Actually Invisible, page 16
“Hey,” Cam said, putting her hand on my arm. “That lady clearly had some anger issues.” She turned to face me. “We’ve met so many wonderful people who are perfectly fine with our family. Don’t let a few assholes get to you. We’ve talked about this already. Your job isn’t in jeopardy. They don’t have a legal leg to stand on.”
I sighed and semi-successfully pushed away a bubble of resentment, wondering how she could so casually dismiss “a few assholes” when she had spent so much of her life running from them. “It would be different if those few assholes didn’t make me feel like my existence is somehow rated R.”
We both looked toward the slide as Liesel shouted blissfully while coming down it. Clapping and grinning, I said, “Let’s just forget about it for today. There’s nothing I can do. I’m going to go home and grade some papers to remind myself of why I got into this business to begin with.”
We spent the next hour or so watching Liesel have fun with various kids as we casually socialized with their various parents—none of whom batted an eye about us being two moms. I knew Cam was right and that most people were accepting—or, at the least, too self-absorbed to care. I made a silent decision on that park bench: I was going to go home and write a school board proposal for our school to start a GSA.
- 39 -
Friday, August 12, 2005
Cam and I—pretending like the closet incident hadn’t even happened—were going to spend the weekend together. The following week would be the first week of school for that year; it was her fourth year teaching kindergarten in the district where she still teaches now, and I would be doing my student teaching at a neighboring district. We had taken out a map of the state and chosen a new city to visit by closing our eyes and pointing to a random spot. We were basically going to the middle of nowhere to a cheap hotel, but it had a pool, air conditioning, and free breakfast, so we didn’t care where it was.
I had packed my lavender corduroy backpack with toiletries and clothes and was adding my toothbrush when I heard Cam’s ringtone on my phone. By the time I finally fished it out of my bag, she had hung up. I called her right back, but it went straight to voicemail. I tried a couple of more times, and the same thing happened. Looking at the time, I told myself she would be picking me up in fifteen minutes, anyway, so I would talk to her then.
But fifteen minutes came and went. I gave her a five-minute grace period before I started calling her again. This time, her phone rang like normal, but she didn’t answer it.
I texted: Is everything okay? Weren’t we supposed to leave at noon?
I stared at my phone for a few minutes, but she didn’t text back. That wasn’t like her. I tried calling one more time—still no answer—before I decided to get into my car and drive to her house. The A/C in Woody didn’t work, so I rolled the windows down and tapped the steering wheel as I drove, a bundle of nervous energy. What would I do if I got there and saw her car and her parents’ cars there? I surely couldn’t just walk up and ring the doorbell.
My emotions went on a roller coaster ride in the five minutes it took to get there. I was worried about her, but then I was angry that she wasn’t talking to me. I was excited about our trip, but then I was devastated that maybe she didn’t want to go anymore.
I pictured the inside of that closet door.
By the time I turned onto her street, I was sweating in the August heat and fully unprepared to see her car, her parents’ cars, and Brad’s white pickup truck.
I slowed to a crawl, attempting to peer into the front window. I could see the back of Cam’s head and the back of her mom’s head. They were both sitting on the couch looking straight ahead—sitting on the couch that Cam and I had sat on together countless times, holding hands, cuddling, kissing, talking, laughing.
The mixture of confusion and jealousy made me feel sick. Why is Brad there? Why is he allowed in there, and I’m not? She hadn’t spoken to him in months—at least that I knew of. I hadn’t seen him at all that summer and was hoping he had finally moved on.
But there he was. I could see him walking into the living room, Cam’s and her mom’s heads turning to face him.
A car horn sounded behind me, causing me to jump and instinctively step on the gas pedal, jolting the car forward. I sped to the stop sign at the end of the street, slammed on the brakes, and kept driving to an unknown destination.
About fifteen minutes later, I found myself in a Wendy’s drive-thru, ordering two meals and a frosty. I ate every last morsel while driving aimlessly in any direction, listening to nothing but my own chewing and Woody’s struggling engine. If I went home, my mom would ask why we hadn’t left yet. If I went to my dad’s, he would ask the same thing. Maybe I would just keep driving forever, and no one would miss me.
I pulled into a gas station to throw away the garbage, and when I opened the door to get back in the car, Cam was calling me. Seeing her name on the digital screen flooded me with a swirl of relief and apprehension. I didn’t know if I should answer angrily or give her a chance to explain.
“Hey,” I said sadly—which was not an emotion I’d expected.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t talk long. Brad showed up and told my parents everything—about you, about me … just … everything.” She breathed heavily.
“What? Why now?” I put on my turn signal to make a U-turn and head back to my mom’s house for her to pick me up.
She was a little louder this time. “I have no idea, Josie.” She paused. “Listen … ” She paused again. “My mom is really upset. She won’t talk to me. I can’t tell if she’s madder that I’m a lesbian or that I lied.” Pause.
Feeling giddy at the prospect of her finally coming out to her family, I had the phone pressed to my ear so hard that my elbow was starting to hurt, but I was having such a hard time hearing her. “Cam, I can barely hear you. Are you coming to pick me up? I’m not home yet—“
“Josie, I can’t do this anymore.”
The frosty threatened to come back up into my throat. “What do you mean? Do what?”
She breathed audibly again. “It’s too confusing and too hard.” More pausing. “You deserve better than this.”
“Are you breaking up with me over the phone right now?” An unfamiliar combination of hysteria and humiliation exploded in my chest.
“I’m sorry.” She was whispering again. “Maybe someday but not now. I love you.” Her voice broke. “Please don’t call me.”
And she hung up.
- 40 -
Monday, March 25, 2019
Dana was waiting in my dark classroom, her face illuminated by the light from her phone. She was sitting at my desk with her travel mug in front of her.
I flicked on the lights. “Hey,” I said.
She looked up. “Hey.”
I walked closer to her and set my bag on the floor. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
She was following me with her eyes. “Yeah. I just wanted to check on you. I thought I might hear from you this weekend to … like … talk through some strategies for the board meeting or something.”
I sighed and sat down on top of a student desk. “Sorry. I finally told Cam about everything, and then I didn’t feel like talking about it much after that.”
“Oh, okay.” She wasn’t meeting my eyes.
“What? Why are you being weird?” I raised my eyebrows.
“It’s just … ” She hesitated. “People are really talking about you on Facebook. Some of it is positive from students and parents of students and even former students. But there are some people who just can’t let go of the fact that you touched Kate’s shoulder in class.” She finally looked at me, sadly, and added, “It’s not fair that anyone is judging you, and I just wish this wasn’t happening. If you hadn’t touched her—”
Narrowing my eyes, I interrupted, “It was completely innocent. Do you know how many shoulders I’ve touched in all of these years?”
Startled by my volume, she winced. “Yeah, but maybe that wasn’t the right moment to do it. I mean, maybe Kate’s wasn’t the shoulder to touch.”
I flinched. “Are you kidding? How was I supposed to know she likes girls? I may have a relatively accurate gaydar, but I may also have left my psychic powers at home that day.” My ears were hot. I got up and started pacing before adding, “I can’t do this right now.” I stopped pacing and looked at her. “And I definitely don’t need you telling me to feel guilty about something I’ve already lost sleep over.” I turned to walk away and stopped, turning back around to look at her. “Wait. Is anyone talking about me hugging her in the parking lot? They’re just talking about her shoulder?”
“From what I saw, that’s it. Listen, Josie, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be unsupportive or un … sympathetic.” Her eyes were pleading, but I was too defensive to hear what she was saying.
“I just wish for your sake that you hadn’t touched her because you haven’t done anything else that anyone could consider to be inappro—”
“Nothing I’ve done was inappropriate. Nothing.”
The bell rang, and she got up—the irony not lost on me when she put her hand on my shoulder before walking toward the door. When she got there, she turned around slowly and said, “I’ll be at that meeting to support you. I’ll always have your back.”
She turned and walked out as students began entering sleepily. I felt my pocket buzzing and took out my phone to see the same local number that had called the day before. I declined the call and wondered if they would leave a message this time.
The kids seemed especially quiet—even for a Monday morning. I tried all of my song and dance tricks to get them interested in participating, but nothing worked until I mentioned our poetry slam that would be coming up on Wednesday evening.
Several of them perked up and mentioned that they thought many people were coming, based on what the buzz was on social media. Josh reached into his backpack and pulled out a colorful paper that boldly read “SLAM POETRY JAM” in all capital, graffiti-looking letters, followed by smaller, bold black letters that read “Wednesday March 27 @6pm in the auditorium.”
“I’ve been putting this up everywhere there’s empty space,” he said proudly.
I nodded, impressed. “That is good-looking! Can I have one to hang up on my door?”
He handed one to me and asked, “Can we practice today after school? I know of at least five more kids who want to participate, and I can text them to tell them we’re having practice if you say it’s okay.”
“How about tomorrow? There’s a … ummm … meeting tonight that I need to go to.” I got out some tape from a desk drawer to hang the flyer on the outside of my classroom door, purposely not meeting anyone’s eyes. When I came back in, many of the students had taken out their identity poems, so I went with it. “We might as well spend the last fifteen minutes working on our poems. Go ahead and take it out if you haven’t already.”
While they got to work, I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check my calendar to be sure I was, in fact, free after school the next day, and I saw that I had a voicemail from that local number. Worried that it might have something to do with Liesel or Cam, I said to the class, “Hey, guys, I have to check my messages real quick. I’ll just be in the hall.”
I walked out into the hall, leaving the door ajar in order to hear any horseplay, and pressed the voicemail icon. A female voice said, “Hi, Josie. My name is Adelaide Foster, and I’m a reporter with the Dispatch. We got a call about your situation, so I checked out the school’s Facebook page to get an angle, and I just got confused. Would you mind talking to me to clarify some details? I’d like to write about it in tomorrow’s edition … after the school board meeting tonight, of course. Give me a call to set something up. Thanks!”
My heart was racing. What did she mean by my “situation,” and what were the multiple angles she was choosing from? I took a few journalism classes in college and am not a stranger to how reporters spin information to suit their biases. Was she trying to sound supportive, or was she just nosy? Was she being objective, or was she, like, a friend of the Andersons or Stonemans?
I thought for a few seconds and decided that if she was going to write the piece with or without my input—and it sounded like she would—that I should at least defend myself. If she was going to quote me, though, I had to be sure about what I wanted to say. Without significant premeditation, I normally end up oversharing, and that’s the last thing I wanted to do and have it end up in writing.
Almost forgetting why I had looked at my phone in the first place, I walked back into the classroom, checking my calendar to confirm I was free after school the next day—and I was. I told Josh to go ahead and spread the word.
I spent the rest of class walking around the room, helping kids with their poems and kicking myself for not doing a similar activity in years’ past. I was thrilled by their willingness to open up and play with words and spacing—even students who normally didn’t write or speak much.
With about two minutes left in class, there was a knock on the door. Josh offered to get it, and when he turned around after opening it, he was holding a bouquet of red roses.
“Uhhh, Mrs. R., these are for you.” He walked toward me and handed them to me, smiling shyly.
I took the roses from him, my eyes narrowed in their direction. Cam wouldn’t send me flowers at work. She’s never been that kind of girlfriend or wife. Who else would—
A small, white, rectangular card fell out onto the floor. Josh reached to pick it up just as the word “snowflake” caught my eye. I dove in front of him, our heads bumping together, and snatched the card.
“Sorry, honey!” I stood back up quickly, out of breath, holding the card in the palm of my hand facing away from everyone.
Josh rubbed his head and grinned. “Yikes! So am I!”
The bell rang, and the room emptied. Before my second period students arrived, I quickly scanned the card:
Dear snowflake,
Since you want so much attention, I hope 100 people ask you who these are from. Good luck at the meeting tonight.
I.C. You
- 41 -
Second period couldn’t go fast enough. As soon as the kids left my room, I closed the door and pulled out my phone, googling “Freedom Florist.” The first website listed was for a local flower shop that I had probably passed a million times but just hadn’t noticed. I clicked the link to the website and then the phone number at the top of the page.
“Freedom Florist, how may I help you today?” a friendly voice answered.
“Good morning. I received some roses from your shop this morning and was hoping you could tell me who sent them to me. The card doesn’t mention a name, and I want to be able to thank whoever it is.” I sat down in a student chair and tapped my foot quickly on the floor.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “I’ll do my best, but some folks don’t give names on purpose.”
“I get that,” I tried not to sound irritated, “but this is … important.” Closing my eyes, I brought a finger to my mouth and bit off some loose skin.
Her fingers clicked on a keyboard. “Where are you located, ma’am?”
“I’m at Benson High School. The order was for a dozen red roses.” I had set the roses on my desk horizontally, and no one in my second period class had noticed them. Looking at them now, I was struck by how expensive they had probably been.
Some more clicks. “Are you Josephine?”
“Yep, that’s me.” I rubbed my forehead, feeling a headache coming on.
“All I can tell you is that it was a female. My boss took the order, and he mentioned in the notes that, quote, ‘she was adamant about remaining anonymous’, and that’s all I can say.”
I forced a quick laugh. A woman. Now we’re getting somewhere. “Well, I know it wasn’t my wife because this isn’t her style. Any other notes on that order? Thanks again for checking.”
She was quiet for a few seconds and said, “Um, I really can’t help you. Have a good day.” My phone beeped with the end of the call.
“Hello? What the hell? Talk about lousy customer service.”
I took my phone away from my ear and stared at it for a few seconds. It was still displaying the florist’s website. This time, I noticed the title on the top of the page: Freedom Florist, Patriot Owned and Patriot Proud, backed by an American flag. Intrigued, I scrolled down, past some Easter specials and photos of sample bouquets. The bottom of the page read: A traditional family owned business since 1992
I thought about the words “traditional family” and shook my head, knowing those words were code for “Take your queer business elsewhere.” I.C. You—whoever she was—was clearly happy to patronize such an establishment, and who would be surprised by that? Not me.
But, seriously … what harm was she actually doing? What harm was she meaning to do? By mentioning the school board meeting, was she threatening to do something worse then?
I pictured the projector screen slowly descending from the ceiling behind the board members’ table. They would look around at each other with questions in their eyes: Did you press the button? Was it you? All chatter in the audience would die down as a giant version of my and Kate’s bodies appeared. My head would turn back and forth about twenty times in some sort of freakish edit of real time, and then the camera would zoom in on my hands resting on Kate’s back. Everyone in the room would gasp with horror and demand that I be fired on the spot.
“Josie! Shut. Up!” I said aloud.
But how unrealistic was that scenario, really? Besides the firing part. I didn’t think they could actually fire me for something so innocuous as a quick hug—unless it’s edited to seem longer than it was?
I was pacing again. Get a grip. I’m serious. You have the original video in your email, remember? If someone would show some kind of doctored version, you could show that one in response.
