Empress of the World by Sara Ryan Page A

also been wondering if it’s a new phenomenon for there to be tons of [boy/girl] couples all over the place, practically having sex on the lawn, or if they’ve been there all term and i’m only just now noticing. i’ve tried to look for other (ahem) same-sex couples, too, but it’s hard to tell. so many girls are all over each other, holding hands or doing each other’s hair or giving each other back rubs. it’s impossible to know if you’re looking at friendship or lust. or both. as for boys . . . there are some jocky-looking guys who are forever punching each other on the arm or slapping each other on the butt. i suppose it’s possible they could have something going on, but you’d certainly never catch them, say, kissing. and there’s another boy i’ve seen, i think he’s in katrina’s class, who often wears long velvet skirts and lots of black eyeliner. but i believe this to be a fashion statement rather than a declaration of sexuality, since i have observed him making out with various angst crows.
    i suppose he could like boys, too, though.
    i of all people should remember that.

July 15 (one-week anniversary), 6:30 a.m., My Room
    field notes:
    battle noticed my viola last night. “how long have you been playing?”
    i told her—since i was in fifth grade—and she said, “that’s how long i’ve been dancing. play something for me.”
    “only if you dance,” i said, expecting her to laugh and change the subject.
    “all right,” she said.
    so i opened my case and took out my bow to put rosin on it, something i always do when i’m especially nervous about playing. it didn’t need any rosin, but it gave me something to do for a minute while i tried to figure out what i knew well enough to play from memory while i watched her dance.
    finally i remembered a little bach piece i did years ago for the solo-ensemble festival. “this is slow,” i said. “i hope you didn’t want something fast.”
    battle shook her head.
    the way she was standing, it’s as though her whole body was listening. which i suppose it was.
    the strings were remarkably easy to tune. no doubt this was because the rain the other day reduced the amount of humidity in the air, but i prefer to attribute it to the intervention of some patron spirit of music and dance.
    i closed my eyes and ran through the first few bars in my head before i put the viola on my shoulder.
    i don’t know how well i was playing, but my viola was in very good voice.
    violas in good voice sound like expensive dark chocolate tastes, rich and swirling and complex.
    and that’s the kind of moves she made, all loose arms and light, long legs, and i knew, just for a minute, what music was for.

July 16, 7:30 a.m., Outside Katrina’s Room
    Battle and I have been knocking on Katrina’s door for what seems like hours before she finally stumbles loudly across her room and opens it. “Well, if it isn’t my two favorite lesbians,” she says groggily. “Siddown while I get dressed.”
    “I don’t know if that word fits,” I say. “Do you think we’re lesbians, Battle?”
    , pulling a violently orange T-shirt out of her cardboard clothes box, “What the hell else would you be? Unless you’d prefer the word . . .oh, god, I can’t remember, it was in this weird old movie I saw . . .inverts, that was it.”
    “It sounds like we’d have to stand on our heads all the time,” I say.
    Battle promptly puts her hands on the floor and kicks her legs up into a beautiful headstand. I grab her ankles and hold her up, both of us giggling. “Wow, I can do this so much better now that I don’t have hair to get in my face!” she says. Fortunately—unfortunately? —her tank top is tight enough that it doesn’t ride up.
    “Seriously though, what’s wrong with being lesbians?” Katrina zips up her jeans.
    “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it,” I say, holding Battle’s ankles as she walks a few steps on her hands, “I’m just not sure it