The Inside of Out (17 page)

Then again, he was probably angling for an exclusive, now that my story was being reported all over the known world.

I eyed him warily. “How are your
articles
coming?”

He took a greedy gulp from his mug. “Good. Excellent, actually! My reports have been picked up by the Associated Press. I'm getting paid now!”

Bingo.
I arched an eyebrow.

“I know, right?” He sat back with a grin. “Pretty crazy.”

“So did you tell this PR guy that I was . . .”

I glanced around. Suddenly everybody looked like a journalist. Even the baristas.

“That you're asexual?” Adam peered over his glasses at me. “Like Morrissey?”

I didn't get the reference but chuckled along anyway.

“No.” He cleared his throat. “I don't think it would be such a great idea to let the cat out of that particular bag.”

“Or closet,” I said. “My group agrees. We had a vote.”

“Wow. That's . . . official.”

“But you . . .” I squinted at Adam so hard he scooted back in his chair. “You're a reporter.”

“Sort of,” he corrected, then sat up straighter, as if giving himself a mental pep talk. “Yeah. I'm a reporter.”

“So why didn't you
report
the truth?”

“Yeah. Um.” His fingers tapped nervously along the table. “It was a stronger story without that one detail. Your motivation for doing all this made more sense. Because honestly, Daisy? Even now? I don't really get it.”

I looked down at my phone, dodging the question—thinking about all the voicemail messages I needed to delete, and not a one of them from Hannah.

“Is it your friend? Your ‘everything'?”

I glanced back up at him, igniting with defensiveness, but he didn't seem to be teasing. He wasn't digging, either. No iPhone recorder in sight. All that was here was Adam, his hands quiet for once against the table, his hair tracing a Superman curl against his forehead, while behind his Clark Kent glasses, those dark eyes of his stared right into mine like they'd known me forever. Like they
cared
about the answer.

Maybe it was the hopelessness I'd felt when I walked in here, maybe the way my brain was rattled from trying to avoid protesters. Maybe the sugar rush from the cookie-soda combo. Or vertigo from Hannah's little “break.”

Whatever it was, my defenses were wobbling—and man, it felt good to knock them down completely. So I told him everything. About Hannah. And Natalie. Our histories. How uninvolved they both were in our cause. How, in fact, Natalie might have sabotaged us with the school board. How wrong she was for Hannah. How I was going to bolster Hannah's self-esteem, pull her from this tar pit of a toxic romance, and reclaim my rightful place as Hannah's person.

When I was done, the light outside had grown dim and Adam was staring at me as though I were a strange zoo animal that he didn't know existed. A mouse deer, maybe.

“So you're really doing all of this for . . .” His eyes darted around my face, searching for the answer among my freckles. “
Attention?
”

My breath caught. That word was so stark, so petty, so childish. It thudded in my head like the foot-stomp of an angry toddler.

“That . . .” I stood, sputtering. “That is
really
unfair.”

“Sorry.” He stood too, glancing around at the nearly empty room. “Badly worded.”

I sniffed. “I should go.”

“Okay.”

For exactly three seconds, I felt like dignity personified. Then I sighed.

“Can you give me a lift?”

On the way home, Adam decided to return the favor of my over-sharing. He talked about his big brother, Eli, how they'd been best friends until high school, when Eli learned to play the guitar and pick up girls.

“He wasn't a dick or anything,” Adam said, his voice soft, regretful. “He just had no time for me anymore. I wasn't interesting. I'm still not interesting, apparently. He's always touring, which makes things easier, but when we're back home together, our conversations are just . . . painful. We'll spend all of Thanksgiving this year trying to find ways to avoid each other.”

“Oh gosh, that's tough,” I said, my pulse quickening—with what? Panic? The idea of Adam spending fall break in New York did not sit well with me. It was the real city, wasn't it? He'd wake up on Thanksgiving morning as if from a dream, realizing that South Carolina was some stupid lark and that it would make all the sense in the world for him to stay at
home and enroll in an Ivy League program like Columbia. And I would never see him again.

I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets, fighting the growing urge to grab his shirt and beg him to teach me to drive—right here, right now. He was so
good
at it, with his smooth braking, suave glances over his shoulder before lane changes, and oh my God—that
gear
shift.

Was I some sort of driving fetishist? Where was that in the quilt bag?

By the time we pulled up at my house, I was feeling flushed, distracted, and more than a little bit sheepish. “Hey. So. All that about Hannah? It's—”

He touched my wrist and my voice stopped working.

“It's off the record. Like I said.” He thwapped my shoulder, a faux-stern look on his face. “Now start answering your phone.”

As I watched him drive away, I wondered if he'd call again, just to test me.

It took him four minutes.

“I'm answering,” I said.

“All right.” He laughed. “Talk to you later.”

It was harder than ever to focus, but I did, clicking my overloaded inbox back into existence. I wrote to the Huffington Post first.

“Thank you for your email! We'd love the opportunity to write a column.”

“Please hold for Mr. Montgomery.”

I scrambled into a vacant hallway, hoping the bustle of students transferring between classes wouldn't bleed through the call, making me sound juvenile.

Except he knew I was a student. That was sort of the point.

“Daisy!”

“Mr. Montgomery!” Too loud.

The man on the other end of the line chuckled. “Please, call me Cal—or I'll have to start calling you Ms. Beaumont-Smith, and that's way too many syllables.”

I liked him already.

From what I'd found online, Cal Montgomery was some sort of political strategist in DC. He worked for a big, shady consulting firm—the kind of people, I assumed, who helped cover up shocking scandals and get horrible laws passed for their clients. Cal didn't do much to change that impression.

“Our clients are generally corporations, politicians. I'd give you examples, but then I'd have to kill you.”

I laughed. He didn't.

“It's grunt work. But every once in a while, I get the chance to work on something I feel passionate about. When I read
Adam Cohen's piece on your homecoming event, I knew I had to be involved. Bottom line—I'm in town. I'm staying at . . . where am I?” There was a pause. “Charleston Place. I've got a two o'clock call, then I'm all yours.”

“We've got an Alliance meeting after school, at three. Everyone will be there.”

“So will I. See you then.”

Raina passed me, then doubled back, her head cocked quizzically. I grabbed her by the shoulders.

“A VIP-DC-PR guy just flew down to save us! Tell everybody to come to the meeting looking impressive!”

“Impressive?” Raina shook her head.

I motioned wildly to her sweater set and pencil skirt. “Like you!”

For a split second, I could have sworn I saw Raina light up, before she nodded briskly and hurried to spread the news.

As soon as the final bell rang, I raced to the administrative wing, in case the others hadn't gotten the memo. But when I got there, I found a surprisingly young man already settling in, hanging his cream seersucker jacket on one of the conference room chairs.

When he spotted me, Cal crossed the room with his hand outstretched.

“Your hair is
excellent
.” As we shook, he leaned away to examine me. “I love the blue. Very creative.”

“Thanks,” I replied, processing his compliment with suspicion. This was possibly the most clean-cut guy I'd ever seen. But something about Cal's squint told me that his “excellent”
meant “I can work with that,” not “That is an attractive hairstyle that my sister might want to try out at her wedding.” Either way, it was nice to be appreciated.

When the rest of the group trickled in, they were met with equal appreciation. Raina must have gotten to the others in time for them to primp. Sophie's plait was smoother than usual, Sean had changed out of his
Music Man
costume—even little Kyle had his shirt tucked in, no hoodie in sight. Jack was Jack, yacht club casual as always—i.e. perfect.

Once the niceties were done, Cal introduced himself. He repeated what he'd told me earlier, that he'd started his career by working on a bunch of political campaigns, but that now, as a consultant, he was able to seek out the occasional passion project to “vacation with,” as he put it. He seemed thrilled to be here.

We tried not to jump up and down in our seats. This guy was the real deal.

Then he clapped.

“Your turn! What's the status of the event?”

A nervous silence fell over the room. As I wilted, Sophie stood, that cast-iron smile seeming to pull her upward and hold her in place.

“We're having a few issues.”

While she described the problems that had popped up with our venue, Cal's expression didn't waver, making me suspect that he'd already gotten the lay of the land. So to speak.

After she sat, Jack piped up to report the good news side of the equation—the Twitter account he'd set up, the Facebook horde, the Homecoming Fund growing by the millisecond.

Then it was Raina's turn—and back to somber. The school board had sent a cease and desist to Raina's dad's office, assuming correctly that he was handling our counsel, ordering us to stop using the words “‘Palmetto' and/or ‘Pirates'” in any of our communications, along with any of the school's logos.

When she was done, Cal rose from his chair and leaned on the table with his fingers like he was about to pounce on it, Spidey-style.

“I have a plan,” he said, and we all burst into applause, then stifled it, so the room made a noise like:

“Yuh!”

Cal grinned. “Let's start with . . . Sophie, was it?”

She nodded nervously.

“Don't worry about the field. I'll work on the field. We'll find out who he knows, who can influence him, and we'll mobilize them. You keep focusing on logistics—and it sounds like you're doing a great job so far. Some vendors will donate to the fund in exchange for a presence here, so don't commit to anybody until we set our rates.”

We all glanced at one another, barely suppressing our giddiness. He knew what he was doing. And he was already helping us. This was going to happen!

“Jack. Great start. Seriously. The online buzz is what got my firm's attention. Now we're going to take what you're doing and amplify it through traditional media. You just keep going.”

As he turned to Raina, she closed her eyes and slumped.

“You're in a tough spot,” he said. “And I commend you for taking on the hardest aspect of this.” Raina raised her brows
in acknowledgment, her head downcast. “But what you see as a problem, I see as an opportunity.”

Her eyes flew open. She looked as confused as I felt. How could the school's threat of a lawsuit be anything but bad? We were being disenfranchised, cut off from our identity as Palmetto students, defeating the entire purpose of what we were trying to do.

“This event is no longer Palmetto's Homecoming.” Cal looked around to make sure he had our full attention. “It is
America's
Homecoming.”

We were all quiet for a long time, then dear, handsome, brave Sean, raised his hand and asked, “What does that
mean
?”

Cal gestured out the window, a sweeping motion that encompassed the protesters, the supporters, the field across the way. “This is big. Bigger than this town.” He adjusted his collar, feigning awkwardness. “No offense intended. I'm enjoying my visit, but—”

I snorted. “We get it.”

“It's a big field over there, if we can land it, and I have faith that we can. So why not open it up to any gay alum of
any
school? And not just gay. Anyone who felt shut out of their own high school experience because they were different. Anyone who had to hide who they were, for fear of being bullied or worse. This is their chance for a do-over. A do-
better
. This is everybody's homecoming.”

“Damn,” I said, breaking our stunned silence.

Cal rolled up his sleeves as he pointed at me. “You've got to remember, Daisy. Not everybody is as brave as you, out
and proud in eleventh grade. A lot of people are too scared to come out, and this could give them the courage to be who they truly are. You could be a real inspiration to them.”

Raina smiled coldly. “She's certainly a daily inspiration to us.”

Jack snorted and I kicked him under the table. Cal didn't notice. As he went on to describe a media plan, all of our eyes connected to one another's, drawing a grid, one stare at a time, conveying a clear message.

Daisy. Must. Stay. In. The closet.
Cal Montgomery, strategist extraordinaire, hadn't sussed out the big, fat elephant in the room.

“What about your girlfriend?” he asked, peering at his notes and up again. “Hannah, is it? Is she as comfortable as you are with the limelight?”

“Not really,” I said quickly as the energy in the room hardened into ice—Translation: Closet (See: Stay in the). “I think . . . she'd rather stay out of all this.”

Not a lie. Not a confession. Not bad.
I exhaled.

Cal nodded gravely. “I respect that too.” He sighed. “Shame, though. She's seriously photogenic.”

As he passed, he whapped my arm, like,
Good for you for scoring such a hot chick,
and then launched right into the next part of his outline, so he couldn't see me cringing.

Hannah. Natalie's girlfriend.
My
person. The reason I was here—and honestly, in the blur of everything that was happening, I'd hardly thought about her all day.

When we wrapped up the meeting, the light was fading outside, and many of the protesters had gone home, leaving a
skeleton crew of picketers, supporters, and news crews from neighboring towns, along with the football team, which appeared to have just gotten out of practice.

My mom was waiting across the street with the remaining counter-protesters. If I could just get to her without a QB encounter, my day would be—

“Daisy!”

I sighed, turned to say a quick good-bye and be on my way, but before I knew it, QB had his arm slung around my shoulder and was murmuring into my ear.

“Still coming to the game Friday?”

“Yep!”

Cal had actually insisted we all attend the game this week as a photo op for the publications that would want to get some rah-rah Americana shots to go with their story about how the Palmetto LGBTQ Alliance did and did not fit into the traditional high school experience.

“Awesome.” QB wasn't letting go. I was steering myself away and he was scraping behind me like a loose bumper. “Maybe afterward . . . we could talk some more? It really made me feel better last time.”

“I charge eighty dollars an hour.”

QB laughed as if I were joking.

One of the news crews in the parking lot seemed to have clocked us, the cameraman picking up his gear, probably thinking,
Is that the girl? She's got blue hair. But she's got a boy hanging all over . . . does not . . . compute . . .

Evading QB's grip, I whirled around and punched him on the arm like one of the guys.

It hurt my hand. I hid it.

“Tell you what,” I said. “When you guys win, I'll go out and celebrate with you.”

“Deal!” In a flash, QB's face lit up, and I was free.

The cameraman from the parking lot lifted his gear as I reached Mom in the field, having obviously decided this was a better photo op—me with my supportive mother on the site of our upcoming extravaganza, rather than me in some ambiguous conversation with a guy who was trying to hit on me. If I could just keep the cameras pointed this way for the next three weeks, I'd be fine.

“Who was that boy?” Mom raised her eyebrows, nodding after QB.

He chose that moment to wave.

“
Nobody,
” I sighed. “I'm gay, remember?”

Poor Mom looked more confused than ever.