“What’s for dinner?” Hannah asks when we step up to the door.
“No ‘Hello, this is my friend, hope that cleat you took to the shin doesn’t bruise too bad?’?” Rowena asks, laughing.
“Hi, Rowena. What’s for dinner?” Hannah asks, mocking.
“You know where the kitchen is, girl. Go on.”
Hannah leads the way.
Rowena touches my arm. “I’m glad you could come!” she says as I pass over the threshold.
“Thanks for having me,” I say, hoping my response isn’t too formal.
Rowena winks before focusing on the teammates behind us. Hannah and I pass through the living room, where some girls are already gathered around the coffee table with plates of pasta. In the kitchen, Rowena’s mom stirs various pots brimming with pesto, marinara, and what looks like meat sauce. Notes of basil and Parmesan float through the air.
We help ourselves, Hannah going for the meat sauce while I let Rowena’s mom spoon dark green pesto over my spaghetti. With plates of food and plastic cups of cherry cola, Hannah and I weave our way through the dining room and living room. I’m surprised when she passes up an open spot on the couch to sit at the bottom of the stairs.
“It’s relatively secluded. Gives us space to eat and talk,” she explains.
The stairwell is narrow, so it’s a bit of a squeeze. But we manage to fit with our plates on our laps and our legs touching. I savor the thickness of the pesto, just realizing how hungry I was, and put off thinking about the inevitable subject Hannah wants to talk about.
It’s funny to see that Hannah still eats with a sense of urgency, like she hasn’t eaten in ages. I like that I know these little things about her and that she hasn’t changed much from the camp counselor I ate with. She gets some sauce on her shirt and pays it no mind. I watch as girls reenact moments from the game in the living room. There was a high swing that the referee didn’t catch, and Olivia bodychecked the Cuyahoga Falls center so hard that she couldn’t keep the ball in bounds.
“I wouldn’t want to be on Liv’s bad side,” Hannah says, loud enough for them to hear.
I watch, somewhat fascinated, as she enters and exits conversations with ease. It’s a social grace I’ve never had. I’m so awkward sometimes; I either talk too much or not enough.
“When’s the last time you didn’t run off to immediately start your homework after school?” Hannah asks, nudging me withher shoulder. Her voice is quiet, creating a familiar sense of intimacy, like we are the only two people in the world.
“Um…” I try to think. I’m not some cookie-cutter perfect student. I’m just organized, and I like to get ahead. Still, I’m a little self-conscious when I admit, “The last day of junior year.”
Hannah raises her eyebrows, leaning back against the step behind us like my answer blew her away.
“Man, Clarity. Live a little. School nights can be fun too.”
I think about all thefunsome kids get to have, staying up late watching TV with their parents or playing video games with their siblings. Or the kids who have clubs and sports, or just hang out with their friends and don’t have to worry about how they’re going to get home because at least one of their parents routinely gets off from work at five, never working past six. For me, between the bus, asking Kristen for rides, and always hoping one of my parents can pick me up, I can’t afford to go with the flow, to not think ahead.
“I know,” I say, looking down so that my face can’t give away my thoughts.
Rowena breaks out a soccer ball and most of the girls relocate to the backyard. When Hannah doesn’t move to follow them, I stay glued in place, watching as Rowena’s dog, Blue, trots along after the last few stragglers. Our invisibility feels charged. The smooth warmth of Hannah’s leg against mine makes me wish for something familiar but forbidden.
A clock begins counting down in my head. It’s time for me to pay up on the answer I owe her.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispers in the quiet. The sound ofRowena’s mom cleaning up in the kitchen reminds me that we aren’t completely alone.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that,” I say, focusing on my shoelaces.
“You can tell me how you feel?”
Scared, electrified. Sad… but, in a weird way, at peace now that we’re spending time together. Confused, but feeling sure of one part of my identity even though it shatters the straight, unflinchingly Christian person I thought I was.
I want to say I miss her too. I’m terrified to say these thoughts and feelings out loud because I know Hannah will have a response for everything, and she might talk me out of the answer I’m desperate to give.
It’s one thing to dream of being together, to have been open and honest at Camp Refuge. But I can’t speak those same wishes into existence here at home, knowing what they might cost.
“I feel tired,” I say, thinking of the loose ends I must tie up to keep my secret: Mrs. Patricia, the festival committee, and eventually facing Jameson and Yasmin at church.
Hannah sighs. I know she’s not buying it.