Lucy Schraan is Gay

chapter eight

Emara Ahmad is a cabbage wizard. I'm not just saying that because she so gracefully gave me some of her rice-stuffed-cabbage-roll-things, but because they're literally so good. As soon as Lia opened the door to the interp room, Emara insisted on having me try one because apparently Lia doesn't like them and, to quote, "I need validation." I'm too in-shock to properly thank her for the absolute heaven party going on in my mouth right now.

From what I know, Emara is a wizard at a lot of things. She posts makeup videos on TikTok, with well over at least ten thousand followers. I never cross paths with her, but I do want to ask how she has the confidence to apply foundation while lip-synching to a camera instead of a mirror, still without managing to get anything on her vibrant hijabs. Like, today her lips and eyes are rosy and golden, and I've seen enough of her content to know that she contoured—right next to her creamy white hijab. She posts videos every morning, her daily makeup routines. How in the hell she can do that on camera without making a mess is beyond me, because I do makeup cautiously and end up getting it on my socks.

She's surprisingly nice, for being both TikTok famous as well as Lia's best friend. I figured she would know she was too cool to be talking to someone like me. We're sitting in the oral interp practice room, nicknamed "The Pit" because of the built-in recessed performing area. It's the size of a utility closet, but I know sometimes when North gets really stressed and the band room is too populated, he hangs out in here for alone time.

I can see why—it's cozy, I gotta say. The walls are a deep grey and there are throw pillows all over what little surface area exists. Pictures of speech and debaters from years past, a multitude of faces I don't recognise but probably would have known quite well if they were here now, are spread across the wall. There are rickety stools and a stack of black construction paper, along with a giant wardrobe that I know is full of spare suit jackets and shoes.

"These are so good, Emara," I tell her, wiping my fingers on a napkin. "I need a recipe."

She smiles. "I don't have a written recipe that I follow, but they're seriously not hard."

"They're just hard to eat," Lia chimes in, elbowing her best friend. Emara giggles and shoves her away, but Lia is leaning into her, and Emara's hands don't leave her arm.

So they're the overtly physical kind of best friends. Got it.

They stay seated like that, until Emara pops another cabbage-roll-thing into her mouth and closes her eyes. "My brother is obsessed with these," she says. "I can't leave them unattended if I want any."

"I can see why. These are, like, the best things I've ever put in my mouth." Behind me, I adjust the throw pillow I'm leaning against, with its fluffy and teal and matted surface. The Pit feels used, loved, and worn. Like the back space of the tech booth. I love it.

It's so much quieter here than in Tuohy's room. Probably because there aren't a multitude of Talking Tinas in here, but still. It's the comfortable kind of small.

"So, I'm sorry if this is overstepping," Emara says, "but I heard that you came out yesterday. Congrats."

I smile, but my heart hammers in my chest. Suddenly this feels a much worse kind of small. "Thanks."

"I didn't tell her," Lia says. "It just went around. I'm sorry if you weren't ready for that yet."

For a second I wonder if it's one of my friends who said something, but then I realize that it was probably someone from rehearsal who heard during mic checks. Because, even if my friends are annoying sometimes, they would never do that to me.

Izzy's disappointed and confused expression sticks out in my mind. North flinging his napkin at Clay in aggravation. Moira's sudden and seemingly complete enamoration of Simone.