11
Khimairal Ink
nothing, though. Until . . . “I never cursed you,” she whispered. “It was just something I made up. I’m sorry.” “Okay.” She sighed. Went over to Richard’s picture and snapped it down. “Did you curse me?” “Yes,” I admitted. “Every night for about a month. I used to really hate you.” “Hmm.” She crossed her arms. Uncrossed them. Did the thing again—fingering the nape of her neck. More shifting and fidgeting on her part. Then: “I’m gay too.” I could not believe my ears. “What?” “Your curses worked.” I stared at Becky for the longest time. She was clearly miserable to her very core. Ready to cry. I wanted to hug her, but I stayed away. She dabbed at her eyes. “I liked you even then,” she whispered. “Back in eighth grade. And I wish you wouldn’t change yourself to look like my boyfriends. You don’t need to be my lap dog. Just be yourself.” My knees went wobbly. I could no longer breathe.
Four years. Four years of hoping that one day, against all odds, she would like me back. Somehow. “You . . . you liked me? You like me?” “Yes. I’m sorry I’ve been so mean. You have no idea. I . . . I . . .” She swallowed. “It’s been hard for me. But I’m so sorry.” She covered her face with her hands. Now she was really going to cry, unless I did something. So I did. Fast. I said, “Don’t cry. It’s okay. I understand. Do . . . do you want to be gay together?” Becky uncovered her face. She stared at me, startled. Her eyes were red-rimmed. And blue, wonderfully blue. “You don’t hate me?” she asked. “After all I’ve . . . and now I’m . . . I’m just a hypocrite.” “Look. Being a lesbian is not bad. It’s a wonderful curse. It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.” Becky laughed. Nodded, just a little. “Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s be gay together.” Her right eyebrow never twitched again.