Exaltation

Chapter 2

This summer, I spend my time doing things I shouldn't be doing. Back in high school, I'd picked up smoking cigarettes, but the old habit has now turned into a full-blown addiction. Tonight, for example, Emma and I picked up a pack from the corner store, then headed to the park to smoke them. One after another. Our sadness becoming tangible, living things, silver smokescreens stretched across the night sky.

"I love being here with you," Emma says quietly. Her head sits lazily on my shoulder. She takes a drag of her cigarette. I can faintly hear the crackling of the burning paper.

"I do, too. I'm going to miss you more than anything next year," I reply. At the last possible moment, I'd decided not to attend the University of Georgia, which was where most of my friends would be, and instead chose to accept a position at a small, highly competitive liberal arts college several hours north of my hometown of Augusta.

My entire time in high school, Ms. Adams and the rest of the program had made me feel useless, like I could never achieve the things I wanted to achieve, that my writing was so deeply flawed there was no possible hope for it. So when I'd received my acceptance letter from Wilson College, I'd barely even bothered to look at it. After all, why throw away so much time and money to go to a school where I also wouldn't be able to succeed?

But a few weeks before graduating, I made my split-second decision to accept the spot at Wilson. And as nervous as I was about it, I knew it was what was best for me. A new beginning. Finally a fresh start. No one who would know my past as a writer.

"I'm so proud of you, though. After all, you're the only one from the program going out-of-state," Emma says. I smile to myself and inhale a deep breath of smoke. It unfurls around me almost beautifully, maybe even a little poetically.

"But I don't want to leave."

"Don't worry. I'll come visit. I love Virginia!" Emma says with a laugh. I laugh, too, imagining our college-aged debauchery. Still, my heart feels heavy. A sensation, I know, I could only really describe accurately in a poem.

Shut up, I think to only myself. You better not try writing again.

*

The rest of the summer is spent following a formula: I wake up late, make coffee, watch an episode or two of whatever looks interesting on Netflix, then hang out with Emma. Usually our plans are restricted to picking up cigarettes and taking them to the park, then grabbing dinner at the nearby Wendy's. After, she either comes over to my house, or I go over to hers. We watch a movie, then go to bed.

It's on one of these days in a Wendy's booth that I decide to drop the bomb.

"Emma," I say. She looks up from her phone.

"Yeah?"

"I have something I need to tell you." All of a sudden, I become nervous. I feel my cheeks grow hot under her questioning stare.

"Spit it out, Soph," she replies. I suck in my breath, then let it out. She's your best friend. Just spill the beans

"I...I'm bisexual. I don't know if I prefer guys or girls or what...maybe queer is the better word. I don't know—"

"Sophie!" Emma cuts off my rambling. I look up from my hands and am delighted to find that she's grinning.

"Y-yeah?"

"Of course you're gay," she replies. I feel my mouth drop open slightly.

"You knew?"

"I mean, it's kind of obvious. Those clear glasses of yours don't eat pussy by themselves," she answers, laughing. No longer embarrassed, I roll my eyes.

"Did you know even when I was with Tristan?"

"Duh. I'm your best friend," she answers. I laugh and shake my head.

"Well, thanks for listening, I guess."

And that's it. My first ever time stepping out of the closet. It feels good, and as I replay the conversation in my head, the words start seeming more and more correct. I rest my head on Emma's shoulder as I munch on a fry. This, I am sure, is all I'll ever need. My best friend, lazy days, and a life without writing.