The Hell That is Love

6 - Internal Dialogue

I wake up the next morning eager to see her again. My eyes feel heavy with the broken sleep I got the night before, hitting me like a slap to the face.

I move my head to view my phone, trying to turn off my alarm, when I feel an ache right under my ear.

It occurs to me that I still have that hickey.

I let out a "fuck" as I rise up and rush to my bathroom. I decide that before anything I should cover this thing up.

I muster the spirits of the beauty gurus I watched and get to work. After a good 10 minutes the Mark has faded to a shade that almost passes for my skin tone. I feel accomplished, and proceed to get ready for the day.

The short walk to school leads me to my table of friends, eager to greet me with hellos. A few minutes pass by when Sarah eyes me suspiciously.

"Cara, what the fuck happened to your neck?" I freeze, my face getting warmer by the millisecond.

Does she know? Shit, what do I say? I can't say it was Delanie. God I wish she was here to make something up.

I clear my throat and speak.

"Oh- this? It's nothing. I burned myself over the weekend with a straightening iron." I chuckle. Sarah looks at me with uncertainty for a second before shrugging it off.

During those short ten minutes everyone had before first period, I became paranoid like a druggie. Twitching and turning whenever someone even looked my direction, anxiety pulsing through my bloodstream at the sheer thought that someone could know a series of things:

1. That I have a hickey
2. That hickey was from a girl
3. I like girls (I think)

When the minute warning bell rang throughout the halls of our small high school, I felt a wave of relief caress my body.

While sitting in AP Literature, bored out of my mind, I feel my phone buzz beneath my ass cheek. Surprised for a split second, I reach for it ever so sneakily. It's Delanie.

D: Hey (; hows ur injury holding up?
C: Well Sarah noticed it right away so
D: LOL i hope u said it was a curling iron
C: And? What of it? It's your fault I have one, yanno
D: yeah yeah, look can we talk after we both get out today?
C: like, you come over?
D: mhm. If you can't I get it tho
C: No uhm, that's ok. I'll text u.
D: talk soon gorgeous :*

I have to stop myself from both smiling and having a panic attack.

When the end of the academic day hits, I rush home, a nervous bubble forming in my intestines. Butterflies knocking on my small frame.

I sit on my bed and wait.

And wait.

And while I wait, I start to think about how my life has been unfolding these past few days.

Am I gay?

An old memory surfaces. Seventh grade. The recreational center in our township held dances every Friday night. It was a must to go.

Justin Bieber had nothing on this kid's hair. Swept to one side like a broom had just molested him. His breath smelled like Hot Cheetos.

I recall after five minutes of talking, he led me into the crowded dance floor. And kissed me mid cha-cha slide.

I felt nothing.

Not even an ounce of happiness- if anything, I was grossed out. I pushed him away, stepped on his foot, and cried in the bathroom for ten minutes before calling my mom to come get me.

I just thought I hated Hot Cheetos after that, not boys kissing me.

But after Delanie.... It's- different.

Pink lemonade lip balm. Sweet and sour.

I hear pussy can taste sweet. Or sour. Or both.

Does pussy taste like pink lemonade-

No, stop Cara.

If I'm gay, what will my family think of me?

Do I not tell them?

Maybe I'm not gay. Maybe I was just horny.

Yeah, that's it.

I'll tell Delanie tonight, set things straight. That IM straight.

I can't be gay. I can't be different. I have to blend in.

Man, I could really go for some pink lemonade right now though.