Under the Lights

I nod. “You’re welcome. And you might even hear from me once or twice.”

She leans over and pecks me on the cheek, tells me to call her before I go and to travel safe. Then she heads back to her girlfriend, her best friend, her life.

And I head out to mine.

I don’t go straight back to Malibu, though. Instead I have Ronen steer me to the house I usually avoid like the plague. But when we pull up in front of my parents’ Bel-Air monstrosity and I roll down my tinted window, it’s obvious nobody’s home. The entire place is dark, and both cars are gone. Fuck Thanksgiving, I guess; they’re certainly not thankful for me. Or each other.

“Are you going to ring the bell?” Ronen asks.

“Nah. Let’s just go back to Malibu.” I roll my window up and drop my head back as we pull away. If I ever had any doubts that leaving was the right move, they’re gone now.

And in a matter of hours, I will be, too.

Chapter Twenty-Eight Vanessa

Dear Vanessa, I love you on Daylight Falls—you are the perfect Bailey! But I don’t understand why’—that’s the letter Y, by the way,” Bri clarifies, shifting onto her other elbow amid the piles of letters surrounding her prone body on my bed, “‘you have to be gay. You obviously like boys on the show.’” She looks up. “Do you want to know all the horrible spelling mistakes, or should we just go ahead and drink?”

I turn in my desk chair and curl my legs up underneath my butt. “Hmm, I’d say drink, but does that one get a full shot for ‘Why do gay people have to tell us they’re gay when I don’t have to tell people I’m straight’? Or just a sip for ‘Obviously you’re not gay if you kiss boys all the time’?”

“Hmm, tough call. Maybe two sips.”

I pick up the Thermos we’ve been sharing — a combo of raspberry Bacardi and Fresca — take two sips, and pass it over before turning back to my e-mail. “There are a whole lot of wonderfully sweet teen girls praying for my eternally damned soul. Aren’t concerned fans the best?”

She puts the Thermos down on the floor instead of drinking from it and rolls up into a sitting position. “Don’t forget about all the letters and tweets thanking you,” she says softly, gesturing for me to join her on the bed. I do, letting her wrap me up in her arms from behind. “The people hating on you don’t matter, Park. The ones who need to see a queer girl actually making it in Hollywood — a queer girl of color, no less? They really, really do. And you matter to them, so much. And to me, by the way.”

“Oh, whatever,” I tease, but a little shudder goes through my body as she presses her lips to the back of my neck.

“Not ‘whatever,’” she grumbles into my ear, resting her chin on my shoulder. “You wanted to be a good role model with that stupid purity ring crap, and now you are, with something you actually believe in.” She keeps one arm wrapped around my waist and reaches out for an open letter with her free hand.

“Look at this one. ‘Dear Ms. Park, I’ve been trying to figure out how to come out to my best friend for two years. When I saw you rip off the Band-Aid on TV, I realized I should, too. Thank you for making me feel like it’s okay to be who I am.’” She holds it up in front of my face so I can see the purple scrawl. “How can you even for a second give a damn about people quoting the Bible at you when you get something like that?”

I can’t help smiling at that, and at the knowledge that her best friend was every bit as cool about it as mine was. I just hoped her parents were cooler. I’d only spoken to mine once since my coming out hit the airwaves, and it was to listen to them declare it all “yet more Hollywood nonsense.” I haven’t spoken to them since. They’ve never even seen my apartment, and I’ve been here almost a month, filling it piece by piece.

And Bri’s stayed here almost every night.

“It’s hard not to care about people who seem to think I’m a different person somehow,” I admit, feeling my throat grow thick with tears I’m tired of shedding. “Even—”

My cell phone rings, cutting me off, and I instantly grow cold. I just spoke to Ally an hour ago, and obviously Bri’s right here, which means the odds are high it’s yet another reporter who somehow got my phone number. I reach behind Bri — I know it’s somewhere in these sheets — and snatch it to shut it up.

It’s my mother.

Bri looks at me questioningly, and I mouth “my mom” to her.

“Pick it up!” she urges, so I do.

“Hi, Mom,” I say cautiously, eyeing Bri to make sure she doesn’t go too far, just in case I’m in for another evisceration.

“Vanessa.” Her voice is stiff, but not icy. “Your father’s here as well. I’m putting you on speakerphone.”

Oh, good, a double whammy. No way this can possibly be horrible.

I wait until the static settles on the other end, and then my father says, “Hello, Vanessa. How are you?”