Harlyn
What are you supposed to Google when you think you might be gay? Maybe I should just Google that question. The cursor has been blinking in the blank box for ten minutes now, taunting me. I've been thinking about this for over a week. How do I know? How do I actually legitimately know if I'm gay? Or bisexual? Or whatever I am? I know there are quizzes. I know there are articles. But I also know that they'll say that I might be gay. May be bisexual. I want to know for sure.
"Harlyn?" Mum calls. I jump and close the tab so fast you'd think I was looking up how to murder someone and get away with it, not staring at a blank Google screen. I'm an idiot.
"Yeah Mum?" I answer.
"Elly's here."
I call back that she can come up whenever. I'm decent. Not that Elly's never seen me in boxers. It wouldn't be the end of the world. A few minutes later, Elly pushes through my door and dumps her bag on the floor. It's packed with books and her laptop.
"Gosh, El. Did you bring the whole library?" I ask, moving some of my things out of her way so she can join me on the bed.
"Haha," she deadpans, sitting crisscross against the headboard, her knees touching my thigh. "I have an exam this week, and I have to ace it." She wrings her hands, knuckles cracking.
"Why don't you ask Dad for help? It's kind of what he does for a living," I suggest.
She drags her bag closer to her and starts pulling things out. "You know as well as I do that if I ask your dad for help, he'll give me a hard time - again - about studying accounting at Kent instead of Christ Church where I could've had him as a professor."
I shrug. "He's not wrong."
"Yes, I know he's not. And he also knows I had my reasons. And as much as I love your Dad, I think he's said that to me at least once a week for the last year and a half." She opens her laptop and the screen lights up, making her dark skin shine. "I don't think I can handle getting through that before actually getting help."
"Fair. Just a suggestion."
We go silent, each concentrated on our respective computers. I forgot that the next tab I have open is Finley's blog. I've been working through his posts since Saturday, reading them whenever I've had a free chance. Max was right. He's an excellent writer. He describes things so vividly that I forget it's his first time seeing them. It's like he's walked by the Canterbury castle every day of his life or actually lived in the Royal Pavilion. He should get British citizenship just for how deeply he researched Buckingham Palace and how lovingly he writes about it. It's like he's writing a sonnet for a long lost love.
"What are you working on?" Elly asks.
"Oh, er...Nothing at the moment," I say. "Just reading Finley's blog. I'm on the last one."
"Oh yeah. I forgot I was going to read it when I got home on Saturday. How is it?"
I turn my laptop on my knees so we can both see the post I'm reading. It's a short one, a quick update about meeting his host mom's family and their class trip into London Friday. But it sings. The reverence he gives to the Globe Theatre is palpable. Elly gives me an open mouthed stare when we finally finish reading it.
"I know," I say, mirroring her expression.
"I want someone to write about me that way," she says.
I hold up a finger. "Oh, he does. I'll let you read it yourself. But blog post two is all about his first week and all the people he's met. You get a whole paragraph to yourself."
She lays a hand over her heart. "Oh my God, this sweet gay American boy is going to be the death of me."
He's going to be the death of me, too. The paragraph about me is practically burned into the back of my eyelids, and I reread every line that mentions me at least twice. As if he knows we're talking about him, Finley texts me. He's been sending me pictures from Leeds castle, asking my opinion on which one he should put in his blog post.
MAX SAYS THE SECOND ONE, BUT I REEEEEEALLY LIKE THE FIRST.
"You have your crush face on," Elly says.
I don't look up, tapping out a text back to Finley. "What?"
DEF THE FIRST. BETTER LIGHTING.
"Earth to Harlyn," Elly snaps her fingers in my face. I look up at her. "You're somewhere else, babes."
"Sorry," I set my phone down. "What did you say?"
"I said, you have your crush face on," she repeats, speaking slowly. "I haven't seen you grin like that since Polly Norman in Year 12."
"Er, what are you talking about?" I ask. I click out of Finley's blog and find the assignment I'm supposed to be working on. A half written sentence is waiting for me. The end of the sentence is lost somewhere in the attic that is my brain, blocked stubbornly by a box labeled FINLEY, and I can't seem to pull it out.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Harlyn Evans." Elly bunches her hair into a bun and twists a scrunchie around it. "You only get that goofy grin on your face when you're texting someone you like. So, give it here." She puts her laptop to the side and lunges for my phone, but I snatch it away from her.
"No!" I exclaim, clotheslining her with my arm before she can crawl across my lap. My laptop slides halfway off my knees. "Elly! Stop!"
"I'm stronger than I look, Harley," she reminds me. She's well past my arm already, stretching a desperate hand toward my phone.
"Ellyanna Jacks. Stop!" I yell, louder than I intend. She freezes and backs down, resuming her position on the other end of the bed. Her eyes are big, and I immediately deflate.
"Ok. Sorry."
"No, I'm sorry." I've told Elly everything Since we were six years old. I can tell her this, right? I can let on that I maybe - maybe - like boys. Or...one particular boy. Maybe she can help confirm what I couldn't find the words to Google earlier. But I can't make myself say the words. "It's just new. I don't know how to feel about it." That was all true. Not the full truth. But true.
"Ok. It's fine." She still looks like she's in a straight jacket. She attempts a playful smile. "Can I guess?"
"You're not going to but sure," I say, chuckling. Her shoulders lower. That's better.
She taps her chin. "Hm. Well, Francesca's out of the picture now. Is it that girl in your castles class who keeps asking to see your notes?" I shake my head. "Dang it. I thought maybe a number had been passed on with those notes. That's the only lead I had." She pauses. "Mystery girl."
I let out a breathy "Yeah" and go back to attempting to finish the sentence in front of me. But I still can't focus.
Elly is rarely wrong about my facial expressions. Sometimes I feel like she can read my face easier than she reads the English language. Like the time I was trying to hide the fact that I'd had an argument with Mum, and she guessed as soon as she saw me at school. Not just that something was wrong, but that I'd had a fight with Mum. Honestly, I'd considered the fact that she was, in fact, a witch and could read minds. So, if she's saying that my face has CRUSH written all over it...what am I supposed to do with that?
Harlyn Evans, you know exactly what to do with that, babes. As always, the exasperated voice in my head is Elly's, calling out my BS. It's what she does best. And as always, even voice-in-my-head-Elly is right. I blow out a breath that I hope sounds like frustration about the half finished assignment in front of me and not me finally admitting to myself that I do indeed fancy Finley Bowers. Wow. That feels good. I haven't even really thought the sentence yet. I've been too afraid to, too fixated on putting a label on...whatever I am to just admit it.
I fancy Finley Bowers. Fancy him. A lot. Fancy. Like. I turn the words over in my head. The fuzzy feeling in my chest isn't just because he's a nice guy or that we get along or that I'm starting to consider him a really - really - good mate. It's more than that. And finally just...thinking about it like that...letting myself think about Finley like that...pushes the possible gay panic that has steadily risen over the past week and a half down farther, at least for the moment. And a genuine sense of joy settles over me. Even the thought of telling Finley himself - which flicks a tiny bit of panic through my chest - is shoved pointedly deeper into the attic of my brain.
The end of the sentence is finally uncovered, and I use my newfound surge of energy to plow onward and finish the assignment. Besides, the faster I finish, the faster I can text Finley, uninterrupted by schoolwork. Of course, now I have to be careful not to smile too goofily when Elly's in the room. I'm not ready to talk about this yet. I will. But not now.
Two hours later, we've finally packed away our school things and we're laying on the floor, staring at the little glowing stars I still have stuck to my ceiling. They're so old they don't even glow anymore.
"I've finally made friends with one of the girls in my hall," Elly says.
"Really? That's great!" I say, turning my head to look at the profile of her face. That pang of jealousy hits again, but it's less painful this time. I'm genuinely happy that she's making friends, that she's not going to be miserable on campus for another term.
"Yeah. She's, er, she's Francesca's friend actually. Francesca came by to hang out with Polly on Sunday, and we ran into each other in the kitchen. She said you'd talked me up at the party last week and that she was sad she didn't get to talk to me before I got drunk."
"She actually said that?" I ask. Elly turns and smiles.
"Well, not in those words exactly. I mean, she did say that if you were friends with me, then I must be either really lucky or really amazing."
"You're just really lucky," I sigh.
"That's what I said!" she exclaims. We both laugh. "She did say she wished she'd gotten the chance to talk to me at the party. She was polite enough not to mention the drunk part, though. And then Polly came out, and the three of us actually just talked. Turns out Polly's in accounting, too. She moved halls because she had a really awful hall mate last term. Like truly terrible."
"Worse than you?" I tease. She slaps me in the stomach. "Ouch. I'm just kidding."
"I know," she says, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, I apologized for being a lot. I know I can come off as...forceful sometimes."
"But that's what makes you you, El," I whisper. "You don't do anything half heartedly." She smiles dimly. "How are you really doing? We've been so busy the last few weeks, I feel like this is the first time we've actually hung out just the two of us for this long."
"Yeah." She pauses, and I almost repeat the question. "I'm good, actually. This month has been weird. But I'm doing ok."
I don't press her. Not today. "Good."
"Oh! But!" She sits up and leans on one hand to look down at me. "Polly and Francesca said that there's this Harry Potter theme night at Club Chemistry on Friday. We should totally take Finley and Max."
"I don't know if Finley will go for that," I say.
"Even if it's Harry Potter?" she asks. "Finley Bowers and Max Parker who couldn't talk about anything but the Triwizard Tournament when we were in that maze?"
I sigh. It might work. And seeing Finley at a club? All of my imaginings at the party last week come to life? What a thought.
"It's worth a shot."
She claps her hands. "Yes! I just want to see those boys dance. My life will be complete."
"I bet you ten quid that Max has got moves," I say, tucking my hands under my head.
"There's no way I'm taking that bet, because we both know he's totally the kind of person who looks massively uncoordinated but can actually break dance or something."