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  Be Straight with Me copyright © 2020 by Emily E. Dalton. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

  Andrews McMeel Publishing

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  www.andrewsmcmeel.com

  ISBN: 978-1-5248-6244-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020931551

  Excerpt(s) from Letters to Felice by Franz Kafka, translated by James Stern and Elisabeth Duckworth, edited by Erich Heller and Jurgen Born, translation copyright © 1937, 1956, renewed 1965, 1984 by Penguin Random House LLC. Used by permission of Schocken Books, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

  Excerpt(s) from “A Strange Beautiful Woman” in Mama’s Promises by Marilyn Nelson, copyright © 1985 by Marilyn Nelson Waniek. Used by permission of LSU Press. All rights reserved.

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  A Note on the Text

  Memories—like reflections in a mirror—appear differently depending on who is looking. I have reflected on this story as honestly as possible and portrayed the events to the best of my memory.

  Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of the people involved.

  This

  book is

  dedicated to

  the understanding

  that we all exist along

  the same spectrum—

  however far one end

  may be from

  the other.

  But

  mostly

  to the ones

  who are still afraid,

  or misinformed,

  or in denial about

  what it means

  to land

  somewhere

  in the middle.

  Love is like the wild rose-briar,

  Friendship like the holly-tree—

  The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms

  But which will bloom most constantly?

  — Emily Brontë, “Love and Friendship”

  Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly,

  for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next.

  — Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  SOPHOMORE SEPTEMBER

  Your call echoes over a warm

  end-of-summer breeze

  that shakes the leafy branches

  of the elms and maples

  lining the sidewalk.

  “Hey! You girls blaze?”

  Joanna and I are trudging up

  the big hill on College Street

  on our way back to Milliken

  after a brief stint at a house party.

  The soccer team had blasted

  Katy Perry songs and danced

  around shirtless on their roof

  until Public Safety yelled at them.

  (At a small private college

  like Middlebury,

  you can get away with a lot

  if you only

  do a little

  at a time).

  Soggy half-smoked cigars were

  disemboweling in the kitchen sink,

  underclassmen were passed out

  on chairs in the living room,

  and everything was sticky.

  We left fifteen minutes after arriving.

  And now, your shadowed silhouette

  grows larger as it approaches up the hill.

  Broad shoulders, loose-fitting clothes,

  and the swaggering gait of a young guy.

  Mostly in shadow but vaguely familiar—

  your round, lightly freckled face,

  half of it covered in a short, thick beard,

  the waves of dirty blond hair

  under a black and red snapback.

  Months later, I’ll connect the dots . . .

  how one night in the

  winter of freshman year

  we happened to be waiting

  for the same campus shuttle

  in the dark, cold vestibule

  on Adirondack Circle.

  It was me,

  Dave from across the hall,

  Dave’s friend Douglas,

  and you—

  Max Willard.

  We played Kill Fuck Marry,

  and something about you

  rubbed me the wrong way,

  so I chose to kill you.

  Little did I know that minutes earlier,

  when Dave and Douglas and everyone else

  had left the pregame in my room

  to go catch the ride,

  you’d lingered behind

  and stolen a twenty-dollar bill off my desk,

  because you saw me at a party once

  and thought I looked like

  “a snarly bitch.”

  But right now, I don’t recognize you.

  I have no idea

  that your name is Max

  or that you’re the same year as me

  or why the faint familiarity of your face is

  giving me a tentative, queasy feeling.

  I don’t remember that

  I once wanted you dead.

  As you stand there in front of us,

  your cuffed khakis clashing with your jean jacket

  in a way that almost seems intentional,

  the nearly full moon casts

  a filter of gray light

  over your skin,

  giving you

  a ghostly glow.

  And I don’t know it yet,

  but every fall to come

  will make me think of you.

  REFLECTIONS: FIRST GRADE

  I’m the youngest

  and the only blonde

  in a family of redheads.

  “Now where did this one come from?”

  “One of these is certainly not like the others!”

  I know

  I wasn’t adopted

  but sometimes

  it feels that way.

  SOPHOMORE SEPTEMBER, CONTINUED

  Under the gray moonlight,

  on the big hill on College Street,

  you tell us you heard

  that we like to smoke weed,

  and you’re always on

  the lookout for

  “chill girls who smoke weed.”

  Joanna invites you back to our dorm,

  and as we walk, you and Jo go back

  and forth naming people you know,

  while I can’t decide whether I feel

  less awkward walking in silence

  beside you or in front of you.

  When we get to Milliken,

  Bobby Garthon, a football bro

  who lives down the hall,

  is yelling drunkenly up

  to a fifth-floor window.

  He doesn’t have any shoes on . . .

  and I’m happy because

  his strange presence

 
makes me feel less like the odd girl out.

  “Never mind, fuckface!

  Jo is here to save the day,”

  he shouts up at the window,

  slurring his words.

  Bobby fist-bumps you,

  decides he’s going to join us,

  and then falls asleep sitting up

  on the end of Joanna’s bed.

  We’re about to smoke

  our miniature bong, Miss Cleo,

  when you pull out a pipe

  that looks like

  a grimy

  glass

  dildo.

  You call it the Steam Roller.

  Which is appropriate,

  because that’s what you do

  with your blunt confidence

  as you take over our space

  and ignore every word I try to say.

  I open the window just to feel

  like I’m contributing something.

  You goad Bobby to wake up.

  With a dopey smile on his face,

  eyes closed, he goes, “Shh, shhh,”

  and slumps his head on his shoulder.

  “Wait,” you say, “do you guys even know him?”

  “He lives down the hall from us,” I reply.

  You don’t respond to me.

  You turn your attention to Joanna,

  who asks in return how you know Bobby Garthon.

  “Oh, me and Bobby-boy go way back.”

  You explain how you went to high school together

  at an all-boys Catholic school.

  “Sure did,” you say, making an irreverent

  sign of the cross. “The Lord is my shepherd.”

  Still, you aren’t really talking to me—

  more to Joanna—so I try to look

  as bored with you

  as you already seem to be

  with me.

  I know this has an effect because,

  when I ask whether you were close with Bobby,

  for the first time all night,

  you actually look at me.

  You share that you had only one friend

  in high school, Pete,

  and that Pete

  was the only black kid

  and you were the only gay kid.

  You raise your eyebrows at me,

  and I think you might have noticed

  how that last bit of information

  just caught me off guard.

  Up until then, I couldn’t really tell.

  We smoke the Steam Roller some more,

  Miss Cleo sits on my desk ignored,

  and then it’s time for you to go.

  You begin belting out,

  “Ri-ISE and shi-INE

  and give God that glory, Garthy!”

  Finally, Bobby opens his eyes.

  He shakes his head like a wet dog

  and follows you out of the room.

  As I close the door behind you,

  I hear you in the hallway

  trying to get Bobby to harmonize with you,

  singing,

  “Our God is an awesome God!”

  REFLECTIONS: FIFTH GRADE

  The song “All the Things She Said” by t.A.T.u.

  has everybody at school gossiping.

  It’s about two girls . . .

  kissing.

  My worst fears are confirmed:

  girls can be gay.

  FRIENDS BY DEFAULT

  The next day, I walk into my room and find

  you and Jo sprawled on the carpet

  watching Major Lazer music videos.

  Those first few weeks,

  you and I tolerate each other

  because we don’t seem to have a choice.

  You like Jo much more than you like me,

  but I’m her roommate,

  and you live all the way down

  the big hill in the German House,

  so you’re always in our room.

  By October, we’re hanging out almost every day.

  We’re friends, I guess . . .

  Still, we rarely spend time together

  if Joanna isn’t there.

  You’re starting to feel

  like our third roommate,

  but I’m still feeling

  like the third wheel.

  REFLECTIONS: SIXTH GRADE

  Mom dries my hair

  with a blow dryer,

  my stupid blonde curls

  burned away by hot air.

  Now I feel girly and cute

  for the family picture,

  and at school,

  everyone’s telling me

  that Steve Girard

  has a crush on me!

  YOU INVITE US TO WATCH THE REAL WORLD PREMIERE

  I’m not ready yet.

  I just got out of the shower.

  Joanna doesn’t mind, but

  you mock me in a nasally voice,

  “I’m Emily, and I have wet hair and glasses.”

  You don’t know that I hate my hair,

  my unruly blonde frizz that needs straightening.

  You don’t know that I used to walk around campus

  blind—barely able to see a friend’s face ten feet away.

  I was afraid to wear my glasses in public

  and still hadn’t learned how to put in my contacts.

  But tonight I leave my dorm

  with wet hair and glasses.

  When we arrive at the watch party,

  you settle into a spot on the floor

  at the center of the room. There are

  about twenty kids, all laughing and shouting

  at the TV screen.

  Someone hands you a bottle of tequila.

  You open it with a huff of impatience.

  I begin to notice that everyone

  crammed in this small dorm room

  is equally as absorbed by your

  every move as they are

  by the roommates claiming beds

  in the Real World house.

  In fact, everyone is here

  much more for you

  than for the show.

  All of this comes together for me

  as I sit here quietly on the edge of a bed

  with Joanna, among dozens of your closest friends,

  watching as they reach out and hug you

  and shake your shoulder

  and laugh with you.

  I know this season of The Real World

  is particularly significant at Middlebury

  because someone who graduated last year is on it.

  But I’ve forgotten

  that you dated that someone—

  Chris, the hot gay senior—

  when we were freshmen.

  Your first real boyfriend and

  your first great heartbreak.

  This crowded room of sophomores

  is your own personal support group,

  here to offer company, condolence, and tequila

  as you watch your ex-boyfriend

  go to clubs and parties and

  hook up with random people

  on reality television.

  Sitting here in the corner

  with my wet hair and glasses,

  I look around the room

  in envious awe.

  These are the friends

  who knew you last year,

  the ones who accepted you

  with open arms

  when you came out to them.

  They were there for you

  during your first real relationship with a man

 
and your subsequent heartbreak,

  all before I even knew you.

  Every time Chris comes on-screen,

  you take a pull from

  the bottle of tequila,

  and everyone laughs, and so do you,

  but your eyes never leave the TV.

  Toward the end of the episode,

  Kayla, a girl with alopecia,

  gets up to leave early for a night class.

  She says her goodbyes.

  As she steps over bodies on the floor,

  you call out to her,

  “Baldy! Are you leaving?”

  For a moment, my brain and my ears debate,

  Did he really just say that? How drunk is he?

  My eyes dart to Kayla’s face,

  but she barely bats an eye,

  laughing, making her way over to you

  for a hug goodbye

  as if you called her a name as benign as

  “sweetie” or “honey.”

  No one seems concerned, and now

  it’s clear you call her this all the time.

  Maybe you aren’t spewing crude language

  for the sake of entertainment.

  Maybe you aren’t penetrating insecurities

  and crossing lines

  just for a reaction.

  Maybe you’re pointing out our quirks—

  the things that make us unique—

  to help us own them . . .

  All of us, piled on twin beds

  and sprawled across the floor,

  are here laughing and bonding because you decided

  to own your very public heartbreak.

  I’m sitting here with my wet hair and my glasses,

  wondering whether there was an unspoken message

  in your mockery of me earlier.

  Perhaps,

  when you teased me

  what you meant was,

  “I’m Emily, and I have wet hair and glasses . . .

  and I foolishly think I’m less beautiful for it.”

  REFLECTIONS: NINTH GRADE

  It’s the first year of high school

  and the first year

  that I’m the last sibling

  left in the house

  alone

  with Mom and Dad.

  I dye my hair once

  and then I can’t stop:

  bleach blonde

  yellow blonde

  dirty blonde

  light brown

  dark brown

  red

  and all the muddled colors in between.

  Just a few short hours

  of lathering and rinsing,

  a squirt of ammonia here,

  a squeeze of hydrogen peroxide there . . .

  and my roots disappear