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"Everyone talks, babe. It's up to you what they say."
— Christian

Chapter Nine: Everybody Talks, Babe

Our class took a field trip to the aquarium in Boston when I was twelve. I was eager to explore every creature the place had to offer, soaking up every bit of excitement and underwater show. No worries—until the end of the day, in the gift shop, when I saw two boys holding hands. They didn't get much appreciation. Bullies mocked them for something that felt natural to them. I understood exactly how they felt—surrounded by the quiet but biting hatred of homophobia. Instead of crying out loud, I slipped away to the bathroom, tears burning behind my eyelids. I knew, deep down, I could face the same prejudice if I ever came out.

I don't remember how long I stayed there. I just cried until the tears ran dry. I felt like those boys in the gift shop. The rules of my parents' religion—strict, unforgiving—echoed through my still-growing brain. Eventually, a teacher found me and asked if I was okay. Instead of telling the truth, I just shook my head and said I'd hurt my knee earlier and couldn't find the first aid station. I wasn't ready for my secret to get out.

The silence inside Christian's jeep brings that memory flooding back. I'm not sure which side I'm on—the boys holding hands with pride or the students hiding in the shadows, unsure and afraid. Christian had just mentioned he liked both genders and makeup. How could he be so openly honest about something I'd hidden for so long?

I finally asked, "When did you figure it out?" The first step in peeling back Christian's layers. I knew my parents would probably pray to St. Christopher or clutch their crosses if they knew he'd just admitted he was on the LGBTQIA spectrum. My blood rushed hot through my veins, betrayal and awe twisting inside me. "Wait, don't answer that. You hate personal questions," I blurted quickly. Christian shrugged and explained in his own way.

"I take vitamins every morning to keep my mind sharp. Then I stand in front of the mirror for ten minutes, giving myself a pep talk, wondering what Lady Gaga or Freddie Mercury would say to me before I go to school," he said, his tone serious. I could tell he was gearing up to say something important, something that would push us forward or pull us back—depending on how he chose to mirror his personality.

"That's not exactly what I meant," I said. Christian was like a foreign work of art—like Monet or Cézanne—you had to keep painting and fleshing him out to get it right. Out of context, I couldn't sound as straightforward as I wanted.

"Everyone talks, babe. It's up to you what they say," Christian replied, making my imagined maze of him come into focus. His confident swagger started to erode my guarded walls again as The Fray played softly in the background, their lyrics about someone finally finding them echoing. Why was he always so simultaneously positive? Uncomfortably so. I leaned my head back against his window, thinking about how religious people recite verses, Catholics quoting scripture and saints while shaming gays; commercials showing abuse victims finding redemption via a hotline. Atheists rejecting scripture, only to be condemned by religion as lost causes.

"You're so you, Christian," I said softly, realizing how distorted memories become over time. Neither my parents nor Dryden could help me navigate this awkward crush—not because they didn't want to, but because they wouldn't understand or accept. Dryden mostly talked sports. I had no proper way to tell him anything else.

"What's your point?" Christian asked, then smirked, posing like a model. "I'm a theoretical vampire hunter, remember?" he teased, recalling his earlier confidence that seemed to skate past society's labels. I felt myself blush again as we headed toward our late classes.

In art class, I began memorizing the patterns and dynamics behind my sketches, trying to build physics algorithms in my head—free fall, velocity, momentum. Each design was practice for a test maybe scheduled next week. My mind drifted, doodling equations and lines while a song about a metaphorical revolution played softly. Not really into art for art's sake, I knew exactly where this was going.

"The metamorphosis has begun," Simon said behind me, nodding at my new sketch—an elevated face with surreal contours. "I knew you'd cocoon soon enough, little butterfly," he added like he knew some secret of artistic growth I hadn't yet grasped—though I hadn't seriously touched art since freshman year.

"I'm artistic and scientific, but I'm not a butterfly," I told him, putting my pencil down. I'd have to finish this alone at home, preserve my own quiet method of gaining confidence.

"Your work suggests otherwise," Simon said, reading my mind. "This one's passing material." He smiled before returning to his canvas, now yelling at the rainbow zebra he'd painted earlier for being "depressing." He was preparing for art school. I stared at my own piece, wishing for a shred of empathy, when my phone buzzed.

Christian:
Down for studying gravity later?? 🧐🧐

I stared at my sketchbook, unsure how to respond. What did he mean by "studying gravity"? I added hazelnut-shaped eyes to the face I'd drawn, hesitating to text. Instead, I sent an awkward calculus meme, hoping it'd work as a detour.

Christian:
It's the newest Physics trend ⚛️⚛️

Normally, texting Christian wouldn't bother me. But now, I felt tangled in confusion, unsure how to express my feelings. His enigmatic confidence dragged me along, making me wonder what he was up to. What should I say? I wasn't twelve anymore—I couldn't hide behind bathroom doors. Still, I found an excuse.

Me:
Sorry. I can't. I have art to finish. 🥺

Knowing Christian, I shouldn't have been surprised when my phone buzzed again as art students shot me annoyed looks. Earbuds back in, I checked the reply. Sketchbooks could wait.

Christian:
Don't trust atoms. They make everything up. Plus, you know that was funny 😂

My mind flipped between worrying and wanting to respond. I opened my camera and raised it to capture the unfinished sketch but quickly shut it. It wasn't worth showing art that wasn't ready. Checking the time, I decided on a reply.

Me:
We haven't studied atoms yet. Let's do it. Study gravity, I mean.

At class end, I packed away my sketchbook. Simon approached, his school uniform splattered with paint—proof he was a true artist. "I'm sure that picture would be appreciated by whoever it's for," he said. I wished I'd corrected him, but I didn't have the courage. It was just a piece I needed to pass so I wouldn't have to retake the class next semester.

At my locker, Christian waited, leaning with one foot on the locker beside me. He dropped it when he saw me and smiled, those molded dimples I hadn't noticed before softening his face.

"Cheesy romantic, I know," Christian said as I dialed my lock, adjusting his messenger bag while students streamed past, reveling in end-of-day freedom.

Back in the jeep, he swapped his school vest for the Vampires Suck hoodie he'd worn earlier. We stood awkwardly, unsure what to say—something different from Christian's usual bravado.

"Are you hungry?" he finally asked. I was—having eaten only a quick snack earlier and skipped lunch to avoid Dryden. I wasn't going to tell him that.

"I'm buying," he added, smiling, dimples flashing.

"I'd like that," I said quietly, unsure if this was a date or just hanging out. Neither of us asked, and I was convinced he only saw me as a friend. Even with a crush, I doubted he felt the same. He was flawless; I was the opposite.

"Those are the scientific words I wanted to hear," Christian said happily, making a smile with his fingers on my face. But the smile felt fake—like someone else's. I'd Googled Timothée Chalamet's genuine smile; it wasn't like this.

The small-town diner was built from rustic bricks weathered by sun and time. Windows advertised milkshakes, pizza, burgers, and after-school treats for teenagers just released from all-day classes. The Beatles and Elvis played from a jukebox, a glimpse into an era before cell phones and social media. Couples danced close on the floor, like Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta in Grease, before the dangers of Vietnam loomed.

"Hi, a large pepperoni pizza with large fries, please," Christian told the petite lady behind the counter, wearing a yellow poodle skirt and beige polo—a perfect fit for the diner's vibe. Her square jaw softened into a smile as she jotted down the order and pivoted out back.

"I don't do this much," I said honestly, sitting in the corner booth by the jukebox. "If this is a date, I think I'm doing it all wrong," I added, nibbling the cracked corner of my lower lip, anxiety prickling beneath my skin.

"Hemsworth, you've got nothing to worry about," Christian said, running fingers through his curls. "If this were a date, you'd know it," he said, dimples returning, resting his arm on the table. I debated whether to take his hand, as media suggested, but the diner door opened, interrupting my thoughts with a group of laughing friends.

Our order arrived: steaming hot pizza daring us to eat, fries still naked of salt and vinegar, an ingredient I considered essential. Just us and the food before the study session.

"I think you have a fan club," I said, noticing girls watching him, as if wondering who'd ask Christian for his social media first. I knew it had nothing to do with me. I wasn't that beautiful. Not like the curly-haired lavender boy beside me.

"Fan club, maybe. Just a couple of males holding hands as friends. Or they're deciding if we're a couple at liberty to eat pizza together," Christian said, inching his right hand closer. I gathered courage and connected my hand with his. Before I could think, he slipped his fingers into mine.

This time, my thoughts swallowed me whole.

"We have studying to do," I said, realizing I was still holding his hand as we walked out of the diner. Would anyone who knew my parents tell them their son was holding hands with another boy? I feared someone knew them here and word would spread. Yet, I held on until we reached the jeep.

"Right after I do your makeup," Christian said proudly, smiling as if he'd achieved something monumental. "Plus, you're cute when you blush," he added as we settled in.

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"Everyone talks, babe. It's up to you what they say."
— Christian

Holding hands with him felt like stepping out of shadows and into a place where I could be more than what they expected.