Not Otherwise Specified (19 page)

“I remember,” I say.

“We were so crazy.”

“We should do it.”

She laughs, kisses my forehead. She's so warm. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. You and me. I'm not gonna get into the school. Someone else should get into the school.”

“You could look at ballet schools.”

I sit up so fast I almost hit her in the chin. Rachel told me to go to ballet school.
Rachel thinks I should do ballet.
Rachel sees me and a bun and leotard and sees me being a real ballerina with white girls six inches taller and thirty pounds less than me and Rachel thinks I wouldn't be caving to the masculine hierarchy and Rachel
und
ersta
nds me and Rachel loves me so much and I should go to ballet school.
I should go to ballet school and Rachel will love me and I will be dancing and Brentwood has its generic and sad little dance program and there are ballet schools and somebody—
Rachel
—thinks that I could do it.

I am beautiful at the ballet.

“Please, Ray.”

“What about school for me?”

“Rachel, you can go to a magnet program and you can
go to med school and you can be a doctor and we can be Bohemians and you can be a Bohemian doctor.”

She's laughing still, head tipped back, beautiful. “That does sound pretty perfect.”

“Let's do it. Let's
do
it.”

“What was the plan? Greyhound?”

“Yes, Rachel, but the Omaha Greyhound station closed down—
I know right
—but there is a Burlington Trailways stop there and all we have to do is get to like Omaha and then it's like a hundred and eighty dollars apiece! And then we get to New York and we can live in Washington Heights which is scary but I'm black so I can pretend I'm all hardcore and shit! And then go to ballet school, haha fooled them!”

“When would we leave?”

“Right
now
!”

“What about the big farewell to Cupcake!”

“New York will be our farewell to Cupcake! Farewell to damn
NEBRASKA
!” My phone's ringing. “Hang on.”

“Come pick me up,” Bianca says, no introduction. I'm beginning to think this is how she says hello. I get off Rachel's lap and sober up a little, but so not enough to drive.

“Are you okay?”

“Pick me
up
.”

I lower the phone and say, “Can you drive me somewhere?”

She finds her keys. “Where?”

“Get Bianca.”

“Is she coming out with us?”

“Um. Probably not.”

“Then what are we gonna do with her?”

“I have no idea. But she needs me.”

Rachel blows air out of her mouth. “All right, babe. Let's do this.”

In the car I dodge another call from Mason—seriously, take a hint, you're not my boyfriend in general and you definitely are not tonight—and drive to Bianca's house. She's out the door before we've even turned off the car.

I say, “Bianca, this is Rachel.”

“She's the nice one?”

“Yeah.”

“Hi, Rachel.”

“Hey there, Bianca.”

I say, “Want to go back to my house? We can make cookie dough and watch
Cabaret
.”

Rachel whines, and Bianca shakes her head.

“Just
Cabaret
, no cookie dough?”

Another head shake.

“Coffee? Irish pub? Want to see what Mason's up to?”

“Who's Mason?” Rachel says.

“Friend of hers. Shh.” But Bianca's still shaking her head, and shit, what else can we do that has nothing to do with these auditions? Can I drink more? I want to drink more.
“Want to go to the park and sit on the swings? I'll push you.”

“No. I want to go
out
.”

“Technically all of those were . . . are you drunk?”

I expect her to laugh at me, tell me she's just
tired
, just
happy
, just
fourteen
.

“I'm not
drunk
,” she says, but she's not laughing. “I just have
been drinking
.”

“Holy shit, Bee.”

“How come in books and stuff parents always lock the liquor cabinet? Who locks a liquor cabinet?”

“Whoa. Okay. Yeah, we're going back to my house.” I can't bring her back to her house like this. It's a miracle her parents hadn't noticed already. We're not going to push our luck.

Rachel says, “What about Cupcake?”

“Rachel . . .”

“Fine,” Bianca says. “Might as well go home,” she says, though. “Like my parents give a shit around telling Jamie ‘no way you'll go to New York, New York is full of faggots.' ”

“I don't think I like your parents,” Rachel says.

“I don't think I like fucking
anything
.”

“Bianca.”

“I want to go ouuuut! Take me somewhere. Take me anywhere.” She rests her head on my shoulder. “Let's go ooooout.”

“There is no way I'm taking you anywhere,” I say.

Rachel says, “Ettaaaa?”

“What.”

“If she's gonna go out anyway, might as well be where she won't be alone, right? Might as well be full of fags to piss her parents off?”

“No way.”

But Bianca's sitting up all straight in the backseat. “Yes! Take me out. I like Rachel.”

The stupid thing is that I
know
this is a bad idea. I just can't think of a better one.

And maybe a night with some lesbians will be enough to steer her back toward the straight (pun not intended, or, you know, maybe, she is drunk and with a drunk bisexual right now) and narrow.

But still. “I'm going to call James, okay?”

She says, “James isn't at home.”

“What? Where is he?”

“Counseling.”

“Jesus, your parents are big on counseling.”

“Yes.”

“My mom's with him. Crying the gay away.' ”

“Shit. All right.” So she's mine tonight. Okay. Rachel's all animated, telling Bianca how much fun we're gonna have, and it's about time she meets some of
her own kind
. God, Rachel thinks they're a two-gay family, shit shit shit, this is going to end so poorly and I can't even see
how
because there are just way too many fucking ways this could be a disaster and I don't even know which ones are the most likely because I'm half-drunk
and I really wish I were full-drunk right this damn minute.

I actually end up texting James as soon as we pull up to Rachel's house.
ive got her tonight

thank you

Okay.

•  •  •

We sit in Rachel's bathroom and put on makeup, and Rachel's dressing up Bianca like she's a little doll, pinning miniskirts and tying up T-shirts so they fit her tiny body. She mother-hens all over her while she does it.

“You don't need to be this skinny to be beautiful,” she says, as if being beautiful is the point. There's a part of this that laypeople are just never, ever going to get.

I snatch a water bottle of totally not-water away from Bianca when I see her taking a sip. “No. You've had more than enough.” I shrug and drink it myself, whatever, I'm not driving, and if I'm facing the Dykes tonight I'm going to need it. I can't believe
this
is the way it's going full circle from the night three months ago when I tried to corner them. I'm going back to Cupcake with Rachel and
Bianca
flanking me. How did this happen?

Rachel's putting up Bianca's hair and talking all softly into her ear, and Bianca's giggling and squirming because she's drunk and has no idea she's being flirted with. I don't know why it's bothering me. Rachel's always done this with girls I'm with, and I've always done it with girls she's with. It doesn't
mean anything, not about them, anyway. I guess it's just a way of asserting our ownership—
I
can do whatever I want to you because at the end of the night I'm the one going home with her. At the end of the whole world, I'm the one going home with her.

I don't know what I was thinking, really, having Bianca and Rachel in the same room. I just want to go to Cupcake and get wasted like the old days or wrap Bianca up in her coat and take her home like the new days, and why why why is my brain defaulting to those options and not movie nights with Rachel, motorcycle rides with James and Bianca and Mason and—God, Ian, why the hell not? Why don't I ever think of the parts of both of my lives that I've actually
liked
?

Because I don't like babying Bianca. I don't.

I like singing with Bianca.

I like laughing with Bianca.

I like getting better with Bianca.

I thought this wouldn't wear me down. I thought I could keep taking care of her forever and that I was strong and it wouldn't drag me down.

I think maybe I was an idiot.

I know that I'm a terrible damn friend.

“Etta should sing for us,” Bianca says. She's on the floor now, leaning her head against Rachel's laundry hamper.

I say, “I'll sing if you eat something.”

She pouts but nibbles on the crackers Rachel brings her.

So I climb up onto the hamper, bothering her foot with
my sock some just for good measure, and belt out the entirety of “At the Ballet,” which is ridiculous because I'm trying to do three parts at once, and Bianca helps me with the harmonies at some points, so quietly that I don't know if she knows she's doing it (would she sing right now if she knew? Has that been ruined for her?) but it's still this ridiculous mess of me trying to do all the parts. And then I get to Maggie's part, Maggie's monologue about dancing around the living room with her arms up like this, and it's hard to keep going.

I make some excuse about not knowing this part as well, when really I know it a zillion times better than Bebe's (that's the second girl, I looked it up eventually) because lately when I'm supposed to sing Sheila's part I find myself singing Maggie's instead, which is stupid because I can't hit the high notes and you need this
sincerity
to be Maggie anyway, and how am I supposed to go into an audition for a place I don't even know that I want (can I just audition for a freaking city, can Bianca go to Brentwood and we'll do brunch every day) and act sincere? No, I can be brassy and loud and not sing all that well.

But they make me keep going, so I sing out Maggie's three “at the ballet!”s, each one going higher and higher, and hey, big shock, I can't hit the highest note.

But I got the first two, and that's new.

The girls are just chuckling a little. “Yeah,” Rachel says, “Stick to the first part.”

“I know,” I say. “I was going to.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Don't get attitudey with me. What's the matter?”

“I don't know. Eat your crackers, Bianca.”

“I am,” she says, and she is. “Where are we going?”

“Club Cupcake.” Rachel finishes her mascara, blinks in the mirror. “On the strip.”

“The
gay
strip?” Bianca's all excited.

Rachel laughs. “Yeah, honey. Before they shut it down and ruin whatever Nebraska once had.”

I say, “Ease her into this, okay?'

Rachel says, “What, like a bunch of lesbians are going to be all that new to her? Maybe a bunch of lesbians and some loud music, that's fair.”

Jesus, I have got to find a chance to get Rachel alone and tell her that Bianca is so, so not gay. Bianca leans on me because she
knows
I know she's not gay. The second she thinks I'm trying to pull her into this I become not safe to her and that's going to scare the shit out of her, because right now I am her bridge between her and her brother and I get that, and that's fine, but that doesn't mean she should go swimming underneath me and getting all wet, you know? God, that wasn't even supposed to sound dirty.

So I just say, “She's young and she's drunk. Go easy.”

Rachel turns on me, all of a sudden all sharp lines and painted lips. “What exactly do you think I'm going to do to her, Etta?”

God, this is a shitshow. I take another swallow from the bottle. What is this, Everclear? All of a sudden I'm all emotional thinking about when I was Bianca's age and I had to go to the hospital for alcohol poisoning after some sweet sixteen for this junior-year Dyke. I'm all weepy looking at Bianca on the floor with her crackers and yeah, this shit is strong and Rachel's shoulder is warm under my cheek.

She kisses the top of my head and dabs a little more blush onto my cheeks. “All right. Let's get moving. Etta, you want the tie-dye coat?”

I do. I do want the tie-dye coat.

Rachel wraps a headband around Bianca's forehead. “Let's go.”

•  •  •

Cupcake is louder than I remembered and somehow gayer, and maybe that's because everyone knows they've got a limited time left or maybe it's because my gay experiences of late have been domestic little James and Ian and I'd forgotten about this other end of the spectrum, the glittiest glitter that has ever glittered, this was my life, these shirtless boys with their mouths on each other. I used to love this. I used to genuinely love this, and not in some damaged daddy-left-us-so-now-I-sleep-around way. I just
liked
it.

And now Bianca's clinging to me and I feel protective and guilty as hell, and why do I feel guilty, she wanted to come, I'm not her mother and there's nothing
wrong
with a goddamn gay
club, so what if I had to flirt a little with the door Dyke to get Bianca in, it's not like she doesn't have
X
s on her hands so she can't drink any more. (But it's also not like they're being very careful about who drinks because what does Cupcake have to be afraid of at this point, I know the feeling.) Maybe I just think that I've found something bigger for the same reason I thought I liked ballet (do I like ballet? I can't remember). Something about the patriarchy. I'm dizzy.