and I couldn’t get over how gross it looked. But I guess it’s gross until it happens to you by someone who means something.
So when Dara called me a lesbian, it was like something got louder in me. After my Bat Mitzvah, every time Kelly and I saw each other, we kissed. A few times, Kelly took off her shirt and let me stare at her and once, she even let me touch her. She never really wanted to touch me. She called me her secret boyfriend. I didn’t think much of it then. I just liked how she made me feel. Less than a year later, she moved away. Her dad got a job in Texas, and we wrote for a little while, but then she stopped, and I stopped and well, I guess it went away . . . you know . . . the feelings.
“I just think it’s weird, El,” Dara said. “I mean, you cut your hair and made it . . . purple. I guess it’s not like you.”
“Okay, well, maybe it isn’t. But maybe I don’t even know what I am or who I am or . . .”
“You weren’t even friends with James.”
“Dara, are you kidding me? It’s so much more than that.”
“Just tell me if you are. That girl Jacqueline who was in our science class last year? She shaved her head and then told everyone she was bisexual. I mean, you and I have had sleepovers. We’ve slept in the same bed! I changed in front of—”
“Okay! Okay. Yes. I am. A . . . lesbian, or whatever. Jeez. I don’t know, I never said it out loud. Can we just . . . can we not—”
“Oh my gosh, you are? Wait, I was just . . . I mean, I didn’t think. Eleanor, I . . . I’m not sure how I feel about this.”
“We’ve been friends since we were seven. Why does this even matter?”
“I’m not sure. Can I think about it?”
“Can you think about how this doesn’t even affect you?”
James, there’s no need to continue the rest. I can’t believe I told Dara something I barely ever thought about (actually, even as I write that, I know it’s not really true—I’ve thought about it more than anything else) and now suddenly it was apparently the end to our friendship. I mean, I guess I kind of have feelings for Aggie, but I just saw it as like, a friend-crush, even though she’s not exactly my friend and . . . oh, you wouldn’t understand anyway.
Thursday, October 21
Dear James,
Tonight, I had my suicide support group. We meet every Thursday. Flor came along and while we were on our way there, I asked her about what it’s like to be a lesbian. Super weird, I know, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“What’s it like to be a fifteen-year-old?” she immediately asked back.
“Umm . . .”
“Eleanor, why are you asking me this?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to know more about you.”
“Okay,” Flor was looking at the road (since she was driving), but I could see her face tense up as though she was thinking big thoughts. “Well, it’s been a long time, I’m almost fifty. Wooh, don’t say that out loud much. It’s difficult and wonderful and challenging and . . . even at my age, I still have to come out to people. You never stop. I’ve had some good reactions, some horrifying ones. I’ve lost friends. I’ve gained friends. Funny, when I first met your mom, I thought she was gay. I thought everyone at the book club was gay. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. And when I realized she wasn’t—nor was anyone else—I wasn’t mad or anything, I was just worried. I really liked your mom and didn’t want to lose her as a friend. It had happened so many times before. Of course, she didn’t care one bit. I’ll never understand why something that has nothing to do with anyone else makes people so uncomfortable.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“If I found someone, I couldn’t even marry them. Shouldn’t everyone have the right to just . . . love and get married if they want? I’ll never get used to that. I’ll never understand.”
That night at group, there were a few new people. I’ve been going since June and I’ve seen lots of people come and go. Shirley occasionally checks in with me to make sure I still want to go, and I do. I feel less alone when I’m there. I also feel really grateful because a lot of people in the group actually lost their family members. I’m lucky I still have a mom.
“Eleanor, I made coconut chocolate cookies, the ones you love!” Delia insisted on bringing baked goods each week. She said that it allows her to funnel her sadness into something better. There was always coffee too, and some other snacks. I know, who cares, right? But I’m telling you this to set the scene, James. Because of what happened a little later on.
I spoke a lot more in the beginning, when everything was raw, but now, I prefer to just sit and take it all in. Delia spoke about her husband, who she found in the basement. I guess he was hiding a bunch of bad pictures too, that part I didn’t really understand. But Delia said something about him leading some kind of double life. Delia always talked about her confusion of missing him and hating him at the same time.
A few other people spoke too, and then Peter, the social worker, asked if any of the new members wanted to speak.
I guess some people just need to be asked because right then a woman started speaking. She had a haircut just like my sixth-grade teacher. Do you remember Mrs. Gryzynsky? I know you weren’t in that class, but I feel like everyone knew her. She was so strange. She was really short and always wore bright, bright red lipstick. Her hair was cut like a mushroom.
This woman had one of Delia’s cookies in the palm of her hand. It’s like she was petting it, like she didn’t know it was edible.
“I lost my boy. My only one,” she said. Her voice sounded scratched like someone with giant fingernails tore up her vocal chords.
“Would you like to share?” That’s what Peter always said. A few times, he has mentioned that it was a question that allowed more openness to answer. Like we can talk about more than just who we lost or almost lost. We can also talk about our day or whatever.
“I don’t . . . I’m still trying to understand. How can a parent ever survive this? I mean, . . . I just didn’t know . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Patricia, who lost her brother last year, handed the woman a tissue. “There’s lotion in it,” I heard her whisper.
“If you feel able, would you share your name and maybe anything about him you might like?” Peter has a really soothing voice, which definitely helped me to open up in the beginning. He also has a monstrously-large moustache. James, remember our music teacher in middle school? Mr. Jerricks? His moustache was like three fingers wide. Peter’s is even thicker.
“He was only fifteen,” the woman said. “He liked to cook, bake all sorts of things with me. He listened to music a lot. I can’t remember the names of the . . . I’m Helaine.”
“Helaine, thank you for being here with us today,” Peter said.
“James is his . . . was his . . . name,” she added.
Your
