Black Iris (31 page)

Her grin was slow, and sly, and it did dark, crazy things to my heart.

EPILOGUE

NOVEMBER, THIS YEAR

T
he sun was every bit as fever-pure as I imagined, in a sky so blue and infinite it seemed the only real thing, the land below a hallucination, rough brushstrokes of sand and gorse sketching out to the horizon. We’d been driving along the Great Ocean Road, stopping at dusk in a tiny town called Apollo Bay, because of the name. I turned twenty today, in Australia—tomorrow, in Chicago—and for my birthday dinner we bought fish and chips wrapped in butcher paper from a shack near the beach. We walked down to the shore, the grease tinting the paper clear. Salt spray whipped off the water, scooping up the smell of sunbaked sand, like heated glass.

“I could breathe this forever,” I said.

Blythe glanced at me over her sunglasses, smiling.

Back home she became even more like Artemis, her skin tanning and hair lightening, barefoot and bare-limbed, a wild thing stalking through the long grass. Her eyes were a shock of winter in a summer-kissed face.

We sat near the tideline, picking apart hot fish with stinging fingers. When I yelped she laughed and fed me a piece by hand. I feigned further helplessness and she kept feeding me, and eventually we set the food aside to lick the salt from each
other’s fingers and tumbled into the sand in a burst of gold glitter and kissed, hair tangling in our mouths, fiery-skinned and fierce. But the sun was coming down and she didn’t want to miss it.

“You only turn twenty once,” Blythe said, straightening my shirt.

“You only love like this once.”

She gave me a no-nonsense look. “Watch the bloody sunset.”

I laughed.

This girl.

The sun came down slow. For a while I watched with her, arms around each other’s waists, heads on shoulders, the perfect Instagram snapshot, but I was itching to check the news. I pulled my phone out over Blythe’s disgusted protests. She stood and kicked sand at me. When I remained undaunted, she left to wander down to the water. But soon enough she was back, sprawling on my thighs and giving me an evil eye.

“So?” she said.

I showed her the screen.

DEPAUL SOPHOMORE NOLAN H
ART INDICTED AS MASTERMIND OF GRADE-HACKING SCANDAL.

Her face lit up. “That leaves Gordon and Quinn.”

I scrolled the screen breezily. A small smile kept playing over my lips.

Nolan was a mastermind of nothing, but that wasn’t a problem for my computer-genius friend Josh. One night over drunken book chat, I told him my life story. By the end he’d appointed himself to my “team” and pitched a plan to nail Nolan.

Team Laney. I liked the sound of that.

Remember what I said, back at the beginning? I told you. No forgiveness. No redemption. No fucking character arc where I make a one-eighty and decide vengeance isn’t worth it.

What, you thought all that stuff with Armin and Donnie
would change the core of me? That I’d realize this cycle of hurting and revenge has to end, that I should be the bigger person, let the buck stop with me?

Fuck forgiveness.

That’s what
they
want me to do. Make it easy for them. Clear their consciences. Let them get away with what they’ve done.

The powerful. The strong. The privileged.

Not a fucking chance.

Armin wasn’t a bad guy, but he made a very bad mistake. He hurt me because of what I am. And I made him pay for it. Like I made Zoeller pay. And Luke, and all the others.

This is what helps me sleep at night. Knowing that one of us stood up and refused to take it. One of us said,
Fuck you
, and struck back.

One of us became the wolf and bloodied her jaws so that others can live without fear.

Change isn’t peaceful. Change is violent, savage, cruel. I won’t be the heroine remembered for her good deeds, but I can guarantee Luke North and Brandt Zoeller and Armin Farhoudi will think twice before they fuck with another girl’s life. Before they hurt someone they think is weaker. Before they judge someone based on
what
and not
whom
.

I won. Because I survived. And I made sure they’ll never forget it.

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

“What about Armin?” Blythe said.

“No word yet.”

We’d met up before we left the country. He was guarded, withdrawn, wincing every time he glanced at the two of us together. He eyed us like we were wild animals that could maul him at any moment. And we were. But when I dumped Zoeller’s blackmail trove on the table he sat down and, like his old self, helped us work out logistics. There were others I hadn’t gotten to yet. Gordon and Quinn. Eclipse was still full of bullies like Zoeller, guys who drugged and drank their way into dubious consent, beat up queer kids, made the Walk of Shame a celebrated ritual, made college hell for so many of us. The fraternities were complicit. The sororities, too. If we really wanted to shake things up, we needed to get inside and take them apart. Bring down the baddies. Expose them. Shine a light on all that nastiness.

Zoeller included. Someday I’d finish what I’d started with him.

And what we’d started. The three of us.

We’ll always be tied to each other
, I had told Armin when we were alone.
Me and you and her.

He’d looked at me a long time. There was pain in his eyes now that came from a deep place, and part of me felt sad about it, and part of me thought, Now you have a dark seed inside, too. What will you do with it? How will you let it grow?

Promise me
, he’d said.
When she gets bad—
and she will, Laney—then you’ll be there for her. Get her on meds. Therapy. Whatever you have to do. Just don’t let her go.

Blythe looked up into my face. The light was failing, bluing. “We’re vigilantes.”

The word felt good. I smiled. Then my smile turned inward, fading, and she eyed me suspiciously.

“I know that scheming glint, Lane.”

“We
could
be vigilantes. For real.”

She sat up, smoothing the sand with her palm. “More than just personal vendettas, you mean.”

“Why not? We’re good at it. We’ve got a shitload of practice.”

“Convenient lack of moral fiber, bloody good looks . . .”

I tried to contain my excitement. “It could be my birthday present.”

“Your present,” she said, tossing my phone aside and pressing me down, her legs between mine, “is waiting back at the hotel. In the bed. Not wearing any clothes.” She buried my hands in the sand. “Spoiler alert: it’s me in like fifteen minutes.”

I laughed, giddily. “I’m serious. We could do it.” I wrestled a hand free and seized her wrist. “Think about it. Eclipse must have started the same way. They had principles, values. Ideals. Over time they became lost and corrupt. That’s why new societies rise up to take their place.”

“Our own secret society, full of bad-girl vigilantes.” I flicked sand at her with my fingers, but her face grew serious. “Everything starts with a name.”

“You’re the poet.”

She drew the Eclipse symbol in the sand. “Corona. The light behind the darkness.”

“Not bad. But that’s a beer.”

“Halo.”

“Video game.”

“Bloody hell.”

She scowled, and then our eyes widened, and we spoke at the same time.

“Black Iris.”

She grinned. So did I. Then she leaned in and kissed me delirious, her skin against my skin, her hair flecked with sea salt and catching in my mouth, her leg between mine making me almost forget the name. When she stopped, the horizon tilted, unsteady.

“Get me the bag,” I gasped.

She dragged it over and I dug inside till I found a pocketknife. Snicked the silver blade open. Ran it across my palm, a bright sting.

“Give me your hand.”

Blythe didn’t flinch when I cut. I dropped the knife and pressed my palm to hers, blood to blood. We mashed it together and locked our fingers.

“Black Iris is hereby founded,” I whispered, “by Laney Keating and Blythe McKinley.”

She had that no-good smirk on her face. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

This time I was the one who pushed her down and kissed her. For a while I forgot the world, forgot everything, till she grasped my face and looked past me, a fine slash of red light in her eyes.

“It’s almost gone,” she said.

We sat up hastily, breathless. Sun poured like magma over the water. Out here at the edge of the world it was surreal, oil colors spilling over molten blue. When I glanced at Blythe her eyes reflected it, catching and holding a distant fire. I thought of Caitlin on the pier. The mad girl gone down alone into darkness.

But not you, Blythe.

I’ll never let you go.

She grabbed my arm, pulling me close. The sun scattered off the waves and filled her eyes with a thousand tiny lights.

“You’re not looking,” she said.

But I was.

Acknowledgments

This book is something I never thought I’d have the guts to write.
Unteachable
was much easier; it was all fiction.
Black Iris
isn’t. Some of it, I lived.

I’ve struggled with my sexuality my whole life. As a teen I openly identified as lesbian, and at my first high school most people were tolerant. Being in drama club helped. All of us were kinda weird. But I hid my sexuality from my family because it was a “sin,” and never truly came out. Never joined the Rainbow Alliance. Never found the support I needed. Liking girls was this shadowy part of me that I shoved to the back of my head and tried not to think about too much. Except for when I fell in love.

With straight girls, usually. Isn’t that always how it goes?

Sophomore year, I transferred to a new school. The kids there weren’t so tolerant. I was teased and bullied. It got bad. I dropped out.

They won.

I can still see their faces, the nasty smirks and ugly leers, and sometimes I wonder if they remember me. Probably not. The people who had the biggest impact on you rarely know it.

Some part of me hopes it works the other way, too. That people I don’t know will be impacted by this book in a positive way. That a teenager who’s struggling with her identity, who feels like no one understands, reads this and realizes: she’s not alone. I went through it, too. I was bullied and beaten down, but I survived.

Ellen Page’s coming out speech on Valentine’s 2014 inspired me to finally have my own pseudo-coming-out. I’m not exactly lesbian, but a 5.8 or so on the Kinsey scale is pretty damn close. And I’m in a long-term relationship with a man, which makes things even more complicated. “Lesbian” and “gay” aren’t the right words for me. Neither is “bi.” Like Laney says, it’s quantum. You can’t pin it down. If I have to claim a label, I prefer “queer,” but human sexuality is far more complex than choosing one inadequate label, or any label at all.

I am who I am. It’s taken me three decades to reach a state of okayness with it. It shouldn’t take anyone that long, and that’s part of why I wrote this book.

I hope
Black Iris
(with its ironic acronym—I swear, not deliberate!) shows the fluidity and quantumness of human sexuality. I hope it speaks to others who know what it’s like to not fit the default template. And I hope it lets the bastards who’ve made me feel subhuman for the way I was born know:

You haven’t silenced me. You haven’t won.

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

———

Righteous indignation aside, some thanks are in order.

Writing this book took guts, but so did publishing it. For that, my endless admiration, respect, and love for Sarah Cantin, my incredible editor at Atria. Sarah, thank you for being so damn smart and savvy and open-minded. Thanks for pushing back and challenging me to be a better writer. And thanks for being proud of me. Ditto, lady. Against All Odds, you saw my True Colors shining through. (PHIL COLLINS 4EVA.)

Thank you to my agent, the fabulous Jane Dystel, and to everyone at both Atria and Dystel & Goderich for making my life feel like a fairy tale come true. It’s a privilege to work with all of you.

My deepest love to the sweetest boy I know, my partner, Alexander. Thanks for weathering my little storms of madness, buddy.

Mad
to these writers: Dahlia Adler, Bethany Frenette, Ellen Goodlett, Abby McDonald, and Lindsay Smith. You’re all inspirations to me.

Thank you to these kick-ass book bloggers: Natasha at
Natasha is a Book Junkie
, Aestas at
Aestas Book Blog
, Jenny and Gitte at
Totally Booked Blog
, Lisa and Milasy at
The Rock Stars of Romance
, Wendy Darling at
The Midnight Garden
, Steph and Meg at
Cuddlebuggery Book Blog
, Emily at
The Book Geek
, and all the fine citizens of Goodreads.

Gross amounts of love to my Facebook fan group, the Raeder Readers: Allen, Cam, Jaime, Jen, Louisse, Michele, Ramona, Sara, Sheri, and everyone I can’t list here for space reasons. You guys make me smile every damn day. Heart you all, hard.

And finally, to all the queer, gay, lesbian, bisexual, trans*, intersex, genderqueer, pansexual, asexual, questioning, and other gender/sexuality-diverse kids out there:

This book is for you.

You are beautiful human beings. You inspire me. You make me proud. I hope that stories like mine and Laney’s and those of people who’ve been hurt for being born different will someday be just that: only stories. Not realities for us anymore.

Keep your heads up. Be strong. Be proud.

Never be afraid or ashamed to reach out for help.

You’re not alone.

All my love,

Leah Raeder

Chicago, November 2014