been gay before their generation showed up. As they often reminded us, they were our foremothers in dismantling the heteropatriarchy, and so they said the word dyke as readily as they said our names, with a kind of defiant urgency. As a word, I liked it so much better than lesbian—the hardness of it, the single middle-finger syllable.
Of course, it depended who said it. Coming from Dee or Gaby or Jamie, it was like a secret handshake. Coming from that blond girl on the Valhalla soccer team sophomore year, after I stole the ball and she tripped over my leg, it was like being spit at.
“We’re not processing,” I promised. “It’s over.” A lump formed at the base of my throat, and I thought of Ronni, frowning at me. I had to change the subject fast. “Where’s Gaby?”
“Hungover,” she said, rolling her eyes. “She’ll be in in a bit.” Gaby was the shop’s co-owner, and also Dee’s ex-girlfriend, though they both cringed if you reminded them. That was two hundred years ago, Dee would say. The queer library had been Gaby’s idea, as was the shop’s early adoption of every new nut- and plant-based milk, and she organized every event they hosted. She was vegan and spacey and liked going to protests and decorating boxes and mirrors with sea glass she plucked off the beach. It was hard to imagine that she’d ever been in love with Dee, and vice versa. Dee loved meat and the WNBA and her dogs and that was about it.
“Good,” I said. “I want to tell her about this band that wants to play here.”
Dee adopted Gaby’s airy, earnest tone. “Are they aligned with the queer anti-capitalist intersectional feminist cause?”
I considered. “I don’t think they’re against it,” I offered.
“Good luck with that.”
The bell over the door rang, and I turned to see Jamie walk in, helmet in hand.
“Jamie!” Dee cried, and the tiniest bit of jealousy prickled the back of my neck.
Jamie waved and ran a hand through her curls, wild as ever even after her bike ride.
“Hey, Dee. How’s it going?” she asked. To me, she added, “You have a table?”
“You pick,” I said.
Dee gave me a look as Jamie unpacked her bag, and I grinned. “Better get to work, I guess.”
“What do you guys want to drink?”
“Two iced vanilla lattes,” I said.
“Just iced coffee for me,” Jamie interjected.
“What?” We always got iced vanilla lattes at Triple Moon. They tasted like milkshakes.
“Sit down, Q. I’ll bring them over.”
Dee waved away my cash, so I dropped a five in the tip jar when she wasn’t looking and crossed the room to take the seat across from Jamie’s. In just moments she had the whole spread assembled: laptop open, notebook out, planner with to-do list ready to be crossed off, favorite pen, favorite backup pen. In my bag I had my physics textbook and Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, of which I needed to read fifty pages by Wednesday. Still, I hadn’t actually planned to read it now. I sighed and pulled it out of my bag.
“It’s good,” said Jamie, eyeing the cover.
“Oh yeah? When’d you read it, fourth grade?”
She grinned. “Last year.” Jamie was in AP Lit. AP everything, really. AP Dumping. Ha.
Dee moseyed over with the drinks. “Iced vanilla, iced coffee. Make space, Jame.”
Jamie reluctantly moved her planner. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Any updates on Gaby’s ETA?” I asked.
Dee snorted as she walked away.
“You’re going to ask her about Sweets,” said Jamie. It wasn’t a question; she always, always knew what I was up to. It was incredibly annoying.
I shrugged. “I thought I might mention it, as long as we’re here.”
“Right.”
“Unless you want to? Since it was your idea?”
“Nah,” said Jamie. “I’m good.”
“You sure? Am I going to find out you’re mad about this in three to six months?”