questions. “That sounds like an exhausting internal debate to have, and I’m quite frankly surprised I can’t smell your brain burning. Why don’t you try and plot out both versions and see which feels best?”
“Good plan, Kazakhstan. Can I borrow your laptop? I’m in the mood to word vomit onto a blank document and see what happens.”
“Sure thing.” She tosses me her sleek MacBook, which makes my decrepit laptop with the H key missing look like some sort of prehistoric tombstone. “Or why don’t you make it a same-sex couple? Two women, one extrovert, one introvert. Seriously messed-up relationship dynamic. What’s not to love?”
She’s not looking at what I’m doing when I open up her browser, which is good. Because as soon as I do, the first thing I see is an open Facebook tab.
The last thing Ajita looked at online was a photo of Carlie on a beach in a tiny bikini.
Kissing a girl.
6.17 a.m.
Am I reading too much into this? Was Ajita casually flicking through Carlie’s Cancún photo album and just happened to land on that particular picture before I arrived?
But I remember the weird stares and the familiar welcomes in the cafeteria. I remember how surprised I was that Ajita hadn’t mentioned her new friend to me until that moment.
What if she’s not just a friend?
How have I never considered this before? Yeah, we’ve gossiped about guys for God knows how long, but looking back . . . is it always just my drama we’re analyzing? Does she ever discuss guys she likes? I’m actually not sure she ever has – at least not in a romantic way. I wrack my mind for the last crush she told me about, but I come up empty. I always thought she was a virgin just because she was waiting for the right guy, but what if there is no right guy?
God, I’m a self-involved mess of a friend. I mean, I’m never going to be a detective, but my lack of observational skills is truly astounding, especially in the context of something so significant in my best friend’s world. What else have I missed?
If Ajita is gay, what’s she going through right now? How long has she known? Is she terrified to come out because of what her family and friends will think? What I’ll think? Of course I would be nothing but proud of her, and happy that she’s embracing her sexuality, and I hope she knows that. But still, it can’t be easy having to guess how people will react. To gauge responses before they even happen.
All I want is to be there for her, but I don’t know how best to do that. I keep thinking about what I would want if the situations were reversed. I’d probably wish she would sit me down and be like, dude, I know what’s going on and it’s fine, I still love you, okay? I’ll keep this a secret for as long as you need me to.
But no matter how close we are, Ajita and I are different people, and I can’t treat her the way I’d want to be treated – I have to treat her how she wants to be treated. It’s an important distinction. What’s best for one person is another person’s worst nightmare. And right now it seems like she’d rather keep this all quiet while she figures it out. You know, if there’s even anything to figure out. I might be reading too much into it, as I have a tendency to do.
Riddle me this, dear reader. How does one ask one’s best friend if they’re gay when said best friend clearly isn’t ready for one to know?
2.45 p.m.
I’m writing this post in incognito mode from computing class because I am a fearless rebel who cannot be tamed. Usually I would wait until I got home and was safely in my cardboard-box-sized bedroom with a small mountain of peanut butter cups, but this is a legitimate emergency.
Spoke to Danny at lunch. It’s true. He’s in love with me. Which is catastrophic on a number of levels. The conversation went like this:
Me: Dude, what’s going on? You’ve been so weird lately. Danny: What? No.
Me: Danny.
Danny: It just bugs me when you and Ajita gossip about guys all the time.
Me: Ajita and I have gossiped about guys since the age of eleven. It’s never bothered you before.
Danny: *long silence while blushing*
Me: *reciprocates long silence because of aversion to conflict* Danny: Well, it bothers me now.
Me: Why?
Danny: I don’t know.
Now, I know you may think this doesn’t sound like your average declaration of love, and yes, while I was typing out the exchange I began to wonder whether I’d misunderstood the whole situation, and perhaps I am simply an incredible narcissist, but I’m sticking to my guns. He’s in love with me. Let’s examine the evidence.
Article A: When I confronted him about being weird, he replied defensively at the speed of light. Which means he pre-empted the question. Which means he knows he’s being weird. And then when I applied the tiniest little bit more pressure, he folded like a poker player with a pair of twos. Trust me, I am fluent in Danny. This means he is hiding something.
Article B: He blushed. Danny has never blushed in his life. In fact due to his immense paleness, I have kind of been operating under the assumption that his blood is colorless, like IV fluid.
Article C: He said, “I don’t know.” Let me tell you, Danny is the most opinionated son of a preacher man on the planet. Possibly in our entire solar system. So for him to utter the words “I don’t know” is utterly implausible. Of course he knows. He just doesn’t want to say it.
I’m not sure how I feel about this development. I think at the moment I’m mainly sad because anything that jeopardizes our friendship is not okay, and everyone knows unrequited love is the cancer of friendship circles. And I do not even a little bit love him back. I don’t think. I mean, I love him, like an annoying cousin or particularly needy hamster, but I am not in love with him. I don’t think.
Or maybe I am in love with Danny? Maybe I’m just missing the signs. Maybe the fact he often makes me feel queasy when he burps the national anthem is not a symptom of disgust, but deeply rooted infatuation. Maybe the fact we’re so comfortable around each other, to the extent where I often FaceTime him from the toilet, is actually a sign we’re soulmates. It’s not exactly how I imagined my first great romance would unfold, but is it really realistic to expect an epic Notebook-style love story in this day and age?
How doth one know that one doth be in love? [I’m unconvinced by the accuracy of my “doth” usage in this sentence, but am leaving it in for authenticity.]
9.16 p.m.
It’s quarter past nine on a Friday night, and instead of headbanging at a gig and/or participating in recreational drug use, I’m chatting to Betty in the living room over a mug of hot cocoa. Rock and roll.
Our living room is the size of your average garden shed. The walls are covered in that weird textured wallpaper most commonly associated with old folks’ homes. We found the velvet sofa on the street, had it examined for termites, and then promptly covered it with blankets and cushions from a thrift store. My grandma’s child benefits and Martha’s wages don’t quite stretch to IKEA, which Mr Rosenqvist would probably be horrified to hear on account of his proud Swedish ancestry.
We also have one of those old TV sets, fatter than it is tall, without cable. Honestly, the battle I had to go through to get Betty to have Wi-Fi installed. Like Vietnam but with more waterboarding.
We’re both piled on the velvet sofa in our sweatpants, and her wrinkly feet are in my lap as I give her a much-needed foot rub while she knits. This is her first night off in ten days, and I can tell she’s feeling it. She groans as I bury my thumb in the pressure points caused by her bunions. For the thousandth time, I wish