Empress of the World by Sara Ryan Page B

describes us completely accurately. I mean, I’ve liked boys before. And Battle, didn’t you say that you had dated boys?” I turn my head sideways and peer down at her face, which is getting flushed. She nods.
    Katrina says, “But wouldn’t that just be because you hadn’t found a girl yet who was, you know, willing? I mean, it seems like it’s a lot easier to find boys than it would be to find girls—not that I’m looking for a girl, mind you. And come on, Nic, Battle lives in the South. Ho-mo-sex-shuality is probably still, like, illegal there, right?”
    Battle shakes her head. “No.”
    “Yeah, but your dad’s a minister! Wouldn’t he shit bricks?” asks Katrina. “Come to think of it . . .aren’t they going to be really mad about the whole shaving your head thing, let alone what’s going on with you and Nic? They just didn’t look like free-expression types to me.”
    Battle shakes her legs free of my hands, comes out of the headstand and stands up. “Breakfast is almost over,” she says. “Are you ready?”

July 17, 11:39 p.m., Battle’s Room
    This is a different kind of shy than I’ve ever felt before. Being shy was always about not knowing what to say to people, being afraid I’d say something stupid that would make them laugh at me.
    Now—now it’s about not knowing what to do. If I sit on the bed, is that too forward, like I’m expecting that we’ll immediately start making out? If she wants a back rub, is it too much to kiss the back of her neck?
    I’m sitting on the floor trying to do the reading for class tomorrow, and Battle’s sitting next to me. She’s finished her work for the evening, so she’s rereading this incredibly battered copy of All Creatures Great and Small.
    “Your hair’s all tangled,” Battle says suddenly. She gets up, walks to her dresser and retrieves a large wooden brush. It still has some blonde hairs entwined in its bristles.
    She sits directly behind me and brushes my hair with just the right amount of pressure, not so tentative that I can’t feel it or so hard that my scalp gets sore.
    “That’s so nice,” I say, and my voice comes out deeper than I mean it to, almost in a purr.
    “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
    “I guess you must have; your hair was longer than mine’s ever been,” I say.
    “There’s that—but also I brush Dante and Beatrice a lot.” She snickers.
    I attempt to bark.
    “Silly,” says Battle, putting down the brush and leaning in to kiss me.
    Now I understand why so many songs talk about desire as electric.
    If I could harness what I’m feeling now, I could power a city.

    field notes:
    i want to make battle a present. maybe for our three-week anniversary? the dog book was good, but i want her to have something that i’ve actually created.
    but what?
    a drawing? no, i suck.
    i’ll keep thinking about this.

July 18, 7:45 p.m., Underneath the Big Tree in the Courtyard
    Battle and I are working on our respective homework. In my case this means a haphazard pile of xeroxed articles and notes with drawings in the margins; in hers it means a neat stack of books with post-it notes marking relevant passages.
    This is the first day in the past several that hasn’t been incredibly hot. The sky is a mix of pink and lavender, fading into blues and grays, and there’s the slightest bit of a breeze blowing.
    “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! I assumed you were enjoying each other’s favors in some secluded corner,” says Katrina.
    “That is what we’re doing. These articles are all actually from the Kama Sutra,” I say.
    “It is imperative that you come to my room immediately,” Katrina continues, ignoring me. “We Must Talk.” I can hear the capital letters.
    “Why can’t we talk here?” I ask.
    Katrina ducks behind the tree and sticks her head out at an angle. “Spies,” she says in a stage whisper. “They’re everywhere! Plus that’s where all the caffeine is. And the rest of my cigarettes—I’m