Georgia. We only speak when it’s absolutely necessary, like for lab exercises. She opens her book and smiles at me, and for the first time since we stopped talking, I smile back.
Hearing that story has softened me. I’ve spent weeks building a wall between me and Georgia to protect myself. I listen to signs from the universe, and that tarot card with three swords through the heart was too real to ignore. Georgia has already thrust one sword into my heart. I can’t imagine what two more will do to me.
I have the tarot card in my wallet to help me build that wall. And to remind myself of the danger of falling for her again. Also, that tarot card has a cute girl’s number on it. I’m not ready to reach out, but it gives me a secret power.
Mr. Glover comes into the room in full lab coat and gloves, and then he flips the lights off. He scurries to his chem closet and turns around holding beakers filled with a pink liquid. There’s white smoke pouring out the top of the beakers.
The class is quiet (for once). Everyone is watching and wondering if our punny chemistry teacher has finally lost his mind. He raises the beakers above his head. “Young Scientists! This is your time to shine! This is the kick-off of the yearly Science Hack Day! The rules are simple: find a problem and solve it . . . . with science! Ten-page paper and five-minute presentation!”
Mr. Glover pauses to make sure we’re as excited as he is. (We are not.)
“Paper and presentation due Monday, October 7! Teams of two! Your partner is . . .”
Please don’t say it . . . my walls are already weakened . . .
“The person at your table!”
Fuck.
In his own version of the mic drop, Mr. Glover accidently drops a beaker. The glass shatters, spilling pink chemicals all over the floor. The class gets loud as he recruits students to get up and help him clean.
I’m watching the drama unfold when I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve formally met. I’m Georgia.”
I don’t want to play along, but that story was so awful. No wonder she has trust issues. “Nice to meet you. I’m Pony,” I say as plainly as possible.
“Pony? What an interesting name. I bet there’s a good story behind it.”
My brain is protesting, my body is tensing, but my heart is celebrating. “I’m glad you asked,” I say. “When I was a young child, my heart stopped working.”
“Oh, dear,” she says.
I continue, “And the hospital was fresh out of human hearts.”
“What on earth did you do?”
“Well,” I say, moving closer like I’m telling her a secret. “My doctor called up his veterinarian friend, who, lucky for me, had a horse heart. So they put that in.”
“Well, Pony, I’m happy that you survived, and that we are hack partners.”
“Teacher-appointed hack partners,” I remind her.
She continues, “And maybe we could be friends?”
There it is, the dreaded F word. I ignore it. I’m not ready to answer. “So, Georgia, is it? That’s an interesting name, too. How did you get it?”
“My grandma’s middle name,” she says simply.
I shake my head, confused. “Really?”
“Why, yes, Pony. I’ve been thinking that if I want someone to be honest with me, I should be honest with them.”
Without checking in on my brain, I say, “I’m sorry.”
She looks at me, stunned. “Same,” she says. “Friends?”
This is doomed. This is doomed. This is doomed.
“Friends,” I say.
IPHONES, 11:21 P.M.
GEORGIA: YO BRO U UP?
PONY: Hi. Miss me already?
GEORGIA: Lol. NO.
PONY: What you doing?
GEORGIA: Nothing
GEORGIA: Hey?
PONY: Yeah?
GEORGIA: I did miss you
GEORGIA: I’m glad we are friends
PONY: Thank you for not telling my secret
PONY: I appreciate it
GEORGIA: How is that going?
PONY: Good. No one knows, which is cool
PONY: I’m passing . . .
GEORGIA: Passing the test?
PONY: Haha. No.
PONY: Well, kind of?
PONY: Passing means to pass as your gender
GEORGIA: I have a lot to learn
PONY: Yeah you do
GEORGIA: And some questions . . .
PONY: Oh boy.
GEORGIA: Not now. Later.
PONY: I’m going to bed
PONY: Goodnight Georgia
GEORGIA: Goodnight friend.
ELEVEN
Sunday, September 29
GEORGIA, 5:55 P.M.
I’m putting the finishing touches on dinner when my phone rings. I turn down NPR and plug in my headset. “Hello, Georgia’s Kitchen.”
“Hi, sweetie,” a soft voice says, laughing nervously.
I turn away from Dad and lower my voice. “Hi, Mom.”
We haven’t talked in weeks. I thought we’d found a good rhythm of me not reaching out and her not reaching out, and it seemed to be working