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Chapter 1
*Love Interest*
Marjorie Madden can never find out I’m in love with her. There are so many reasons, one of the big ones being that I’m not out. Of course Marjorie is. She has that confidence that makes you unsure whether you want to be her or be with her. The confidence that sometimes makes you want to slap her but also makes you want to kiss her. Right now, it’s all the latter for me, as I watch her lips move while she speaks to me. Shit. I hope she didn’t notice. I force my eyes away from those lips as she continues to speak.
I look up just in time to see her toss her perfectly straight, long blonde hair behind her back and laugh at something she just said. Was it a joke? Who knows. Certainly not me. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.”
And just like that, she’s walking away from me. I can’t tear my eyes off her backside as she sashays away. Marjorie Madden knows she’s popular. She knows everyone wants her. She would never speak that out loud though, because that’s not the kind of person she is. She’s not like other high school students who become popular by being cutthroat. She didn’t become popular because people felt threatened by her. She’s popular because she’s so nice. So fucking nice. Almost to the point that it’s infuriating. Is someone really that nice? I’ve always wanted to believe the best in people, but I can’t help but think most things people do are to benefit themselves, even if what they’re doing appears nice. I wish I didn’t believe that, but years of experience have taught me otherwise. Sure, I’m only a teenager, but I’ve seen enough shit to show me the world can be pretty crappy.
I sigh out loud. I hate when I get in my own head like this. My mom calls me a pessimistic optimist. I want to see the best in people. I want to believe the best about the world, but I can’t. I’m a realist stuck in a dreamer’s body.
My mind drifts to Marjorie as I drive home. The way she laughs—so loud and bold. The smile that never leaves her face. Her overall zest for life. I can’t help but wonder if she’s truly as happy as she always seems to be. I hope she is. I hate the thought of her ever being sad. God, I’m pathetic.
When I get home, I lock myself in my room and begin to write. After spending time with Marjorie, the words flow easily from my pen to the paper.
Do you know how beautiful you are? Do you know that the way your eyes shine brings a light to my life that I didn’t know before I met you? I bet you don’t. How could you?
I’m gay. Not many people know that about me, and I don’t dare tell anyone else. You don’t have that same reservation though. You are so unapologetically yourself that it makes me want to be the same way. I’m not brave like you though. I’m not sure I ever will be.
I want you to know how amazing you are. I know you hear that all the time, but I want you to hear it from someone who wants absolutely nothing in return, except to see a smile on your face. Too often, we wonder if people mean the words they say to us. At least, I do. If you are like me and you wonder this too, know that my words are true. Writing these words to you does nothing for me. I’m not even brave enough to sign my name. I’ll probably never even be brave enough to give this to you. It will remain locked away just like all of the feelings I have for you.
I promise I’m not crazy. I’m just a girl who admires so much about you. A girl who dreams about a life where I have enough courage to be like you. Having enough courage to ever speak these words out loud to you is something that could only happen in another world, galaxies away. But just know, because of you, I wake up with a smile on my face. I look forward to the moments I get to see you and cherish the time I spend with you. There’s a light in you that makes this world a better place. Please don’t ever lose that.
I rip the note from my notebook, fold it as if I’m actually going to hand it off, then shove it into the pocket of my pants. When I change for bed, I move the note into the pocket of my pajama pants. For some reason when I wake the next day, I do the same, transferring it from my pajamas to the jean shorts I’m wearing to school. It burns a hole in my pocket throughout the day. When I see Marjorie and talk to her, it seems to burn even hotter. It sits there, tempting me. Screaming for me to let the words be free.
When I get home later that night, my mom is in the kitchen making us a late dinner. “Hi, sweetheart,” she shouts, not turning away from the food on the stove as I sling myself into one of the kitchen chairs.
It’s just my mom and me. My dad is one of the shitty things that I learned about this world at much too young of an age. He was around for the first five years of my life, but barely. I, along with my mom, thought that was because of his busy work schedule, but we later found out it was because he was having an affair. An affair that eventually led to a pregnancy that led to him leaving us. Apparently, a younger woman and a son were much more appealing than a woman his age and a daughter. Last I heard, he had two more kids, both boys, but I only know that because I live in a small town surrounded by even smaller towns, and he’s only fifteen minutes away. Fifteen minutes, yet he still hasn’t talked to his only daughter in almost ten years. Whatever.
Just thinking about my dad causes my anxiety to rise, so I chew on my nails, a habit that started not long after he left. My mom notices and comes over to slap my hand away from my mouth. “Stop that,” she scolds, but the smile on her face tells me she isn’t actually mad.
Since my hand is no longer occupied, I move it to my pocket to make sure the note is still there. I let out a breath when I feel it.
My mom watches me and lifts an eyebrow knowingly. “You know, you could just tell her.”
My mom knows I’m gay, which makes sense, since I share everything with her. She also knows about my crush on Marjorie and the notes that I write her that I wouldn’t dare actually give her. The only other person who knows is my friend, Bug. That’s not his actual name, but it’s what I’ve called him from the time we met when we were little. Bug goes to a different school so we don’t have any of the same friends anyway.
I shake my head in response to my mom’s suggestion. “Absolutely not.”
My mom crosses her arms over her chest and stares me down in a way that only a mom can. “And why not?”
I roll my eyes because we’ve been through this. “You know why not.”
“I know the excuses you’ve given me, but none of them make any sense.”
I shrug. “You have to say that. You’re my mom.”
As she turns around to continue making dinner, a part of me wonders if she’s right. Not that I have the guts to ever actually tell Marjorie how I feel, but I wonder if I should give her the note. Not directly. Just the thought of that makes me want to throw up. But, I could always sneak it to her. She deserves to know how special she is, even if the person who sees her that way is too much of a coward to do anything about it. I touch the note in my pocket one more time. We’ll see.
Chapter 2
Marjorie
“Mar! Wait up!”
I turn around to see my best friend, Lydia, running after me. When she catches up, she’s taking big, heaving breaths. Knowing Lydia, that run down the hall was probably the most she’s run in weeks. Even though we resemble each other with our blonde hair and tall, skinny builds, that’s where the similarities end. I love Lydia, but the girl doesn’t have an athletic bone in her body (and wouldn’t use them if she did). She’s never missed a home basketball game since I started playing in middle school though. She has no idea what’s happening, but she still sits in the stands, cheering me on.
“Are you going to the soccer game tonight?” she asks as she walks beside me.
