Cyrus v. the Homosapien Agenda

1/16/22

I may have written that I'm done, but that isn't to say I'm going to stop thinking about it.

I spent all of Sunday in my room switching between Queen and P!ATD at top volume, and I don't even care if that's too random for my parents. Their minds can stay blown for all I care. I try to get a therapy puppy, Snover, to stay with me on my bed, but it keeps skittering around, so I put her back in the basket. But then she whines to get back in.

"KiKi, get Snover," I yell over the music, but she doesn't answer. So I text it to her.

She texts back: Do it yourself. I'm not home.

Where are you? I really hate this new thing when she's never home. And I know it's not because of Basketball practice, Buffy'd say something.

But she doesn't text back. And I'm feeling too heavy and listless to get up and ask my mom.

I stare up at a ceiling fan. I don't know if I made the best decision, but everything that's happened since TJ got outed just boiled over. I may have given away a bit too much, but I know that there were a few of TJ's friends at the basketball court near the park. I figure there's probably been a few people who've whispered about it.

I don't know if that's going to change anything. But I would at least hope TJ spent the weekend thinking things over. I'm not sure if I want to talk to him tomorrow. Let him know that all the shit that's happened recently isn't just going to blow over.

It's not that he called his cousins his best friends. I get that. I'd gladly call Amber and Kira my best friends. It's that since he's been out, we haven't really spoken. And on the rare occasion we do, we get moments like the one where he thought I was into Buffy.

By the night, though, I feel a bit bad. So I figure I'll give him a little bit more, but hopefully he won't use the information until he figures himself out.

On Monday, I get in early and put a plastic grocery back through the handle of his locker. In it is a jersey cotton T-shirt with the logo from A Night at the Opera, the album Bohemian Rhapsody was on. Resting on it is a note that says this: "I'm assuming that Freddie Mercury understands you would have made it to his shows if you could have."

I choose a kelly-green construction paper for the notes, and wrote them in non-slanted cursive.

Inside the hem, though, is another note, taped.

P.S. I love the way you smile like you don't realize you're doing it. I love your hair, gelled up or flat. I love the way you hold eye-contact a moment longer than you need to. And I love your bright green eyes. So if you think I'm not attracted to you, TJ, you're crazy.

And underneath it, I've written a phone number. Not the one I currently own since it's a number he has, but from my old phone that has a different number that we use for emergencies only.

A few periods later, I'm about to turn down that hallway when I see TJ find the shirt. I quickly stop to peak. He sees one of the notes as Gus walks down the highway. They smile at each other, but when he walks away, a flash of anger appears in TJ's face. But he takes the shirt and keeps it folded neatly in his strangely clean locker.

The rest of the week goes by in a blur. I've been actively avoiding speaking with TJ, but I still have lunch with him and the group. I don't know if he's recognizing the issue or if it's just him not noticing. I really hope it's the former.

Rehearsals are an extra hour every night now, which means I'm either having vertical dinners over the kitchen counter while trying not to spill crumbs on my textbooks, or joining the milieu of high school teenagers ordering from DoorDash, Postmates, and Uber Eats. My dad says he misses me this week, which is really just him saying he misses watching Dancing With The Stars as a group (which we finally are up to date on) and having to DVR it. I haven't heard from TJ by email and I've kept my word about no more emails to him.