Just Me

By Deidre Huesmann, Roxas James, Medeia Sharif and Kate Larkindale

Love is in the air...
JUST ME is a hand-picked collection of stories about self-discovery and being true to yourself. This LGBTQ+ young adult anthology is not afraid to take on real issues facing today's teens.

"Witty, fast-paced, and well written."

Wilde Girls by Deidre Huesmann
Broken Rules by Roxas James
Bullet Me by Medeia Sharif
We'll Always Have This by Kate Larkindale

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Apr 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9780369501608

Book preview

WILDE GIRLS

Deidre Huesmann

Copyright © 2020

Chapter One

You won’t catch me dead in a dress, heels, makeup, or anything else traditionally girly. Not because I’m not like other girls, I’ve just never been comfortable in the traditionally feminine. Mom says I’m trying too hard to make a statement. Dad says flannel looks good on me, so screw what anyone else thinks. Honestly, I think they’re both right.

That said, I do have a traditionally feminine weakness, and it’s for lavender perfume.

True lavender, not the faux-flower, saturated, migraine-inducing alcohol you can buy at the local lingerie shop and use to light your worst enemy’s locker on fire, though that has its uses. Seriously, it doesn’t take much, just some spare flame-retardant tubing, the perfume, a lighter, and one or two good friends to watch out for teachers.

But that’s another story.

The point is, only one shop sells the real stuff. Downtown Port Orchard has this little knick-knack store—more of a hole, to be honest—run by the sweetest old lady you’ll ever meet. Appropriately named Rosella Wilde, she runs Wilde Flowers, and almost everything is made from her garden. Incense, bookmarks, jewelry, potpourri, bottles of herbs, garlands, and bundles more. The floral scents wrap around me like a heavy comforter.

I pick my way past stands of flowers, pausing to admire an assortment of modest dried bouquets wrapped in colorful paper and silver-plated cord. Spring is giving way to summer, which means her collection is at its most colorful. The fresh bouquets flaunt pastels and clear primaries, while the dried fondly hold on to the nostalgia of fall and winter.

Here again, Aislynn?

Rosella sits on a wooden stool at the front counter, her deeply creased fingers weaving a colorful garland. She’s old enough to be most people’s grandmother, but you’d be stupid to underestimate her. She runs the store alone, jogs with her three golden retrievers every other day, and grows all her own herbs and vegetables in a garden that would put the Brooklyn Botanic to shame. Some people even say she’s a witch. I’m pretty sure she’s just naturally beautiful, with skin like the smooth, dark wood you’d find after stripping bark from a tree and white hair that floofs from her head like a cheery raincloud. A while ago her grandson introduced her to temporary colors, and since then I swear her hair changes every week. Today it’s a wild array of pink and yellow streaks.

You can call me Ash, you know. I watch her hands nimble their way across the unfinished garland. I love the colors.

Rosella tsks and deftly chooses a wild buttercup from a small cluster at her side. Ash is the end of the fire. Aislynn is a smolder that’s just begun.

Coming from anyone else, it’d be corny, but Rosella’s so genuine I can’t help but smile. Right.

Rosella peers down at the quarter-made garland, her purple-stained lips lifting in a smile. It’s for my granddaughter.

Are Tuomas and Andi having another one?

In a way. A bell-pealing laugh tumbles from Rosella’s throat. She doesn’t know I know, but she’s not exactly subtle about it, either. The way she carries herself is a dead giveaway.

"Oh … oh! I clasp my hands over my mouth, determined not to cry. Then your grandson…"

Rosella waves dismissively and weaves the last buttercup into the garland. "She says Natalie is just a nickname, but I’ll be punked if I ever heard of a Joshua going along with the nickname Natalie."

My heart swells. This is another reason I visit Wilde Flowers so often—this very reason. Rosella’s well-known for her open heart, regardless of who you are. Mom’s church claims the same thing, but you’ll still hear sermons about the devil and gays, the temptations of wicked women porn, and how you will be judged regardless of what your human companions do.

Wilde Flowers is the queer sanctuary. Where people like me belong, because Rosella doesn’t add qualifiers to her love.

That’s great, I whisper. Congratulations.

Rosella chuckles and sets down the garland. When she stands, the familiar pop of her hip makes us both wince.

I’m getting too old for this, she complains. Aren’t you eighteen yet, Aislynn? I need a protégé.

An apologetic smile tugs the corner of my mouth. Sorry. Still another year and a half to go. Besides, I add, looking sheepishly at the low ceiling, I’m horrible with plants.

Dry flowers grin down at me. A small petal whispers from the ceiling, circling and landing on my glasses. Dozens of dry bouquets are donated to Wilde Flowers after weddings. Since big flashy weddings are on their way out—a result of fighting the patriarchy, I assume—so is the tradition of shaming your single girl friends. Once Rosella caught on to the newer trend, she offered to immortalize the bouquets herself. It’s been a surprising hit, since it nets nobody extra money, but it does add a touch of personality and history to her tiny store.

Rosella appears to shake off her sore hip as she strides to the back—which, from what I can see, is a tiny closet that happens to lead to a rear exit. She bustles in with another bundle of flowers and sets it on the counter.

Well, don’t let me keep you, she says with a smile. You’re here for the lavender, right?

You bet.

She points. Perfumes are in the far-right corner now. Try the lavender with vanilla essence. You might like it.

Thanks.

I wander back and quickly find the display: cute little transparent bottles filled with clear liquid stacked on a dozen layers of glass, heart-shaped shelves. Each bottle is carefully labeled in gold paint. I quickly find my favorite selection with ribbons of rainbow stripes.

Rosella thinks of everything and tries all kinds of cool combinations. Lavender with vanilla, lavender with chai, lavender with rose and clove, lavender with thyme … every single one smells good, but nothing beats the original.

A faint tinkle of chimes sounds from the door, and Rosella greets the customer like an old friend. I’m too busy sniffing various scents of lavender to hear their hushed conversation.

I do hear the sound of chunky heels behind me. Then I see a thick brown arm reach around my head. A soft voice mutters, ’Scuse me.

My heart beats a war drum in my chest.

The hand plucks a bottle of chamomile and honey perfume. I can’t help but follow it, heat flooding my face, tingles sweeping my body. The girl stops when I meet her eyes, and recognition slowly dawns on her face.

Aislynn, she says stiffly.

Phoenix, I say just as stiffly.

Yes, her name is Phoenix, and you can see why just by looking at her. Tall, curvy, and elegant, her red shirt blazes across brown and sun-darkened skin, wild black hair frizzing out like smoke from a fire. I’ve heard her mom call her fat, but Phoenix’s every curve is perfectly proportionate, and she rocks any clothes she feels like throwing on that day, her waistline be damned. Her eyes are the color of cinnamon highlighted by gold and today her mouth is orange, bright orange, pursed as she looks me over.

She’s so pretty and I hate her so much.

I thought you were in Utah, I say.

"It’s not like I was banished there. She assesses me with distant cool. Still. Didn’t know you shopped here."

Didn’t know you’re allowed five feet away from your mommy, I shoot back.

I can see your retorts are the same as fifth grade.

You haven’t changed your makeup since seventh.

One of her penciled eyebrows raise. "Dios mio, you could do with some lip gloss. How can you survive with a mouth that chapped?"

Since I’m not constantly kissing the ass of the church, I guess I haven’t noticed.

We glare at each other, neither willing to back down. The air crackles with electricity. I swear I can smell it swelling and thickening with moisture, just like before any northwest thunderstorm.

I keep waiting for it. The same insults she had for me two years ago. Butch. Dyke. Rug-eater. Insults she’d slip into my ear when she walked by, tiny notes she’d leave in my locker.

It’s hard to be a bully at our school since it actually gets shut down pretty quickly. Phoenix always had to wedge in her cruelty on the sly. Maybe that’s why her vocabulary sounded like it was from a bad nineties movie—no one talks like that anymore, except certain bigots and closed-off religious communities.

To my surprise, Phoenix is the one to break eye contact. She does it with such breezy cavalier that it somehow makes me look like the weak one. I have better things to do than tango with you, Ash.

Aislynn. We’re not friends.

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug, her red shirt lifting to reveal the barest curve of hip above her jeans. Bye, Ash.

I grit my teeth as she saunters to the front desk, noticing the pleasant crushed velvet her voice takes on when she talks to Rosella.

When Phoenix talks to anyone else, she’s a whole different person. Charming, affable, infectious—her energy reaches me across the shop, roiling in frothy waves like the seafoam mermaids become in the old stories.

I realize I’m staring too long and turn back to my perfumes. Now the scents are acrid and sour, sliding down my throat like bile.

How can one person ruin my day so quickly?

I hyper-focus on my task until bells chime again. Once I confirm Phoenix is gone, I grab a bottle of my usual and walk up to the counter.

Rosella raises an eyebrow when I thump the bottle down too hard. What happened to your good mood?

I look at the door, unsure how to answer. What slips out is, You know Phoenix?

Rosella’s cheeks wrinkle in a big smile. I’ve been friends with her mother for years.

Weight latches to my chest like quick-drying cement. I see. As Rosella rings me up with her old-timey register—clicking and clattering as the ink bars smash into thin receipt paper—I say, I thought she moved to Utah two years ago.

She did. Rosella puts my perfume in a small paper bag that boasts a recycling print on one side. Another thing I love about her—she’s environmentally conscious. But she’s back.

Great. That means I’ll probably see her for our senior year. Not exactly how I wanted to spend what’s left of my scant time in high school.

You know, says Rosella as I take my purchase. She asked about you.

Who? Phoenix? I’m skeptical. I didn’t hear anything.

Not today. Rosella settles back into her creaky chair, firmly twining flowers into the now half-finished garland. Last weekend.

I blink. Why would Phoenix ask about me? Before she’s seen me, even?

My questions must be all over my face, because Rosella adds, She wanted to know if you were still in town.

Anxiety edges my voice. Why?

Didn’t say. Rosella seems oblivious to my worries, a strange smile on her lips. Whatever your histories, though, I’m sure things will look up. Two years can make a huge difference.

Considering we’re already at each other’s throats, I’m not so sure. Still, I don’t want to cause Rosella any concern, so I just say, Maybe.

She flashes me a conspiratorial smile. I’ll see you again soon, Aislynn.

Yeah.

As I leave the store, the door struggles against me and rips out of my thin fingers, slamming harder than I intended yet reflecting my dour mood. Wind cuts at my face, a tempest that wasn’t there before, as though Phoenix had brought all her dark energy with her.

More realistically, it’s the fickle weather of the northwest.

Phoenix, I mutter, crumpling the tiny bag in my hands. Passersby give me odd looks as I scowl at the street, but I can hardly pay them any mind, too preoccupied with the emblazoned image of her fiery lips and cinnamon eyes. Why’d you have to come back?

Only wind and the barest spatters of rain answer me.

Chapter Two

The school year ends with a whimper, exactly how I like it. Friends hoot and scream as everyone floods out the front door. A group of boys throw hacky sacks at each other, completely ignoring that they’re supposed to use their feet. Girls are intercepting and running away while the guys chase them down. Among the chaos, my friends and I slip around the side of the school to wait for our buses. The waiting area is dense with spring grass, cutting lines of concrete, and students of every creed and color.

"I’m so ready for summer. Milo stretches his arms toward the sky. His backpack straps strain against his shoulders. My uncle’s taking me crabbing next week."

Lucky. I’ll be stuck in the south all month. Reika adjusts a clip in her hair. She has the striking appearance of a model, only tiny and cute, like one of those characters you’d dress up and help romance a bunch of straight dudes in an otome game. Which is funny, because Reika is what some might call a lipstick lesbian. She prefers the term sordid sapphic.

What’s down there? I ask.

Her nose wrinkles, a tiny smattering of freckles along with it. Relatives.

She says the word with such disdain that Milo and I immediately understand. Relatives can only mean those who cannot understand the queer life.

Where at? asks Milo.

San Antonio.

Texas?

I pull out my phone and unlock it. San Antonio’s not so bad. Pretty blue, right?

If you’re twenty-one and can hit the gay bars, maybe, grumbles Reika. But no, I’ll be in the butthole region, high-class neighborhood where white people own the same color and style houses and their personal chefs deep-fry every meal in lard. No offense.

Milo and I shrug. She’s right. White people be like that.

If I go crabbing again at the end of the month, I’ll save the biggest one for you, says Milo.

Reika’s posture straightens at that. Her eyes shimmer. Really?

Yeet. Milo side-hugs her and kisses the top of her head.

Shaun won’t mind? I open my internet browser and glance up. Shaun should be meeting us, but he’s late. As usual.

Milo snorts. I’m already saving my first catch for him.

I thought he was spending the whole summer with you, says Reika.

He was, but he failed big time on his finals, so he’s getting tutored.

Reika and I both make a face. We’re not A-plus students ourselves, but the mere prospect of having a relaxing summer snatched from under our feet made us double down on our studies.

As though reading my mind, Reika says, I told him to join us, but n-o-o-o, you guys had to go off and neck each other.

Milo’s face brightens. Don’t say it like that. What are you, eighty?

Necky-neck-necking, neckiting each other all day long, says Reika.

Stop! Milo covers his ears with a whine. That’s so gross.

"You were the one necking." Reika’s voice raises until Milo turns from her, shouting la-la-las until other people are staring.

I grin at their antics. The first half of summer won’t be as much fun without them.

As I’m double-checking for any places Reika might be able to escape down south, Reika asks, Who’s tutoring him, anyway?

Oh—man. You’ll get a kick out of this. Milo frantically waves for my attention. Ash, you won’t believe…

Buses roar into the parking lot, drowning out what he says. The stench of expended gas and old oil overwhelms us to coughing. My bus shifts as the driver shuffles about, ignoring the clamor of students newly freed and eager to go home.

Text me, yells Reika as she runs toward her bus. Don’t make me suffer summer alone!

Milo and I wave as she boards. I turn to him as the sun emerges from behind a gauzy cloud, highlighting his amber hair with filaments of bronze. What were you saying?

The bus doors swish open. Kids surge forth, hollering, burying Milo’s words. He gives me a helpless shrug and makes an after you motion. I mock a skirtless curtsy. In our rush to find a seat together, the conversation is put on hold.

Even the bus smells like freedom, like the incoming glory of over-buttered popcorn in cool movie theaters, the sweat and salt of sports and briny beaches. Milo and I squeeze into a seat near the back. The plastic squeaks hot under my thighs.

So? I try again.

Oh, man, Ash. He pulls out his phone and eyes it with worry. Shaun’s being tutored by—crap, he’s so late…

Milo!

Sorry, sorry. Milo presses his face to the window. His reflection knits his eyebrows above a smooshed nose. But you remember Phoenix, don’t you?

Phoenix. Again, Phoenix. Her name crawls along my skin, every letter snagging fine hairs until my head thumps the seat ahead of us.

Ash?

I sigh over his worry. "Yes, Milo, I remember Phoenix. Don’t tell me she’s tutoring Shaun."

If Shaun’s even alive, mutters Milo beneath his breath. His antsy blue-eyed reflection skitters across the glass. I’m going to kill him myself…

He’s always late. And always missing the bus. Why’re you so worked up? Not that I’m super-interested in prying Milo’s life open like one of his beloved crab dinners, but Shaun’s a way better subject than Phoenix.

Her cinnamon eyes flare through my mind. My own eye twitches involuntarily.

At my question, Milo’s cheeks brighten into his forehead. Uh … y-you know, no real r-reason…

Oh, geez. I know that stammer. H-he’s so cute I can b-barely stand it, Ash. Or, What d-do I even s-say to a guy that hot? Or my favorite, Ash, he asked about … y-you know … my favorite c-c- … c-c-c-condoms…

Uh-huh. I try not to grin. I’m sure he’ll catch up with you.

The bus grumbles back to life. Milo detaches from the window, leaving a dejected stream of nostril-breath on the glass. I guess … but he’ll be busy with the tutoring.

I flinch.

Milo presses on, not even looking at me. "I was surprised, you know? Didn’t realize Phoenix was back in town. But man, the rumors around her are nuts—"

Yup, pretty crazy.

He shoots me a sideways, knowing look. You’ve heard?

Oh yeah. All the rumors. Totally crazy. No way am I letting him know I saw her already. Mentioning Phoenix is like mentioning Bloody Mary—someone’ll be tempted to say her name one too many times, and then there’s only tears, horror, and bloodshed.

Milo narrows his eyes. Liar.

No, seriously, I heard, um… I wrack my brain for a quick, believable excuse. I heard one that she got pregnant and kicked out of her church, so she moved back with her mom here. But she doesn’t look pre…

I trail off, realizing my error. Milo watches me with raised eyebrows.

That’s, uh… This time I come up blank.

You already saw her, he accuses.

I blow air up at my bangs. They’re getting long again. I’ve been thinking about getting a buzz-cut.

"Don’t change the subject. Girl, he drawls, lilting into a more comfortable speech pattern now that school’s metaphorically further and further away. You didn’t say you saw her! Is she still smoking hot?"

A groan catapults past my lips. Of course she is.

Where’d you see her?

At Wilde’s, I admit.

Milo’s eyes widen. Huh.

Huh, what?

He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut.

Ire rankles my neck. "What, Milo?"

Nothing, nothing. He blows out a terse breath and looks out the window. Anyway, Shaun’s grades should improve if she’s helping. She was aces in chemistry.

Part of me wants to strangle the truth out. The other part is tired of wasting my brain-space