. I look closer and realize there's a whole—albeit tiny—section filled with queer-themed books, ranging from the history of Pride to something called Sizzling Sapphics with little flame designs edging the words.

"What did you find all the way down there?"

My heart leaps into my throat. Before I have a chance to stand up and face her, Andrea squats down beside me and grins. She's so close I can see the spray of freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. They remind me of a sprinkle of cinnamon dusting the smooth surface of a latte.

"Anything good?" she asks, turning to scan the shelf in front of us.

"I'm, um, still looking," I say, the sudden dryness in my throat making my voice crack like a pubescent boy's.

"This seems cool."

She taps the Pride history book before pulling it off the shelf, and my brain fires up with a dozen questions as I watch her read the description on the back.

Do straight people think the history of Pride is cool?

Is this a queer-coded signal?

Is she trying to tell me she's queer, or is she just trying to indicate she's an ally and that it's okay for me to talk about gay things with her?

Am I supposed to say something back?

"We should learn about this stuff in school," she says, her eyes still scanning the back cover. "I bet a lot of people would feel okay to come out way sooner if we did."

I can't stop my eyes from flaring wide as my tongue itches to ask, ‘ People like you?'

I rip my gaze away from her to stare at the shelf instead. I watch with my peripheral vision as she slides the book back onto the shelf and then lets out a soft laugh.

"Wow. Sizzling Sapphics ?"

She reaches for the flame-adorned book, and I get a glimpse of the cover: a drawing of two naked women with their arms wrapped around each other, long tendrils of hair shielding their faces and conveniently obscuring their nipples and butts. They're framed by a giant red and orange flame shooting yellow sparks up towards the title.

Andrea flips the book over and starts reading from the description.

"A fiery tale of passion and forbidden lust, this gorgeously detailed graphic novel tells the story of a young woman descended from Sappho herself who will stop at nothing to free her long-lost lover from the mysterious evil forces that split them apart."

Her dramatic reading voice cracks, and she pauses to let out a snort.

"Wow," I say, my nerves easing just a bit as I laugh along with her. "That is…really something."

"Truly," she agrees as she opens the book up. "Let's see what it—oh. Oh . Oh wow. That is detailed."

Her eyes go wide, flitting over the page before she snaps the book shut. I watch her throat bob as she swallows, and I notice there's a soft flush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks—which is nothing compared to the way my whole face feels like it's on fire.

She slides the book back into place without a word, but her fingertip lingers on the spine. We're hunched so close together I can hear her breathing as she keeps her gaze pinned to the shelf.

"If I wasn't already sure I was bisexual, that would have done it."

Her body goes rigid as soon as the words leave her mouth.

Her hand drops to her side.

She's not breathing anymore, and I realize neither am I.

Andrea is bisexual.

Andrea likes girls.

The whole universe feels like it's rearranging itself around me. The earth's tectonic plates crash and crumple into brand new continents. The stars shift and swirl to create new constellations in the sky, and above it all, a choir of angels draped in rainbow-coloured robes sing an operatic chorus of, " She likes girls! She likes girls! She likes girls! "

"Wow, I can't believe I just said that."

I come careening back down to reality and find Andrea still crouched beside me with her arms wrapped around her knees as she rocks back and forth on her heels, her gaze boring a hole into the bookshelf.

"I mean, not that it's a secret," she says, her voice quaking a little more with each word, "and not that I haven't known for a while. I'm making it sound like this is my big coming out moment. It's not. I've told other people. I—I mean, I haven't told a lot of people, but I don't want you to think you're, like, the first person ever, and I…I don't know why I'm making this so weird."

She forces a shaky laugh and glances at me before looking away and pressing her lips into a thin line.

"It's not weird."

Despite the jubilant refrain of the queer angels on high still echoing in my head, my voice comes out steady and reassuring.

"And trust me," I add, "you're talking to the queen of making things weird."

She huffs another laugh, this one sounding a little less fake than the first, and her posture loosens a bit.

"Thanks."

A moment of silence passes before she shrugs.

"So, uh, now you know," she says.

I nod, my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest. "Yeah, um, now I know."