Free My Invented Life by Lauren Bjorkman Page A

continuing. “Remember that time with Elaine?”
    “You mean in the fifth grade? I’d never, ever, ever do that now,” I say.
    “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” she says. Translation? One teensy mistake earns you a life sentence at Diva Penitentiary with no parole. Not even for family members.
    Mom was all over me for my sloppy cursive that year. I didn’t see the point of writing neatly. I could type already. So when I saw Eva copying her friend’s homework paper,I told on her. That way the parental disapproval would be distributed more fairly.
See, Mom? Eva’s not perfect either
.
    Anyway, Eva got in the last word. She spilled a full mug of cocoa on the diorama I’d left on the kitchen table. The next day, my math homework succumbed to spontaneous combustion. I apologized profusely to prevent further destruction and promised never to tattle again. She forgave me back then, so why bring up the whole thing now?
    Marshmallow rubs her fuzzy cheek on Eva’s knee. Traitor.
    “If you won’t talk to me because you don’t trust me, that means you
are
a lesbian,” I say. Sometimes I’m so clever it hurts.
    “Ask Dad to cut off your tail tonight. It looks beyond stupid.”
    I pick up Marshmallow and gather myself to exit in a huff. Before I make it out the door, a change comes over her.
    “Cheerleading practice is canceled tomorrow,” she says. “You can give me the L Report after rehearsal. Meet you at the Silo.”
    There’s a touch of spring thaw in the Ice Maiden’s bosom after all. “Okay,” I say.
    Dad agrees to remove my beaver tail after dinner. The snug Bob Dylan T-shirt he has on reveals his most recent acquisition. A paunch. He seats himself on a crate on the back porch and positions me in front of him. The scissors feel cold against my neck. “So,” he says, “what’s the real story with your hair?”
    “It’s not a story. I cut it for a role,” I say. “I’m playing a woman who pretends to be a man in the school play.”
    Dad continues snipping. “You look like a woman even with short hair,” he says. “A beautiful young woman at that.”
    My throat tightens at this drop of honey, and my judgment falls victim to his sweetness.
    “How would you feel,” I say, “if one of your daughters grew up to be a lesbian?”
    The snipping stops. Dad twirls me to face him, his eyes serious like the day he told us Grandma Peterson died. “Your mom and I have talked about it,” he says, searching my face. “We said it wouldn’t change anything. Of course, we’d be sad about no grandchildren.”
    “Lesbians have ovaries, Dad. Anyway, it was just a hypothetical question.”
    “Of course.” He twirls me back and accidentally jabs my ear with the tip of the scissors.
    Please don’t Van Gogh me
.
    “Your mom wondered that time you asked for a tool set for your birthday,” he says. “As if all that tractor driving she did in college wasn’t just as suspicious.”
    I can feel hot blood rise up my neck. “That’s so stereotypical,” I say.
    “True,” he says. “But stereotypes often contain a grain of truth.”
    The phrase
not in this case
dances on my tongue. If I say it aloud, though, he might figure out that I mean Eva.
    “Oops.” Dad pulls back the scissors. “I cut your shirt by mistake.”
    “That’s okay,” I say. “It’s stained anyway.”
    Elmo thinks he can handle having a lesbian daughter, but scissors speak louder than words. I thank him for the trim. Back in my room, I indulge in my latest secret pleasure, coming-out stories on the net. I read one by Cindy.
    Unlike many of you who post here, I was completely head over heels for boys at an early age. In high school alone, I had seven different boyfriends. None of them lasted long. I didn’t think anything of it. Until I met Frieda my freshman year of college. It was the first time I felt that way about a girl, and she turned out to be my soul mate. We’re still together three years later. I’ve never been