Free Hard Love by Ellen Wittlinger Page A

felt like that before. Gio, you can’t imagine how it feels when you’ve wanted someone as badly as I did, and thought you’d never find anybody, and then there she is—next to you—touching you!”
    There was a raspy quality to her voice that was making my own throat close up. When Marisol looked at me I felt like she could see how I was put together, like I was one of those Invisible Man toys kids assemble so they can see how all their insides work. I wished her story was over already. I didn’t want to hear anymore. All of a sudden I was scared, scared of the feelings she’d had, and I’d never had, and scared of what would happen next.
    “We were sitting there together,” she continued, “and I turned to her, to kiss her, and she looked down at me and said, ‘You know, Marisol, I’m not really sure I’m a lesbian after all.’ It turned out she’d been seeing this guy too, and she decided she really preferred the straight and narrow. Like homosexuality was just this outfit she was trying on, and it didn’t quite it. I never saw her again after that night.”
    I could imagine it. That feeling in your gut like everything’s been pulled out and tied in knots, then stuffed back in any old way. That’s how I’d felt when Dad left, when Mom disappeared into the dark.
    Neither of us said anything for a minute, until finally I got my vocal chords to work. “That’s awful.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You’ll find another girlfriend, though.”
    She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t hang with the so-called lesbian group anymore. Mostly I just hang with Birdie. Or you now.” She drained her cup. “I’d have to find somebody who’s not a goddamn liar.”
I trust the red sun setting, the leafless November trees. On Monday morning I look forward Fearlessly to Friday’s eve.
     
But humans are not as reliable as nature, as trees. I wonder if you’ll come back; I trust only that you’ll leave.
    I hadn’t written a poem for ages, but this one came spilling out while I sat on a bench in Copley Square after Marisol got on the subway home. At first I thought it was about Kelly leaving Marisol, but the more I worked on it, I realized it was really my own poem. Maybe about Dad leaving. Except I also kept seeing her, Marisol, heading down the stairs to the station, black bag riding low on her back, boot heels clicking away from me.
    “I promised Birdie I’d hang with him next Saturday,” she’d said. “He’s jealous as hell. Two weeks, okay? Call me if you want to read me something.”
    Two weeks was forever. Maybe I would call, but I wouldn’t read her the poem. She didn’t lie. I didn’t trust her.

Chapter Seven
    The nuns were climbing every mountain and fording every stream while a small team of mothers made final adjustments to the hems of their habits, and the Von Trapp family escaped over the mountains and down the aisle of the Darlington High Little Theater.
    For some reason that song about following rainbows and finding your dreams made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I reminded myself Maria was only Violet Neville looking brave in a dumb hairdo, the captain was Vincent Brazwell carrying a small freshman on his back, and the Nazis were mostly kids who couldn’t act very well. Brian was already poking me in the ribs.
    “Aren’t they great? The show’s going to be cool, isn’t it? You have to admit it, John.”
    “Which one is she again?” I said. I hate when people tell me I have to admit something to them.
    “Top row on the left. I think they’re done rehearsing anyway. You can meet her. Finally.”
    For some reason I was dreading meeting Brian’s beloved freshman, Emily Prine. I’d been making excuses to him for weeks, but this was the final week of rehearsals before the show, and I couldn’t keep it up without jeopardizing the only male friendship I had.
    Brian was waving like crazy, and finally this tall, smiley girl with a shawl of curly red hair all down her back came running toward