“So, when did you know you were gay?” I ask over the coffee shop music.
Rachel looks at me, horrified, and I realize that I might have actually yelled out that last word.
“Queer,” she says, correcting me.
“Right,” I say. Although, to be honest, I don’t get what people have against being called gay. “Gay” can mean whatever you want it to mean, the same as “queer.” But whatever. “Queer, of course. So, when did you know?”
Rachel sighs through her nose. “Look, Ivy, I know you’re the head of the school’s GSA or whatever, but don’t you think queer people are allowed to talk about things other than being queer sometimes? Like, can we please be allowed to have some other interesting defining feature?”
“Your neck,” a smooth voice says behind me.
I whip around and catch Cam loitering just beyond our table.
“What?” I snap.
My hand itches to fly up to my own neck, where I’m certain Cam meant to give me goose bumps by creeping up behind us like that. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. He already has enough of an incessant, self-assured smirk as it is.
“Your neck,” Cam repeats, this time nodding specifically to Rachel. “You always look so distinguished in class. A very interesting, very elegant neck. A perfect defining feature.”
Rachel beams, her face blooming rosebud pink.
I scowl at Cam.
“Excuse you,” I say, mouth pinched. “We’re on a date here, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Cam says, then grabs a chair from the next table and swings it wordlessly to ours. Rachel’s eyes glitter as Cam scooches himself in.
He sets both forearms on the table and leans forward, slicing into my view of Rachel. She hardly seems to mind seeing any less of me, with her attention now fully on the beachy-haired, peach-fuzzed, surfer-wannabe idiot tucked between us.
Cam only seems self-assured when no one’s challenging him. And almost no one does these days. They’re too busy falling over themselves to notice that his carefully manufactured charisma is just a front. But I’m not fooled by all that fake charm for one second.
“For your information,” I say, “it’s incredibly rude to point out a physical characteristic as someone’s so-called perfect defining feature. People also tend to have a sense of humor, or hopes and dreams, or hobbies, or anything more interesting than a giraffe neck.”
Rachel’s smile drops. She glares directly at me.
Cam only laughs his stupid, easy laugh and leans toward Rachel conspiratorially.
“You can’t take this one too seriously,” he says, hitching his thumb in my direction as if I were across a football field and not sitting inches away. “She means well. She just doesn’t have a filter when she’s nervous. Tends to overthink things. A very Benjamin Gates type, if you know the reference.”
With every word out of Cam’s mouth, Rachel’s glare softens. But at this point I don’t even care.
“I am not nervous!” I yell. I push my latte away and stand up. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell my date is doing ogling the shit out of überdude Cam Leonardo twenty minutes before heading onto a stage to recite some crappyVaginaMonologuesrip-off!”
Rachel stands across from me and snatches her jacket off the chair.
“Screw you,” she says. Her delivery is so crisp and biting that instantly my ears go hot. She marches halfway across the length of the coffee shop before she swings around and jabs her finger toward me. “I’m the one performing here.Yougetout!”
“Fine by me!” I say, even though my face feels like it’s a million degrees. I plunk my latte mug down onto the clearing tray with as much gusto as I can without spilling the vast remainder of it over the other dishes.
I yank my huge shoulder bag behind me and toss the front door open. As I storm down the sidewalk, I get into a brief boxing match with my coat as I attempt to punch my arms into each sleeve, not bothering to stop for one second to address the fact that I have the whole thing on inside out.
My heart is thumping in my ears. The tiny bit of latte I actually drank starts to churn violently in my stomach. I pinch the bridge of my nose to keep from crying.It’s not fair!I want to scream. Why does he have to be around all the time? I picture a cat catching a mouse and letting it go, over and over.I’m so tired of Cam catching me off guard every time I try to do something for myself. I’m so tired of never being able to get away from him.
“Hey!”
As if on cue, footsteps pound down the pavement until a very winded-looking Cam catches up to me.
“What?” I say, upping my pace slightly.
