Maybe I’m the type of girl who likes boys and girls and those who sometimes feel like both and neither.
Maybe I’m the type of girl who slaps a boy in the face when he does something shitty.
Maybe I’m the type of girl who hides and cries in her bed alone, remembering a terrifying day that took away all of her control and trust.
Maybe I’m the type of girl who’s tired of hiding and crying alone.
Maybe I’m the type of girl who realizes she’s not alone.
Maybe I’m the type of girl whose favorite person in the world did something unforgivable.
Maybe I’m the type of girl who finally accepts it.
Maybe I’m not a stupid girl.
Maybe I’m just a girl, plain and simple and real.
I’m staring into my closet, my heart still a huge raw lump in my chest, when a knock sounds on the door.
Tap. Tap tap tap.
It’s not his knock.
It’s hers.
Charlie appears, her eyes searching and finding me in less than a second.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
“May I come in?”
I nod and push my hair back, even though I sort of want to cover my face with it, hiding every expression and thought and fear and need.
She clicks the door shut behind her, then sets her messenger bag on the floor by the desk. All of her movements are slow and careful, perfectly planned and executed.
“Hannah told me she had to come get you the other night,” she says. “Are you okay?”
“I’m . . . I don’t know.”
She nods, her teeth pressing over her bottom lip.
“Charlie,” I say, “I’m sorry for what I said to you at the Fall Festival. I was an asshole and I understand if you’re mad at me. What you tell your parents and when is up to you, and you know I support you in that. I always will, whatever you decide.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I’m not mad.”
“Oh. Well, good.”
She cracks a sardonic smile. “At least, not anymore.”
“I guess I deserve that.”
Her smile dips a little and she tangles her fingers together. “Will you sit down?” she asks, motioning toward the bed.
“We have school.”
“I’m aware,” she says. “This won’t take long.”
