Follow Me as Far as I Go

10 years old.

Grace sat cross-legged on the asphalt of my driveway that was covered in the blues, greens, and purples from the bits of chalk scattered between us. Beside her, on the grass, I lay on my back against the snow after having gotten tired making snow-angels and took in the gray sky. Despite our differing personalities, Grace and I had been friends from the very first day I moved in next door.

Having always been the more quiet and introspective character within our friendship, I was not only taken aback by her meek nature that day, but also mildly aggravated. I did not like needing to fill the silence after having gotten used to her constant chatter. Finally, I pushed myself onto my elbows and asked her what her problem was.

The meekness did not fade when she answered, “My parents are mad at me.”

As a child who had gotten into trouble one too many times with my parents, I could not understand why this had brought on such a drastic change in character, and I prodded further.

“I told them I like girls. They got mad and told me that I shouldn’t say those kinds of things.”

I froze for reasons far beyond the cold as I quietly asked, “Oh, like-like girls?”

Grace nodded while looking down at her stained hands.

“I have a friend at school who likes girls, too, but I don’t think her parents know,” I told her. I did not tell her who that friend was or that there was no separation between that friend and me, but selfishly I reveled in the relief of having confessed without having to face the consequences she did.

“My parents told me it’ll stop soon, and then we can start talking about the boys we like again.”

“Okay.” I lay back down on the snow and stared at the sun hidden behind the layers of clouds.

15 years old.

The woman on the podium spoke as if she had seen God herself. She was a student at the community college with a habit of swinging her yellow lanyard and ending every sentence on a high-pitched note. We started the meeting with hands held together and a prayer I can no longer recall the words for.

The fold-out chairs squeaked each time I moved. The woman who had seen God began her presentation; a guide on how to live in a godly manner. I haven’t figured out what that means yet, but by the time she had reached the topic of masturbation, a symphony of squeaking chairs responded. If shame could be made into a sound, I think it would sound like those chairs.

My daydreams (or what she would’ve claimed was the devil’s temptation) were interrupted when the lights turned off and the projector started up. On-screen, a woman stood upon a similar podium. She was enthusiastic about her discoveries and that energy filtered through the crowd so vigorously that her words were difficult to distinguish at times, but the words ‘cured’ and ‘choice’ and ‘lesbian’ struck a sharp enough chord for my hearing to comprehend it.

The chairs didn’t squeak. The room stood in silent solidarity with the words she spoke and offered no noise of argument. Noting this, I tensed my muscles to match the stillness.

16 years old.

My mother had insisted I come along with her for her college reunion, so while those around me drank beer, I stirred my Sprite and watched the bubbles float to the top. At the far end of the table, one of the men spoke with a voice that bounced in the empty restaurant.

“Listen, I know this better than anyone. You were there when I had girlfriends in college and then I dated one man and I never went back. You can’t go back.” I remember thinking he had a handsome face when my mother and I had taken a seat. However, the longer I stayed, the more villainous his Colgate-smile and breathy laugh seemed to me.

“There’s no such thing as being somewhere in between, you know. You either like men

Fiction Thais Jacomassi

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

or you like women,” he continued, and the woman sitting to my right chuckled with her palm covering her smile. I wondered if there was some kind of shame behind the action, but the amusement in her eyes was too bright.

Another woman’s voice spoke up from the other end of the table. “That’s right. They just need to admit it to themselves.”

“Cheers to that.”

The conversation ended with a round of laughter, which my mom took part in. I watched as the adults around me veered somewhere far into memory lane and I was pushed farther and farther away from the conversation with no resistance. I stayed anchored to the present. The conversation from a minute earlier rang in between my ears. A high-pitched screeching which only I seemed to hear like a dog whistle.

17 years old.

In the bathroom of our hotel room, our reflections stood side by side. Muscle memory allowed us to go about our nightly routines with frequent interruptions of toothpaste smiles and mascara-induced raccoon eyes. Having known her through all of my high school years, I was familiar with the way Gigi bounced on her heels while brushing her face and held her curls back with a headband. We may have been traveling miles away from home in a place unknown to us both, yet the familiarity I felt with her never strayed. It was a kind of familiarity that made me melt from how uncomplicated things could be.

By the time we had settled into our designated twin beds, the early morning hours were well underway. We slept facing each other that night, and I kept my voice soft as I wished her goodnight. I watched as the moon reflected off the high end of her cheekbones and the curve of her nose in a way that could only make me envious, for the moon could kiss her gently in ways that I was forbidden from.

In a humid hotel room in Rome, I didn’t find the courage to be a woman who loves a woman. I knew that I was still only a premonition of myself, and while that thought brought me no comfort, the secrecy that hid me still did. In a mindset akin to a haze, I made the promise to myself that my love would temporarily materialize as light. The moon could comfort her for now, but when the first beams of sunlight rose above the horizon and glittered off her brown skin, I’d be able to love her then. Through the sunbeams, I would kiss her all day long. I could watch the way her blond eyelashes sparkled and know that it was my own doing.

18 years old.

When I was younger, I’d always thought of the beauty salon as a mystical place made up of the sweet smell of hairspray and a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors. Most of all, it was a place of comfort. A place where women would come and tell strangers the very words they could not say anywhere else. It was a place to unload your feelings and watch them get swept away by a wooden broom.

Most times, I’d get my nails done as my mom dyed her hair. I was always done before her, so I’d sit on the rolling stool and pick at the freshly painted nails until they chipped, but I was never brave enough to ask to have them fixed.

I sat on my hands to make sure no one saw the damage I had already done and watched the brush coating my mom’s dark hair. Behind her, the hairdresser reassured a woman sitting on the chair next to us.

“You shouldn’t worry yourself over it.” She gave her a wink over her shoulder. “It’s just a phase she’ll grow out of soon enough.”

The woman nodded at her words, but she didn't look convinced.

“God, I hope. I just can’t have her going around saying those things to her grandparents. Then I’d really never hear the end of it.” They all laughed along with her.

The hairdresser finished painting along my mom’s forehead and fully turned around to look at the woman. “She’s in college. It’s only natural for her to experiment with women, but she’ll realize soon enough that it’s nothing real.”

My mom finally joined the conversation and nodded as she said, “It’s just curiosity.”

18 years old.

Being with him was easy. He would make space for me to lay across his lap as he played video games with our friends, and I could feel his laughter before hearing it. Whenever he was killed off from the screen, he had a habit of grabbing my hands to play with and twisting

the multitude of rings adorning it. Before picking up the controller for the next round, he’d raise my hand up and press a chaste kiss to the back of it. Being with him meant reassurance.

Having never been in a relationship before, he naturally became the subject of my adoration as well as the anchor that stilled my mind from doubt. His entrance into my life had meant the end of the interrogation from my family regarding when I would finally get a boyfriend, but more importantly, it put a brief intermission into my questioning of whether I would ever be loved. For the first time in my life, I could give love freely without having to worry about what consequences could follow.

There was such a relief to be able to kiss him in the daylight with the same pride as I did in the nighttime that I formed excuses for his other actions. The validation I got from others was enough to mask over the unanswered calls and boundaries crossed. Having strangers tell me we looked like an old-time couple with how comfortable we were around each other was rewarding enough to ignore his faults.

It was the relationship in my life that cemented over the fact that I could love a man. While that fact provided an immense amount of comfort for a brief period of time, my doubts eventually came back full force. No longer was I asking myself whether I would ever be loved, but whether my feelings for women had ever been real.

19 years old.

Through the window, I could see the multitudes of people hovering over the bar, their voices getting drowned out by the song blaring through the speakers above them. The wooden countertops shook as students spilled tequila on themselves in a mix of nerves and innocence. Outside, where the noise was dulled and the wind wrapped around me, I stood tense in her embrace. My eyes fixed on the window. I tried to memorize the faces of strangers in order to avoid looking up at hers.

She’d poked fun at our height difference when we met at the airport as our study abroad group awaited the plane’s arrival, but at this moment I felt grateful for the ability to hide from her gaze by laying my cheek on the cold leather of her jacket. Her blond hair brushed against my forehead each time the wind picked up.

The same hand that had been cupping my jaw minutes earlier settled over my shoulder, moving in soothing circles meant to provide comfort. I’m not sure if she meant to comfort me or herself. An apology sat in my vocal chords for having pulled away, for having stayed silent, for not having reassured the embarrassed blush that rose to her cheeks at my rejection, but my tongue felt too heavy with the weight of the words I could not allow myself to say.

The back of my neck tingled with the memory of her fingertips cradling my head, more gently than I was familiar with, and pulling me to her painted lips. Was that adoration or alcohol clouding her eyes? Whatever it might have been caused me to flinch violently away from the surge of emotions that arose in me. The unfamiliarity, the instilled shame, and the desire all spiraled within me until it settled into fear. She was quick to apologize. She must have laughed at my expression, but I wish she had looked longer. Long enough to see through the fog, beyond the desperation, into the words I wanted to convey but could find no language for.

20 years old.

I cannot call this a success story. All I can tell is a story to be read between the lines, through the keyhole of a locked down, with a hand over your mouth to muffle any sounds that could escape. It is not to be mistaken for a coming-out story, but rather as a story meant for those that slip away from the closet in the middle of the night, when the clouds cover the moonlight and floorboards don’t creak, just so they can feel some fresh air.

What I can say is that I sit comfortably with myself now. The jostle of the subway forces me to lean into her as the skyline moves behind us, and I can resist the urge to shrink away. I can squeeze my hand three times and reassure myself that it’s okay to find comfort in her embrace. When we walk through Harvard, I think of the words I could not utter then and wonder to myself if I could now. Sometimes in the early morning light when guitar notes are played over the phone, I can feel the lingering tension melting away from my bones, and hidden beneath is the key I needed to loosen the restraints. Sometimes I can brush away the debris and unlock the door leading towards the most vulnerable parts of myself. Other times, my hands falter before I can reach it.

When I pass by storefronts, I see a premonition. I squeeze my hands three times and watch her figure brighten just a little.