Lucy Schraan is Gay

chapter seven

playlist of the right-now: no one cares if you're feeling okay

Lunch in Mr. Tuohy's room feels different today. It looks the same—our chairs all angled in in their usual order; the walls covered with student art; Mr. Tuohy's messy desk—but it just, y'know. Feels different.

Realistically, nothing has changed. I'm still Lucy, just like they're still themselves. But when Izzy turns to me, grabs my arm, and says, "We added some names to the list!" it comes out automatically.

"What? No."

Izzy cocks her head. Dark curls tumble over her shoulder. "What? I thought ... I thought you were ready to look for someone now. That's why you came out."

My blood freezes. Is that why they think I came out?

"No, that's not it, I just—"

"She can want to come out without it being about dating," Mari Jude says.

"Right," says North, putting down his McMystery sub. His fingers are covered in barbeque sauce. "Lucy doesn't even have time for dating."

"We discussed this." Mari Jude forcefully hands him a napkin. Her hair is tied back in a braid, stray hairs framing her face with purpose. Her makeup is more purple-toned today. I'm sure she used the Colourpop blush we found at Ulta. It had a cutesy name, and I can't remember it right now. "She can date, if she wants. It's not about school or—"

"Yeah, but if she doesn't have the time—"

"She can make the time if she wants to. She knows her schedule—"

"Sure," Clay says, "but is she responsible enough to balance a romantic schedule on top of—"

North flings his dirty napkin at Clay. Now he seems pissed, too. "She's responsible enough, Clay. But is it worth getting stressed over?"

Everyone has something to say. Mr. Tuohy leaves the classroom awkwardly, and I just stare at my best friends as they bicker about my nonexistent romantic life. I can't decide who I agree with most, but as they each talk about me like I'm 1) incapable and 2) not there, I can't help but feel insulted.

There's a nudge next to me. I turn to see Moira holding out one of her Airpods. Her dark blue eyes swallow me like an ocean, her gaze seeping inside me and gently expanding my lungs till I'm capable of taking a silent but much-needed breath. Her thumb taps her phone screen, and my cell buzzes in my pocket.

MOIRA SCHITT SNIFFER: wanna go for a walk?

I don't even respond over text. I just stand up and pop the Airpod in. The song is laidback, all bass and light drum and a whispering vocalist. Behind me, Moira stands, grabbing both our lunch trays and exiting with me into the hallway.

The art kids are working on their mural again. I know it was designed by one of Lia's exes, but I don't know which one, and I don't know what it's about. It has a few familiar faces, like the obvious Martin Luther King Jr., but I don't recognize many of the others. Right now, the people, all of them Black, are painted over a background of saturated flowers.

I lean with Moira against the lockers opposite the mural. We watch the art ids in silence. A girl with an Afro wearing a cyan cami dress over a white turtleneck steps back to look at the woman she's halfway through painting, wiping her hands on a paint-stained rag. The other art kid present today, a lanky boy, is adding details to a flower on the other end of the mural.

Moira speaks. It surprises me. "Sorry, is that Nina Simone?"

The girl looks back in surprise, then smiles. There's a smear of paint on her cheek, but otherwise, I wouldn't have guessed she'd been painting today. Her white turtleneck is ridiculously pristine.