Free Bats or Swallows by Teri Vlassopoulos Page B

wristbands he’d made with skulls and crossbones on them. We fastened them to each other’s wrists. We sat under a tree and kept to ourselves as it got darker out, and then everyone went to the basement for the show.
The performers were hardcore/screamo bands, high school kids, and I didn’t really like the music, but there was so much energy in the room. Everyone jumped and sweated and screamed along and I closed my eyes and listened to everything vibrate around me, wondered if the ceiling could cave in from such exuberance.
We left before it was over to catch the last subway home, but right before we went inside the station, Laura grabbed my arm and we kissed, bathed in the light of the late-night TTC subway station. When you watch movies, television, whatever, it seems like teenage girls kiss each other all the time. It’s so cliché. But at the time, it didn’t feel like that. It felt essential and risky.
I got a scar on my wrist the next day, a tiny snip in my skin. I gave it to myself accidentally when I cut off the wristband. It wouldn’t come off and I wanted to stick it in my diary as a reminder of everything, but the scissors slipped and there was a tiny gush of blood, and a band-aid, and then, a v-shaped scar. A few days later I pushed up my sleeve and showed it to Laura. We were standing outside school on our way to different classes. We hadn’t spoken much since Saturday and hadn’t sent any letters either, and we’d definitely not spoken about the kiss.
“Did it hurt?” she asked.
“Not really.”
She held my wrist and studied the scar. Her hands were warm and I could feel her breath on my skin. “It looks like the bottom of a heart.”
    A week later my parents and I were at Lydia’s for dinner. Before we ate, Mary said she wanted to show me something in her room.
She closed the door and put her hands on her hips. “I can’t believe you’re sleeping with Nick!”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
“Does everyone?”
“I have my sources. You slut.” She meant it as a compliment. “But Nick told you about his girlfriend, right?”
“Girlfriend?”
“They’re not really together anymore, but from what I’ve heard, they’ll be again soon. They’re like, soulmates.”
“Oh.” I leaned against Mary’s dresser, the wind knocked out of me. “I know about her,” I lied.
“You’re cool with it?”
“I’m kind of seeing someone else anyway.”
“You’re poly?”
I’d never heard the term, but nodded.
“Who are you seeing?”
“Someone from school.”
“But you go to a girls’ school.”
I didn’t know what I was getting myself into—polyamoury, girls—but I acted like I knew what I was talking about, that I had already pondered the philosophical and intellectual aspects of these concepts and was comfortable with them.
“Whatever.” Mary shook her head.
“Don’t say anything about it to anyone,” I said. “Especially your mom.” I imagined all of those paintings of Jesus directing their tortured glances at my immoral, pre-marital sex, homosexual experimentation ways. I felt damned.
“I will obviously not tell my mom. You’re so white, Esther.”
We both stopped talking, deflated.
“What do you mean by that?” My voice was smaller than I meant it to be. I was embarrassed to ask, but I wanted to know. I’d never thought seriously about the fact that I was Filipino or white until Mary pointed it out. “I am half-white.”
“You’re half-Filipino too.”
“So what? Why does it matter?”
I wondered if Mary was on to something. I liked kissing Laura, but I didn’t think about it the way I thought about kissing Nick. And I liked spending time with Nick, but I didn’t like it the way I liked spending time with Laura. I was worried that I would only always be half of something. That I was wholly nothing. Or maybe Mary was implying that I was letting one half engulf the other. Was that even possible? And was it bad?
I expected Mary