The tomboy who was

Even before I knew that two girls being in a relationship was a thing, I knew I was in the process of wooing Jessica. I’d ride her back and forth between our houses on my polished-for-the-occasion bicycle and hope that she’d realize (and actually like) that I was sweet on her. Overcome with love in this daydream of mine, she’d throw her arms around my neck, legs bending at the knees as I lifted her triumphantly into the air, and declare her love for me, too. Cheesy, I know, but not to her. In my dreams, I won her heart with Hollywood romance — and extra dessert.

In real life, I was merely showering her with the extra Capri Suns I brought every day just for her while making sure she spelled everything correctly on our daily writing assignments. I’d pass innocent notes that she never respond to (Hey, let’s build a fort today!) and try to mask my excitement when she got in the recess line next to me. And each day, just as the day before, my task was to hide my jealousy and sulk alone at the tetherball pole as she ditched me for the obnoxious boys who lashed her with rude and stupid criticisms of her fetching red hair. Sadly, predictably, Jessica never came to love me before her family moved out of the school district.

In fact, it was years later in the neighboring town that I spotted Jessica and a group of her friends at the mall. I, being 13 and having excused myself from my mother in the food court, felt a surge of excitement and nerves at seeing Jes in her maturing splendor. I felt confident that I too radiated the same amount of ‘cool’ and approached the suddenly quiet horde. The conversation went something like this:

Me: “Jessica! Hey! Long time no see!”

Jessica: “Berlin?”

Me: “Yeah!”

*Awkward silence until someone coughs “dyke!” and they erupt in laughter — even Jessica.*

I stood there, the wan smile I copped evaporating in defeat. She just sat there, the one-time girl of my dreams, leaning into her friends, conspiring further by not taking up for me. She could’ve shushed them, could’ve thrown a kind word my way or even apologized, but that would never happen. She was laughing with them, giddy in the glow of their cruelty. In that bustling food court in Macon, GA … in front of God and everyone, I learned hatred for myself.

All the way home, quietly crying with my head on the passenger window, I watched the light poles whoosh by through angry tears. How could I have been so bold, so foolish? I seethed with rage, but not for them. It’s so obvious you’re a dyke, I derided me, then surveyed myself: red Chuck Taylors, a brown leather wristband, a T-shirt with a set of drums on it, stressed jeans, and no make-up or girly hair to offset all the dudeliness. When I get home, I’m burning all these! Instead I put them in a garbage bag along with my other “guy stuff,” and pushed them into a dark corner in the back of my closet.

For the next five years, I would take pride in the skirts and dresses I acquired on femme-mission shopping trips and marvel at how everyone liked “new me” so much more. And new me appreciated the company. New me thought, “I’ve never felt such kinship! People wanna hang out now!” My new chick-friends from school started calling the house to invite me places and my social life took off. I finally belonged to a group so tight, we could be as rude as we wanted to losers in the food court (should we choose) and never have to worry about backup or approval. This, ladies and gents, was my arrival into the Cool Kids Club, where the price of admission was conformity and the reapings were shallow friends and internal turmoil.

The girls taught me how to curl my hair and do my makeup, but it was all smoke and mirrors and I knew it. Because our motivations weren’t the same, our experiences were night and day. While they fawned over guys and laughed a little too hard at their dumb jokes, I had to fend off hostile remarks made by dudes who took offense to my not laughing. The other girls at the pool party would give handjobs under the water; I’d while away the hours playing basketball with their little brothers. As the other girls progressed to “fingerbanging,” I opted to stay home and play Mario Kart alone.

On my very last day of “being cool,” I was dropped off at the mall and joined up with the pack who, as promised, would be behind JCPenney. The guys were smoking cigarettes while the girls painted their skateboards with nail polish. I didn’t like cigarettes, but one guy’s board looked nice and worn in, so I took off through the parking lot on it. When I came back, one of the older guys scoffed at my little adventure and asked, “What’re you, some kinda dyke?”

This time, though, I didn’t care. I belted out a fake laugh, mocking them, then headed inside to a payphone. Mom agreed to pick me up, but said she’d need me to kill an hour, which was awesome. That gave me plenty of time to enjoy my day as a genuinely happy dyke and check out some fresh pairs of Chuck Taylors.