Kissing Lily

A New Friend

When I got home, I told mom I had invited a new girl over for dinner. Mom was so happy she was almost giddy. She bounced around the house straightening couch pillows and photo frames. She had a meat loaf in the oven, and was so excited that I had made a new friend.

I locked myself in my room until I heard the doorbell ring and 6:48. I rushed down to beat my mom to the door, but wasn’t successful.

“Come in Lily!” I heard my mother gush and almost yank Lily into our house, “I’ve heard so much about you and dinner is just almost ready.”

My mom is what you would call an oddball. First of all she and my dad are seperated, which isn’t the norm in our ultra-religious divorce shunning town. Secondly, she’s eccentric. While most of the moms here don’t work and are a cross between Betty Crocker and Martha Stewart, my mother is a mix between a hippy and an artist. She calls herself a free spirited writer, and spends her days locked in her home office answering telemarketing calls for the junk they sell on TV. Although she’s never had anything published, she writes in between phone calls.

“Great,” Lily smiled warmly at my mother.

“Great,” I parroted her, “Let me show you my room.”

She followed me up the stairs to my little room. I closed the door behind us, and watched as Lily took it all in.

My walls are dark purple and can be claustrophobic to some. I described my mother as an artist, but I was the one who hand painted Van Gogh’s Starry Night on one wall. The painting moved me, and one day I asked my mother if I could borrow her acrylics and she said yes. Over the next few weeks, I spent my free time creating the masterpiece on my wall. It wasn’t perfect, but I loved it.

“This is amazing,” Lily said.

“Thank you,” I was happy that she liked it. I sat down on my bed and gestured for her to sit at my computer desk beside my bed.

“So what do you think of our school?” It was the only thing I could think to ask her.

“Well,” I could see she was trying to come up with the right words, “Everyone looks wholesome and all-American.”

 “Yes, very vanilla,” I laughed, “Our school is one camera shoot away from a Tommy Hilfiger ad.”

Just then, my mom knocked on the door, and we went down and did our best to choke down the crispy concoction she called meatloaf while making small talk. Mom rushed off after dinner to work on a story she said was begging to get on the written page, and I decided to walk Lily home.

I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking I have my lovely boat/car I could have used, but I wanted to walk and spend a few extra minutes with her. She was like a piece of chocolate. I never eat chocolate all in one bite. I like to nibble on it, let the flavors roll around on my tongue, and savor it as long as possible.

It was dark, but I had my mom’s trusty flashlight. Lily and I walked side by side.

“Tell me about you Bree. You have this amazing room, you actually talked to me when not one other person did today, and you have a fun mom. I want to know about you,” I could see Lily push her hair out of her face.

“Not much to tell,” I told her. I racked my brain trying to think of something, anything interesting about myself to tell her, “My birthday’s next week, the big 1-8.”

“That’s cool. Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked.

“Nope,” we were almost to her house, “You?”

“Well, I was in a relationship recently, but we broke up right before I moved,” Lily sounded a little sad.

We were walking up the driveway as I asked, “What was his name?”

“Erika, she was a girl actually,” Lily stopped walking as we reached her door, “I hope that doesn’t freak you out.”

“Not at all,” I tried my best to appear calm. On the inside, I was shocked. Lily was a lesbian?

“Thank you for dinner Bree, tell your mom I said it was wonderful,” shadows danced across her face as bugs zipped back and forth across from the porch light.

“I will. See you tomorrow Lily,” I turned to leave.

I heard Lily close the door behind her as she went inside. Using the flashlight, I made my way back to the house.

So Lily was a lesbian.

     

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