Cancelled, p.18
Cancelled, page 18
“Fucking hormones,” she mumbles when she regains control of her breathing. She sniffs, dabbing her eyes with the tissue. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll ruin you.”
It’s not a real threat. I know this because she’s giving me a watery smile. She hasn’t explicitly said so, but I can tell she’s grateful she’s not here alone.
* * *
—
I almost forget that Thomas is waiting in the lobby. When he sees me exit with Cadence, he leaps from his seat and slides his phone in his pocket.
“How’d it go?”
I’m thrown by how earnest his question sounds.
Cadence must be surprised, too, because she gives me a confused look before glancing back at him. “Um, fine. Nothing abnormal.”
“Good,” he says, then repeats, “Good.”
We all stand there awkwardly. I wonder if I should step aside and leave them alone to talk when his phone buzzes. He checks a text, his attention now somewhere else.
“I think my mom wants us to get together soon to decide on the adoptive parents.”
Thomas is still looking at his phone. “Sure.”
Cadence flicks her attention to me, rolling her eyes. “Great,” she grinds out. “We’re leaving.”
Thomas blinks up at her. “Oh. When’s the next appointment?”
“Not until after the New Year,” Cadence replies, already heading toward the door. I follow her without saying goodbye.
Once we’re back in her car, she sighs. “If men were the pregnant ones, they’d be, like, ten thousand times needier than we are.”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me.”
“Hey.” Cadence’s tone is less jokey now. “I know you talked to Devin and Tyla.”
I sit there, frozen, unsure if she thinks I overstepped.
“We talked things out in our group chat last night,” she continues. “And, well. Thanks. It’s nice to have them in my corner again.”
The muscles in my shoulders relax. “I’m glad.”
“You’re good at this, you know,” she says as the engine turns over. “I know it’s moving slower than any of us want, but it’s progress. I mean.” She grins. “Katie Delcavo is part of the femolution.”
The corners of my lips tug upward. “It is kind of wild.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Listen, I don’t want to get sappy on you,” I say, changing course. “But I know Thomas isn’t going to tell you this, so . . . you’re doing great. You really are.”
Cadence’s eyes grow teary again. “Fuck you for making me emotional,” she sob-laughs.
I hold out my hand over the center console, fingers spread. I expect her to shove me away in a very Cadence manner. When Marlowe and I first became friends, she told me she was a touchy-feely person. That’s how she expressed her love, even a friendship sort of love, but she said she wanted to respect Tahlia’s and my boundaries if it bothered us. Some people weren’t into contact affection, but we never minded. I’m not sure where Cadence stands, but it’s a small offering.
To my surprise, Cadence takes my hand and squeezes.
I squeeze back.
20
“I’m thinking of going to an EOF meeting next week.”
“I heard it’s not bad.”
“I don’t know. I still don’t trust Brynn.”
Zombie Week is next week, also known as pre-finals week, where students don’t get new assignments but instead spend class hours in a zombie-like haze working on study guides for finals. I’m reviewing my AP Government notes on Saturday, but I need a break. So I’m glad when Cadence texts and asks if I want to join her at the beach while she works on her photography project.
Which is how I end up at the Santa Monica pier with Charlie and Cadence on Sunday afternoon.
I hadn’t known Charlie would be joining until his Lexus was parked in front of my house, Cadence sitting shotgun. A prickle of excitement shot up my spine when we briefly made eye contact in his rearview mirror. I had to stare down at my hands to calm my racing heart.
Santa Monica is flooded with tourists this time of year. It takes a lot of patience to navigate around them. Once we’re on the boardwalk, dozens of people stop along the railing to pose for pictures. Since Cadence wears her analog camera around her neck, two strangers ask if she can snap a photo on their phones. I laugh as she tries to hide her annoyance.
Pacific Park is at the end of the pier. It’s an amusement park and arguably the happiest place on earth if you’re under the age of ten. I’ve walked around here so many times that the shine has worn off. The park is filled with children running around, shrieking with joy as the West Coaster roller coaster swoops by on its steel tracks. Fair games in brightly painted booths and flashing lights line another part of the boardwalk, daring you to try and win stuffed dolphins and tigers. Ice cream, cotton candy, funnel cakes, soft pretzels, churros, and every other fair food imaginable is available for an upcharge that’ll make your wallet ache, and aggressive seagulls lie in wait for a chance to steal your french fries.
“So what’s the theme?” I ask Cadence as we walk along the rickety boardwalk. “Of your project, I mean.”
She throws me a mischievous smile. “Lost hope in humanity.”
“Mm. Dark.”
“Not as dark as Charlie’s art.”
Before I have a chance to reply, she maneuvers a few steps ahead of us to snap a candid photo of a mother and father fighting in front of a toddler in a stroller who’s happily gnawing on a churro.
When I glance over at Charlie, he’s looking down at his shoes. “Maybe she’s right. My art—it’s too dark. I can’t imagine what CCA is going to think.”
“They’re going to think it’s brilliant. It makes people feel something,” I insist. “Isn’t that the point?”
Charlie seems to relax. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Then it hits me. “Hey, wait. That means you sent your application in.”
“Out of my hands and into the world,” he confirms.
“That’s big,” I say, doubling back as a wide grin spreads across my face. “Churros on me?”
He lights up as we get in line, but when I try to pay, he cuts in with his cash before I have the chance to pull out my wallet.
I try not to think about what that means.
Cadence has abandoned us a few yards ahead, scouting out perfect opportunities for her theme. We take a seat on one of the empty picnic tables after shooing away seagulls in search of a snack. Our shooing doesn’t keep them away for long, so we ignore them and sink our teeth into the warm fried dough.
I observe a girl vlogging in front of the iconic Santa Monica Ferris wheel. “Love spotting an influencer in the wild. Like, the confidence.”
“You’re confident,” Charlie says.
“Well, okay. Mostly true. Except the part where I fake a lot of it?”
Now Charlie looks perplexed. “You—what do you mean?”
“I know it’s hard to believe a charming, attractive, smart individual like me—”
“—and very clearly modest.”
“Super modest. The most delightfully modest person you’ve seen in your life.” That makes him laugh. “Truthfully? Confidence doesn’t come naturally for me.”
“That,” Charlie says, “is surprising.”
“It’s true.”
“So what’s the secret?”
No one’s asked me this before, so it takes me a few seconds to think about it. I remember what I told Carson in my bedroom all those weeks ago. To not second-guess yourself. But it’s more than that. It’s also about your inner assuredness. Knowing, deep down, that you’re enough. And embracing it.
“I guess I remind myself that I don’t have to listen to those negative voices in my head. It’s something I choose. Like”—I hold my arms out in front of me, the number fourteen faintly Sharpied on my skin—“doing this? At school? Knowing people are going to talk shit? I just own it. It’s all you can do.”
Charlie’s eyes stay on mine. “I had no idea. You just—”
All my breath gathers at the base of my throat. “What?”
“You make it look easy.”
His eyes are on the tops of my forearms now, resting on the faded fourteens. I think he’s going to ask about it. Everyone I’ve had a thing with. And I’m not sure I want to get into it. Not now, anyway. So I bop him on the forehead with my half-eaten churro and take on a lighter tone.
“I’m full of surprises. Ones you might not see coming. Like my detailed knowledge of booby traps.”
There’s a teasing glint in his eye. “Says the person who’s seen all the Home Alone movies.”
That gives me an idea. “We should totally booby trap Thomas Randkin.”
“Now this is the kind of mild criminal activity I’m into.”
I laugh, polishing off the last of my churro. The vibrating whoosh of the roller coaster thunders overhead. Riders scream gleefully. The warm, sticky-sweet scent of cinnamon drifts by, reminding me of the sugar scent Charlie sometimes carries in the fabric of his clothes.
“You know,” Charlie begins, shifting his knees in my direction. He’s wearing a black hoodie today, and I can see his gold chain peeking out, resting on the back of his neck. His nose ring glints in the sun. “I wouldn’t have come today if Cadence hadn’t told me you’d be here.”
His hazel eyes are bright, warm pools of rosemary green with flecks of deep amber. There’s a softness in his expression, almost vulnerable.
My brain repeats his words over and over so that it almost sounds lyrical. He’d hoped I’d be here. Because . . . why? Did he want to spend time with me, just like I was thrilled by the idea of spending more time with him?
My lips part—but what do I say? Me, the flirt expert, known for helping people find words, is at a loss.
And then the familiar guilt churns through me. Adeline is paying me. She’s counting on me to deliver.
“There was a total Karen yelling at the Ferris wheel ride supervisor.”
I snap my attention to Cadence, who has reappeared in front of us.
“She looked like she was about to scream at me for taking a photo, but then decided against shouting at a preggo teen in public.” She shrugs. “I think I’ve got enough. Let’s play some games.”
Charlie doesn’t look at me as he stands from the table. I watch as he swipes his fingers through his wind-blown hair. My stomach flips. I wonder if it’s soft to the touch. My brain goes fuzzy at that mere thought.
We join Cadence at the Cat Rack booth, where she takes out exactly zero cats. Charlie and I are equally horrible. We don’t win the racing game against a few twelve-year-olds either. After failing to win Balloon Bust, we give up.
“We’re losers,” Cadence says. “Good thing none of us play sports.”
“Our lack of athletic talent is made up by our good looks,” I counter.
“Charlie only gets to be part of that true statement because he’s my twin.” She eyes a booth to her right. “Ooh, funnel cake.”
Charlie laughs awkwardly as he watches her go. “That’s a compliment coming from her.”
I cut my gaze to his profile. “Whatever. You know you’re hot.”
The confession startles us both. We lock eyes for a second before diverting our attention to the Ferris wheel. Why? Why is it sometimes impossible for me to think for one second before I speak?
I need to stop this before it becomes a rumor that circulates and gets back to Adeline. Or worse, Lenora.
“I—” I begin just as Charlie says, “Um—”
We’re staring at each other, but it’s me who blows out a nervous laugh. Have I ever had a nervous laugh before today? Where did that come from?
“It’s—um—well, it’s nice to hear you say so,” Charlie says quietly.
“Are you coming or what!” Cadence calls to us, already in the funnel cake line.
I’m about to walk over to her when Charlie goes, “Oh, here.”
And before I have a chance to process what’s happening, his thumb is gently brushing away sugar crystals from the side of my cheek. My body hums like an instrument tuner, a low, gentle vibration.
“There,” he says. “Perfect.”
And that’s when I know.
I’m in big trouble.
21
“Do you think you’ll go to Brynn’s next meeting?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Same. She seems . . . sincere?”
In order to keep our momentum and gain more members, we decide we need a bigger statement than the Post-it wall. I still plan on making the most out of the Senior Showcase next week, but that won’t matter if we don’t gain our required headcount for this week’s meeting.
On Monday morning, Marlowe joins the video announcements to reveal to all of our peers that we’ll be sponsoring a gratitude note initiative during lunch for the next week. For the low price of a dollar, you can send someone an anonymous compliment, almost like a valentine, to promote positivity instead of gossip. The best part? All funds will go toward a local women’s outreach program as a donation.
Cadence works in the front office as an aide during the last period of the day, so she’ll deliver them to the correct lockers. We agreed that this could foster a sense of trust around our club and, hopefully, create a welcoming environment.
At lunch, our table floods with eager students. Cadence collects the notes in a large envelope while I keep track of the money. Many people buy more than one note, handing me fives, tens, and the occasional twenty. By the end of the lunch hour, we’ve made 155 bucks. It’s enough to impress Dean McTiernan.
“You’re setting a good example here, Brynn,” he tells me. “That’s what I like to see.”
I hope that means he’s already working on my letter of recommendation.
When the final bell rings, students swarm their lockers to find notes carefully slipped through the slats. There’s a hum of warm energy that spills through the halls. A wave of relief releases through me. I think we’ve successfully pulled this off.
A few notes start to tumble out when I open my locker, but I catch them before they hit the floor. Even though they’re anonymous, I can tell three are from Marlowe, Cadence, and Tahlia.
I eagerly open the fourth one, my heart clanging in anticipation as I read.
I’m sorry I’m a coward.
I blink, then read the words again, just to make sure they’re there. It’s the closest thing I’ve got to an admission of guilt. Whoever wrote this is clearly regretful, but not enough to come clean.
But this proves that we’re changing mindsets, doesn’t it? This person feels bad for what they did. Without the femolution, I don’t think I would have received anything more than silence.
Tahlia, Marlowe, and Cadence each wear similar expressions of shock when I show them.
“I wish I paid better attention to people’s handwriting,” Cadence says, examining the note as the hallway slowly begins to clear out.
Between the lip gloss and the note, maybe it’s possible to connect the dots. I don’t want to have to do that, though. I want a real, face-to-face apology.
Tahlia places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “This is a good thing.”
I know she’s right. Maybe the tides will turn in our favor faster than we think.
* * *
—
Between our gratitude notes initiative and Katie’s promised help, we achieve a record-breaking attendance at our next meeting.
On Wednesday afternoon, the four of us gather in Miss Rothman’s classroom. Katie’s recruited Victoria P.—a tiny clarinet player—and Victoria M.—the lead soloist in choir. Devin and Tyla find seats next to Zanele and Mathis. Not only that, but Charlie’s brought along Grant, and Carmen’s managed to bring a few of her dance friends with her. Even Rhea returns, slipping into a seat next to Katie.
By the time everyone sits, I do a quick headcount. Sixteen people. We did it. Barely. As long as we can keep it up, we’re in the clear.
Marlowe leads the first half of the meeting, discussing discrimination in the trans community and how we can be better allies. Cadence leads the second portion. She brings up how Greenlough’s health courses have failed us when it comes to properly discussing inclusive sex education, what we should be learning, and the judgment she faces as a pregnant teenager.
“And it’s also not inclusive if you’re defining sex as just penetration,” Cadence is saying.
I watch Katie set down her pen. “What do you mean?”
“Well, that narrow definition excludes certain groups of people,” Cadence explains. “Like, the idea that having sex or ‘losing’ virginity equals penetration is based on the male standard of pleasure, furthering the point that we continue to put up with patriarchal bullshit.”
“And, honestly? How you define sexual intimacy should be between you and your partner,” I add.
When I first told my mom tampons were a struggle to insert, she took me to my gynecologist, who diagnosed my vaginismus and recommended a pelvic floor therapist. The problem was most were too expensive and out of network. Instead, I’d scoured tons of message boards and learned from people online who shared their own stories and offered links to dilators that seemed to help. It made me feel less alone, especially after my first sexual encounter with Vince, who wasn’t exactly thrilled when I’d told him I wasn’t having the best time of my life.
Outside of my mom and Vince, Lenora was one of the first people I’d told. She didn’t make me feel broken, but instead immediately destigmatized the cloud of negativity in my head.
“Your vagine is a queen, dude. It’s just unique. And it’s not settling for incompetent assholes like Vince,” she said with complete confidence. “You know your body best, and you’re going to find someone who wants to make you feel your best despite this.”
