Seventh Grade
by Elizabeth Bocock
Alison had been my best friend since kindergarten.
It was one of those friendships that just kind of materialized because we sat at the same table during craft time and just decided that we wanted to sit together all the time. I thought she was the funniest person in the world because she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind and often did so bluntly, never sparing the feelings of the people around her. Never apologetic, just completely straight faced.
Her extroverted nature made people orbit around her like a solar system. Her natural charm lent itself well to becoming popular with all our peers. She couldn’t walk five steps down the hall without being swarmed with adoring fans. You would have thought she was a genuine celebrity.
As we got older it became exhausting to be her friend. By the time we got to middle school she had become catty and vindictive in a way that made me feel like I was constantly walking on eggshells—never meeting her expectations no matter how hard I tried.
In sixth grade, a girl named Cami transferred into our school. I thought she was a mouse in a human girl’s body. Her dark hair was long and unkempt, and she was really, really, quiet. My teacher elected me to be her “buddy” until she got used to her new routine.
I liked Cami. She kind of clung to me when she could because I was the first familiar person she had, but I didn’t mind. She was really nice—more importantly—pretty much the complete opposite of Alison so it was fun to have someone new to hang out with. After that day, all my pictures were filled with this small, mousy girl with a slight gap in her teeth.
She hated that gap, but I always thought it was cute.
Even though we would hang out a lot, Cami still kept to herself for the most part. No matter how often I invited her to sit with us, she preferred to eat lunch alone with her books. There was one day that I spent about fifteen minutes with her while she explained the plot of her most recent read to me. I remember it well. She was reading the entire Percy Jackson series after we read the first book in English class. She was a Greek mythology nerd at the time, so she was rattling on about anything and everything about the gods and goddesses.
I still smile at what a massive dork she was about it.
After a while I made my way back to Alison’s lunch table, bright-eyed and smiling, but Alison was having none of it.
“I don’t know why you hang out with her,” she said as I sat down.
“I don’t know,” I said meekly (because God forbid I stand up for myself). “I just think she’s fun to hang out with.”
Alison scoffed and leaned back in her chair, looking down at me like I was an idiot. She did that a lot those days. Making me feel small had become one of her favorite activities. “You know she has a massive crush on you, right?”
“What?”
Obviously, I knew what being gay was—it wasn’t a new concept for me. But it was a term saved for playful (and not so playful) insults in the hallways. It was basically a bad thing.
Right?
“That’s crazy,” I said laughing awkwardly. “Cami isn’t—”
“A lesbian?” She interrupted in a tone that said I was the most foolish person in the world. Saying the “L” word caught the attention of some of the kids at our table so we had an audience now. Alison was relishing the attention and raised her voice as she continued saying, “Jesus Christ, Brooklyn. What do you think happens when girls don’t have father figures? They’re riddled with daddy issues and then they start thinking that they’re boys. Next thing you know, she’s going to be chopping all her hair off and forcing her tongue down your throat.” She giggled at the thought.
I didn’t have a response to that, and all the attention Alison had gathered by yelling at me was making me nervous. My face burned, both from embarrassment and rage. I was angry because Alison was making my friend out to seem like a terrible person when I knew for a fact that she wasn’t. But I was never going to talk back to her. Because the worst part was that I wasn’t repulsed by the idea of Cami liking me like that.
And that made me sick to my stomach.
Girls aren’t supposed to think about girls like that. I should have been disgusted by the mere thought of Cami being a lesbian.
Right?
And anyway, if Alison was right and it was because girls didn’t have dads, I couldn’t be gay. Because I had a dad. I mean, he wasn’t my biological dad, but Chris is the one who raised me. Does that count? Am I broken even if I don’t feel broken? Can only girls who were raised by and live with their biological dad be normal?
What about girls without moms like my stepsister, Bailey? What about her?
“You better watch out, Brooke. She’s trouble.” Alison crossed her arms and left me to ponder this new information in silence. I just picked at the skin around my nails as everyone at the table went back to their original conversations.
The show was over after all.
Not long after that conversation, I got my first boyfriend.
He was nice, I guess. His name was Jackson, and we were “together” for about three months. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’m sure I only dated him because I felt like I had to after that conversation with Alison. Because everyone knows that if you have a boyfriend, you don’t care if your maybe-lesbian friend has a crush on you. Even if you can’t stop thinking about it.
I let myself drift away from Cami. I stopped going out of my way to talk to her like I used to and after a while she stopped trying, too. I couldn’t blame her. I was acting weird about everything going through my mind. I knew I didn’t care if she liked girls. I didn’t even care if she liked me. But I felt like I should care. I felt like there was something wrong with me because I didn’t outright reject the idea of her liking me.
They really haunted me, Alison’s words. If I had been wiser, she would have been the one that I stopped talking to. But she was my best friend, and I was thirteen.
And thirteen-year-olds are really stupid.
It didn’t help that this was also around the time where I realized how prevalent the word “faggot” is in the average middle schooler’s vocabulary. It was mostly the boys. The Chads and Davids that think it’s cool and edgy to use slurs. Most of them also used the n-word, I’m sure, so I don’t know why it bothered me so much. But every time I would walk down the halls and hear it; it would dig under my skin a little more even though it was never directed at me specifically.
I was able to kind of tune it out for the most part. Until my “boyfriend” said it. The moment that word left Jackson’s lips for the first time in my presence, his very existence made me want to throw up.
I broke up with him the next day.
My anxiety got worse, and I started biting my nails. I used to be able to grow them out and do cute little French manicures with Alison when she would come over and watch Disney movies and stay the night. Every day, I expected her to say something, and she never did.
She really didn’t pay that much attention to me.
I had started to realize how toxic her friendship had become to me. Exchanges where I didn’t feel like absolute shit about myself afterwards became more and more prevalent. I began to dread spending time with her at all.
It came to a head at one of those dumb Disney parties, that I couldn’t paint my nails at anymore. It was the last weekend of seventh grade, so Alison insisted that we celebrate with a sleepover.
She thought eighth grade was the biggest deal in the world. Our middle school designated each floor to a different grade, with eighth grade classes being on the very top floor. All she could talk about was how grown up we’d feel once we take that first step of taking two more stairwells to get to class every day.
I guess the older you get, the more stairs you deserve.
“We’ll have to start stuffing our bras,” Alison said, sitting behind me on the bed and French braiding my hair. “Neither of us are growing fast enough to pass as eighth graders.”
One of the things that I was constantly grateful for throughout my whole friendship with Alison was that we shared nearly the same body type. She couldn’t try to ruin my self-esteem by insulting my body because it would also be an insult to her.
“I mean, I think you just have to be an eighth grader to ‘pass’ as an eighth grader,” I said. “I’m not going to stuff my bra.”
“Fine then. I’ll just be the one to get all the boys with my huge ta-tas.” She stuck out her tongue at me in the mirror and I giggled. “Nah, I’m sure you’ll get plenty of guys. Some of them actually like small boobs—or so I’m told.”
“Who told you that?” I asked, my giggling becoming nervous. Alison always seemed to know things before me. It was like a perpetual contest to see who could be the most “adult.”
She bit her lip and glanced around the room conspiratorially. We were the only two people in my bedroom, so this was purely for dramatic effect. She leaned in and whispered, “Bryce Anthony.”
I jumped away from her at the words, physically repulsed by his name even being uttered. Bryce Anthony was a loser. Not only because he had two first names instead of a first and last name like a normal person, but because he was a major creep as well. He was just one of those guys who thought that just because they’re on the basketball team they could get whatever and whoever they wanted. There had been rumors that he tried to pressure girls into sexual situations. Most girls knew to avoid him.
But Alison seemed incredibly giddy about the idea and started giggling at my reaction. “We were talking at the bus stop and I’m pretty sure he was flirting with me.” She was pacing the room nervously, running her fingers through her hair and blushing. I couldn’t imagine that she was excited about this because it was him specifically. I think she was just excited that there was a boy interested in her at all.
Before I could think better of it, I muttered, “Yeah, or he was trying to get into your pants.”
She whipped her head around to face me so fast I’m surprised she didn’t get whiplash. “What the fuck is your problem, Brooke? Are you trying to imply that I’m a slut or something? I’m not going to give out to the first boy that approaches me on the corner.”
I just stared at her like a deer in headlights, once again not sure how to respond. Finally, I found the words, “You know the reputation he has.”
She scoffed at me and turned toward my vanity mirror. “Nice to hear that you believe every rumor that crosses your path.”
We sat there in silence for what felt like years. I just moved myself out of the line of sight from the mirror while Alison painted her nails and scrolled through Twitter. She would do that a lot–snap at me and then let the silence hang between us to punish me. Then when she decided that I’d had enough or she’d gotten bored, she would apologize and say something like, “You know how my temper gets sometimes,” and pout her lip until I apologized back.
I always gave in. Always.
Alison decided that she wanted to watch 10 Things I Hate About You after she was done being mad and spent the entire runtime cooing over how hot she thought Heath Ledger was. When we got to the scene where they make out during the paintball game, she suddenly gasped and paused the movie so she could turn to me, grinning in a way that deeply unsettled me.
“You’ve never kissed anyone, right?” she asked excitedly.
She knew I hadn’t, so I was hesitant to answer, not entirely sure if I was about to be insulted for my lack of experience or not. “W-why?” I stammered, word almost getting caught in my throat.
Her smile became conspiratorial. “Do you want me to teach you?” she asked, positively giddy at the prospect.
All the moisture in my mouth immediately evaporated at the sound of her words. I tried to ask, “what?” but it came out as more of a croak.
“Oh, come on, Brooklyn, I know you’re gay curious; don’t pretend you’re not. This way you can try it without it meaning anything,” Alison insisted.
I somehow forgot how to form words. Or even one word. But what would that word have been? I would be lying if I said I totally hated the idea. But not a single word that Alison just said made any sense.
Alison took my hesitance as consent and put her hands on either side of my face before pressing her lips to mine. I became something akin to a statue–not entirely sure what her ulterior motives were for this.
Alison pulled back and huffed in exasperation, breath hot against my face. “Brooklyn. You have to kiss him back, or you’re going to freak him out. You can’t just sit there like a mannequin. That’s not sexy at all.”
Somehow, I found the willpower to nod my head just slightly in response. Alison smiled as she leaned in. When her lips found mine again it took me a moment to find my bearings and reciprocate like she instructed me to. And even when I did, I did so hesitantly, still not convinced that this was somehow a setup to make fun of me for being gay again.
What was happening?
On what planet did anything that was happening right now make any sense?
Alison moaned softly in approval when I returned the kiss, emboldening me slightly to keep going. Only my mouth was alive, the rest of my body stiff as a board and uncertain about the situation.
Alison found my hand with her own, guiding them to her waist, pausing to see if I would get the hint about what I was supposed to do next. I continued to do nothing, limbs limp in her grasp. She groaned this time, pulling my hands under the fabric of her shirt and up her torso.
Finally, I found the on switch in my brain, and before she could bring my hands to her breasts, I pushed her off me and stood up quickly, almost tripping over the bed of pillows we had made on my rug as I tried to put as much space between us as possible.
She looked bewildered as she looked up at me, out of breath and slightly annoyed at my disobedience.
Anger swelled in my chest, and for possibly the first time in our friendship, I refused to allow Alison to get her way. She was not going to use me like this. I had finally found my limit to her bullshit.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I demanded, hugging my hands against my chest, keeping them as close as possible so she couldn’t take them again.
Alison’s gaze narrowed in defense; bafflement instantly replaced with irritation. “I’m sorry?” Her voice was hard and accusing. Like somehow this was my fault. Like I was the one who suggested an impromptu make out session after months of shaming me for queer thoughts I was or wasn’t having.
“You go on this tirade about how Cami is disgusting because you think she has a crush on me and then you try to make me grope you while you force me to kiss you?” My lungs felt like they were imploding as I talked, running out of air and causing “kiss you” to come out as more of a squeak than intelligible syllables.
“Okay, calm down,” Alison said, standing up and crossing her arms over her chest. “I didn’t force you to do anything. Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”
Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall in front of her. I forced the cry to die in my throat before saying, “get out.” The words had less force than I wanted but I was confident that they were clear.
But Alison continued to stare me down, daring me to do something.
“Get out!” I screamed it this time, startling her and weakening her defenses. “Get out, get out, get out!” I screamed again and again.
Alison finally scrambled to gather her things as my mom’s footsteps got closer in the hall. The door swung open, and my mom looked alarmed. “What happened?” she asked, coming over to me and eyeing Alison suspiciously.
Finally, some stray tears rolled down my face and my mom started helping Alison pick up her stuff, yelling over her shoulder, “Chris! Call Alison’s parents! She’s going home early!” She shoved Alison towards the door more forcefully than I expected.
I sank down onto my bed and prepared myself for the sob to make its way out of my throat. But the moment Alison was out of the room it evaporated, a strange calm washing over me now that the threat was out of my sight.
I sat silently until my mom came back in and sat on her knees in front of me, asking me to tell her what happened. She tried to hold my hands in hers, but I pulled them away from her. They still felt dirty from Alison’s touch.
Mom and Chris asked me what happened several times throughout the night, but I refused to tell them, only saying that Alison and I had a fight and weren’t friends anymore. They knew there was more that I wasn’t telling them, but they didn’t press me any further after it was clear I had no intention of sharing what exactly caused my extreme outburst.
I hoped—begged any higher power that would listen really—that if I didn’t talk about it, Alison wouldn’t either. There’s no telling how she would twist the story to make me look bad. And no one would believe me over her. Not even the teachers would doubt the golden child of our grade.
My prayers were answered, and Alison seemingly kept the event to herself, content to act as if we had never been friends than reveal any connection between her and homosexual behavior. For the entirety of eighth grade, I was paranoid that she would change her mind and spin a story about me being a sexual predator to ruin my reputation. But that blow never came and I tried not to think about it ever again.
Sometimes, I would forget myself though and glance at her, searching her face briefly for any remorse or regret. I never found any. I doubt anyone else would be able to, either.
It took me a while to figure out how to fix my broken relationship with Cami. All of the feelings of remorse and regret I held kept me from believing that she would forgive me even if I did extend an olive branch.
But I refused to let the summer start and have Cami think I was mad at her, or worse, hated her. I needed her to know that I knew I was an idiot. I needed her to know that I was done being stupid.
On the last day of school, I finally worked up the nerve. The cafeteria was loud and overstimulating, but I didn’t allow anything to distract me from my mission. I found her in the back of the room, sitting by herself and reading a well-loved copy of The 5th Wave, half-eaten lunch in front of her.
I timidly approached her, holding my tray in front of me like a barrier, both emotional and physical, prepared for any way that she would react to my presence. It took her a moment to notice me, too absorbed with the world of the book to be concerned with anything existing outside of it.
But after a minute or so, she finally looked up at me. She had to do a double take as if to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. I gripped my tray harder, nervous about what she was going to say. But my heart skipped a beat when she just smiled at me and gestured slightly to the seat beside her, inviting me to her table.
I let out a sigh of relief and smiled back at her as I made my way to her side.
That’s where I had belonged the whole time.
It was as if we had never had a break in our friendship. She told me about her book, and I was happy to listen to the details of the worlds she escaped to when absorbed in her reading.
I decided to be bold and found her hand with mine, hesitating only slightly to make sure it was okay before I laced our fingers together. Cami’s smile widened, causing my heart to flutter again.
And I knew that I didn’t need a book to get lost in because I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.