hands, I’m guessing to keep herself from strangling me. “I get it. You’re so engrossed in the
role
, you think you’re a lesbian now.”
Why do I do that? I should carry around a pair of socks to stuff in my mouth whenever I get the urge to stir things up. Clean and sassy socks. With lace cuffs. Still, I’d like to know what she thinks of Kinsey’s ideas.
“Pretend the dashboard is a line,” I say. “The far left equals lesbian and the far right equals heterosexual. Everything in between is bisexual, okay?”
“If you say so,” she says, her eyes still focused on the opaque windshield.
“I’m about here,” I say, pointing to the glove compartment door. “If Ms. Perfect came along, I could fall in love with her.” Maybe.
“So you’re in love with Andie.” She drops the steering wheel and flexes her fingers.
“Not exactly. I’m just curious.”
Eva turns toward me. “Have you ever dreamed about making out with a girl?”
“No. But I dreamed that I kissed that fat, ugly guy with the bumpy nose at Pet Mania—”
“And you woke up screaming.” She cracks a smile.
We’re having a bonding moment. Then I go and ruin it. “How about you? Any hot girl-on-girl dreams?”
“Will you stop with that, Chub?” She snatches up her bag off the backseat. “Let’s go in.”
While Eva the Diva searches through the size threes, I suppress the urge to suffocate her with an XL jog bra. Why did I inherit the Amazon genes? I remind myself that she can’t help being Tinker Bell. “I’ll tell you a secret if you tell me one.”
“I don’t have any secrets.”
“None that you’ll tell me,” I say.
She holds up a pair of pants with embroidery at the hem. “These would look good on you. See if they have your size.” She’s like one of those amazing rope knots with no beginning and no end, no obvious spot to start unraveling.
“I didn’t finish the Lesbian Report.”
She darts a look at the people around us. “Let’s go try these on,” she says.
We take adjacent changing rooms. “No one knows us here,” I say. “We could liven up their dull lives by having a real conversation.”
“Shut up.” She launches a plastic hanger over the barrier with painful accuracy.
“Ow. What can we talk about, then?”
“How those pants fit.”
Back in our soundproof car bubble, she revs the engine and drops the clutch into reverse. Grinding gears smell sweet and smoky. “I’m a private person,” she says. “I don’t even like to talk about what I ate for lunch in front of strangers.”
“Okay, okay. You want to hear the rest?” The fog has thickened. We crawl along at tortoise speed because this freeway is known for its multiple-car accidents. “Andie told me she falls in love with who she falls in love with. Does that sound the same as bisexual?”
“More like confused.”
“I thought you two were friends.”
“In your mind, Chub.”
I scan the local radio stations for something to fill the silence and settle on a mushy oldie.
“I used to love that song,” Eva says, turning up the volume. “I played it like twenty times that day I canceled my birthday party. Was that fifth or sixth grade?”
“Fifth for me, sixth for you.” The taillights of the car ahead appear and disappear in the fog.
“None of my friends could come, remember? You said they were all losers and I was perfect. I hated that you said that.”
Back then, she was my goddess and I her disciple. I once pretended to
be
her for a week, dressed exclusively in leotards and ballet shoes until Mom made me stop.
“You hated that I thought you were perfect?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Don’t worry,” I add. “I don’t think you’re perfect anymore.”
“Hooray!”
“Hooray what?”
“I can barely see the road.” She wipes the windshield again. “Maybe I need glasses.”
I reach over and remove her sunglasses.
Five songs later, we arrive home. “I thank thee for thy gracious transport,” I
role
, you think you’re a lesbian now.”
Why do I do that? I should carry around a pair of socks to stuff in my mouth whenever I get the urge to stir things up. Clean and sassy socks. With lace cuffs. Still, I’d like to know what she thinks of Kinsey’s ideas.
“Pretend the dashboard is a line,” I say. “The far left equals lesbian and the far right equals heterosexual. Everything in between is bisexual, okay?”
“If you say so,” she says, her eyes still focused on the opaque windshield.
“I’m about here,” I say, pointing to the glove compartment door. “If Ms. Perfect came along, I could fall in love with her.” Maybe.
“So you’re in love with Andie.” She drops the steering wheel and flexes her fingers.
“Not exactly. I’m just curious.”
Eva turns toward me. “Have you ever dreamed about making out with a girl?”
“No. But I dreamed that I kissed that fat, ugly guy with the bumpy nose at Pet Mania—”
“And you woke up screaming.” She cracks a smile.
We’re having a bonding moment. Then I go and ruin it. “How about you? Any hot girl-on-girl dreams?”
“Will you stop with that, Chub?” She snatches up her bag off the backseat. “Let’s go in.”
While Eva the Diva searches through the size threes, I suppress the urge to suffocate her with an XL jog bra. Why did I inherit the Amazon genes? I remind myself that she can’t help being Tinker Bell. “I’ll tell you a secret if you tell me one.”
“I don’t have any secrets.”
“None that you’ll tell me,” I say.
She holds up a pair of pants with embroidery at the hem. “These would look good on you. See if they have your size.” She’s like one of those amazing rope knots with no beginning and no end, no obvious spot to start unraveling.
“I didn’t finish the Lesbian Report.”
She darts a look at the people around us. “Let’s go try these on,” she says.
We take adjacent changing rooms. “No one knows us here,” I say. “We could liven up their dull lives by having a real conversation.”
“Shut up.” She launches a plastic hanger over the barrier with painful accuracy.
“Ow. What can we talk about, then?”
“How those pants fit.”
Back in our soundproof car bubble, she revs the engine and drops the clutch into reverse. Grinding gears smell sweet and smoky. “I’m a private person,” she says. “I don’t even like to talk about what I ate for lunch in front of strangers.”
“Okay, okay. You want to hear the rest?” The fog has thickened. We crawl along at tortoise speed because this freeway is known for its multiple-car accidents. “Andie told me she falls in love with who she falls in love with. Does that sound the same as bisexual?”
“More like confused.”
“I thought you two were friends.”
“In your mind, Chub.”
I scan the local radio stations for something to fill the silence and settle on a mushy oldie.
“I used to love that song,” Eva says, turning up the volume. “I played it like twenty times that day I canceled my birthday party. Was that fifth or sixth grade?”
“Fifth for me, sixth for you.” The taillights of the car ahead appear and disappear in the fog.
“None of my friends could come, remember? You said they were all losers and I was perfect. I hated that you said that.”
Back then, she was my goddess and I her disciple. I once pretended to
be
her for a week, dressed exclusively in leotards and ballet shoes until Mom made me stop.
“You hated that I thought you were perfect?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Don’t worry,” I add. “I don’t think you’re perfect anymore.”
“Hooray!”
“Hooray what?”
“I can barely see the road.” She wipes the windshield again. “Maybe I need glasses.”
I reach over and remove her sunglasses.
Five songs later, we arrive home. “I thank thee for thy gracious transport,” I
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