Chapter Five
Vivian
The draft of the text message taunts me as I work up the courage to hit send. My father hates texting, but a call interrupting his busy life would be worse. Not that he ever answers. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually called, and it always goes to voicemail. That’s another reason I’m texting. If I hear his voice, I’ll lose my nerve completely.
My thumb hovers over the button.
You have no other choice, Vivian.
Closing my eyes, I jab send and drop my phone like it’s a bomb about to go off. My stomach bottoms out, and I break out in a cold sweat. I race to the bathroom as my lunch threatens to resurface.
Thankfully, there’s no sound from Jonah’s room. He must still be downstairs.
Deep breaths. I had to do this. There was no other choice.
Pridefest is less than a month away. I’ve scraped enough money together to cover the entrance fee to the talent show, but I still have no way to get there. And I can’t explain to my family what I’m doing or why.
My mother’s supportive. But it’s a quiet support that could never drown out my father’s high expectations. What would she say if I told her my plans?I’m proud of you, Vivian, for taking initiative.Which translates to “this is a foolish venture, but at least you’re trying.”
My stepfather George is an honest man. But he might be a little less honest to spare my feelings. He’s a farmer. Down-to-earth. Practical. He’d ask if I was sure this was the way to go and explain the pitfalls and then end with the ever-popular, “I’ll support whatever you want to do.” Is that really support?
But it’s my stepbrother I least want to hear from. Like his father, he’s honest to a fault. Unlike his father, he doesn’t care one bit about my feelings. In high school—after I had to quit choir—I joined the band. My father was still providing money back then, and I used it to buy a saxophone. Jonah was salty about it, probably because the sax had cost more than the old truck he bought from the money he earned bagging groceries.
“It’s just like you to think you can start something that takes people years to learn, but you know what? You’ll probably be perfect at it since everything you do is perfect.”
Which sounds like a compliment but isn’t.
Jonah hates me.
The feeling is mutual. When I moved—was forced to move—to Nebraska six years ago, I tried to get along with my stepbrother, although Jonah might have a different take on it. I didn’t blame Mom for leaving my father. But marrying a farmer from Nebraska? That was harder to take. Still, I’d gone in with a positive attitude, determined to make the best of a bad situation. But the stunned look on Jonah’s face when we first met had said it all. He couldn’t look me in the eyes. And when he spoke, he sounded angry.
“You’ll never fit in around here wearing a…” He waved his hand. “Dude, is that a dress?”
It hadn’t been a dress. It hadn’t looked like a dress. It was a long shirt with leggings. But that was Jonah.
His idea of fashion is jeans and an AC/DC tee.
But in this instance, my stepbrother had been correct. The reaction from everyone at my new school had been brutal. I thought I’d been prepared. But having a face too pretty for a guy—and wearing makeup—and dressing in a way the other students thought was weird or uppity had nothing on their response to my name.
“Vivian?” one of the football players had said. “Are you a girl? Or a homo?”
I blink away the rest of that memory and focus instead on his insinuation. Does the act of naming a baby predetermine their sexuality?
Am I attracted to guys because of the name I was given at birth? Or is it just an unhappy coincidence?
In France, Vivian is gender neutral. It means lively. And my father is French. But sure, let’s assume his intention in giving me the name was for his son to be gay. Ironically, at least it seems that way to me, my father is not at all upset that I’m gay. He’s upset that I’m not trying hard enough. A constant disappointment to him.
Why did I text my father? I try to hold back the panic, but I feel like I’m choking on it.
“Fuck.” I slap my hands on the sink. A noise from Jonah’s room has me going still, and I take quick breaths, trying to hold everything in so he can’t hear me fall apart.
A soft knock on the door and then Jonah’s voice. “Vivian?”
Shit. I jerk, knocking Jonah’s body wash off the small counter. I reach for the bottle and slip on some that spilled onto the floor. Jonah’s warm vanilla scent is everywhere. Grabbing the hand towel hanging on the rack, I clean up as quietly as I can.
“Vivian?” His voice is louder. “Are you okay?”
He actually sounds concerned, and that’s the last thing I need. “Fuck off, Jonah.”
