Chapter 22: History Partners

I sat next to her for History classes when we were fifteen. The teacher always took forever to start the lesson, so we had a little time to talk. Her name was Louise. My deskmate—not the teacher. I thought she was chubby, but that was my celeb-calibrated mistake.

Anyway, I bring that up because, after a couple of weeks, I wanted to hug her. I wasn’t really the kind of girl who hugged her friends, though. I didn’t want to hug anyone else either.

Sorry if you can pick up on where this is going. I promise, I wasn’t playing dumb.

Other than wanting to hug her, I did really like sitting with her. It’s not like she was super funny or interesting or helpful or anything, but we clicked. I liked listening to her tell me about how she had to eat her brother’s cereal because hers ran out and her mum hadn’t gone shopping yet. I liked telling her about what my dog had got up to that morning, liked her giggles.

We didn’t talk much outside of History class. Different friend groups. This was a while back, so no one was really on social media. I wanted to hang out with her, I really did, but there was just this kind of rigidness about school. If I did something different, people might ask why, and I was terrified how to explain myself. That went for a lot more things than just Louise.

So, History class was kind of like our secret. I looked forward to those lessons. In the years before, I hated having something like History last period, such a drag at the end of the day. But now I loved having a few more hours to look forward to seeing her.

At first, we just talked at the start. But it only took a couple weeks before we were writing little notes to each other, trying not to laugh and get called out, trying to make her laugh and hear her giggles. Thankfully, we didn’t ever really get called out. A pointed look from the teacher shut us up quick.

After the notes, we started doodling on each other’s homework diary. It was just a sort of small planner with dates—keep track of when homework was due and other school things. Most of it went empty, so plenty of room.

I still have it from that year. She’d filled every page and every margin, mostly with drawings of my dog. Not that good at the start, not helped by my poor drawing either, but she had it down to a perfect doodle by the end. A lot of my stuff was “defaced” by her dog doodles.

As for me, I mostly did random lines and patterns, then moved on to song lyrics. And yeah, I listened to pop stuff. Britney Spears, Avril Lavigne, Ke$ha. A lot of kisses, euphemisms. She may have been in trouble a few times because of me—oops?

There were little touches too. You know, get the other’s attention. Then it became just messing about. Taking turns poking each other’s arm. But, if you get poked, you end up trying to stop them, right? So I’d go for a poke and she’d try to grab my hand. After a few seconds, she’d let go… and I’d try and poke her again. It kind of ended up with us pretty much holding hands. Helped that she was left-handed, so we could write and mess around.

Oh yeah, our “game” also meant that, like, I was very self-conscious about my nails. I kept them short and liked to paint them specially for History class days. I didn’t know if she did the same, but her hands were so pretty. Sometimes, I forgot about the game and just put my fingers between hers—so I could compare hers to mine. Soft too.

That softness was what moved my desire to hug her up a level. Stupid thoughts, like, “If her fingers are this soft, how nice would hugging her be?” And I really did think stuff like that. “Her arms are so fun to poke, hugging her must be nice.”

But it’s hard to go from not-hugging to hugging. Everything so far had been these tiny steps that didn’t offend the “rigidness” of school. And I wasn’t going to sit down and plan out steps to get there. That would be so weird. “Step 1: link arms. Step 2: tap her far shoulder like a joke. Step 3: pretend to be having a bad day and hope she offers a hug.”

Fuck that.

Anyway, that was the first couple months of the school year. Getting to the end of November, everyone talking Christmas, I thought about her a lot. Presents weren’t really something my friends did. Like, it seemed weird to ask our parents for money for that.

But I wanted to get Louise something. I wanted to give her something and see her smile. No clue what. Nail polish was what I kinda settled on, but that was pretty cheap. Not really a present present.

So I started asking her about things she liked, trying to be subtle. “Do anything over the weekend?” “You went shopping with your friends, did you buy something nice?” “D’you ever tie your hair up or not really?”

I felt so smooth, her answers giving me more to think about.

Then it suddenly didn’t matter.

A random day, no History class, I went to a random bathroom, feeling a bit bloated. I checked, thankfully no spotting yet. As I was getting ready to leave, someone sobbed. One of the cubicles had been closed, but I didn’t check it was locked, thought I was alone. And I mean, obviously I knew whoever she was had tried to stay quiet.

I’m not really a good person. But there’s something about crying in a bathroom that, like, you can’t not help. People don’t cry in bathrooms without a good reason.

I finished up, then stood by the closed door. “Are you okay?”

There was a long moment of silence before a voice I recognised said, “Danni?”

I kind of realised there. The pain I suddenly felt was too much, and I couldn’t say it was just because of the timing. But I didn’t have time to think about it. “What’s the matter?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

She sniffled, then said, “It’s nothing.”

“Great, you can tell me then. We always talk about stupid stuff, right?” I asked, trying to sound light-hearted.

Trying to be what she needed.

It took her a good ten seconds to open the door, which doesn’t sound long until you actually count it out. She looked like shit. Eyes red, makeup ruined, and she’d actually bit her lip, some blood that she’d missed when drying her tears.

“You really wanna know?” she mumbled.

I wanted to slap a bitch, but decided against telling her that. “Yeah, I do.”

She fidgeted, looking down, broken. “Jamie asked me out, but I turned him down. So he told me he was joking and no one wanted to date such a fatty and it was my friends’ idea.” That all came out in an avalanche, falling apart as she spoke.

And now I wanted to slap a lot of bitches. But I didn’t say that. “If I was your boyfriend, I’d love hugging you.”

It was stupid and cringe and thank fuck it got a laugh out of her. Softly smiling, she mumbled, “You don’t have to be my boyfriend to hug me.”

I heard that, froze for a second, then didn’t dare think about it in case I changed my mind. I stepped forwards and hugged her and she hugged me back. It was great. She felt just as cuddly as I always imagined.

But I quickly realised I didn’t want to hug her as a friend.

That got buried for now, focusing on comforting her. Gave her a big squeeze and told her she can always come hang with my friends. She thanked me. We let go and spent the rest of lunch just talking like we normally did, some giggles, some pokes, and I helped fix her makeup.

In the end, what Jamie meant was her friends had thought they’d make a cute couple, so they gave him a push. They were just as horrified as me by what he said—he wasn’t very popular after word got round.

I was happy for her, but was honestly a bit selfishly sad she wasn’t gonna join me and my friends. But we did now have a little hello-hug for History class, so that was nice.

And I slowly came to terms with my feelings. It was hard. I’d been jealous over girl friends before. Best friend stuff. I really wanted to convince myself that that was what I was feeling, that I wanted to be Louise’s best friend.

But, when I hugged her, I knew what I wanted. I knew.

It wasn’t okay to be gay. No one was out, everyone used gay and lezzie as insults. I had no clue what would happen if someone came out. Probably depended on who. I mean, honestly, if it was someone popular who didn’t “look” gay, they’d probably be fine. Anyone else, probably not.

So I buried it. I wasn’t some perv who spent all day fighting the urge to grope her. Plenty of people have crushes and don’t do anything about it. I mean, I felt a bit guilty about the hugs, but that kept me from taking advantage of her. My hands never wandered.

For Christmas, I bought her a set of graphite sketching pencils. My brother teased me about them, asking if they were for my boyfriend, and my mum didn’t help, the way she told him off making it sound like she thought the same. More “leave her alone” than “stop saying that”.

Anyway, Louise loved her present. She was upset at first because she didn’t get me anything, but I settled her, saying we didn’t agree on it, then she spent the rest of the lesson happily doodling on my homework diary. I didn’t even try to stop her.

History class wasn’t on our last day, though, so she managed to get me something before we broke up for Christmas. It was pretty awkward. She came up to me when I was with my friends and gave me a gift and scurried off, leaving all my friends looking at me like, “What the fuck?” I sort of brushed it off as thanks for comforting her that day—everyone knew what had happened by now.

They bought it, but still wanted to know what she got me, and I wanted to keep it all to myself. So that was fun. Spent the rest of the break basically fighting them off before I could get it safely in my bag.

At home later, I finally opened it: a little plush dog. Same breed and colouring as my pet dog. No idea how she managed to get it so quick, never asked. I kept her on my pillow or, if I was doing homework, on my desk.

I missed her a lot over the break. Only, like, two weeks, but felt so long. I thought about her all the time. It’s funny, I never realised that people really did feel happy when thinking about the person they fancied. I could lie in bed and spend an hour wondering what she was doing, imagining her sketching with the pencils, even wondering if she missed me, if she ever thought about me.

What that all meant was, first thing at our first History class I asked for her number. She giggled and gave it to me.

This was, like, just before smartphones got big. Definitely not something schoolkids had. Most of my friends (and me) weren’t even on contracts, just pay as you go, so every text and call mattered. We also only had family PCs, so we could chat online to each other, but it wasn’t exactly private.

I’m getting a little side-tracked.

So, I was teased more by my brother when I kept asking to top-up my phone. Annoyed by that, I started talking to Louise online, and then was teased for spending so much time on the PC. Yeah, I shouted at my brother a lot those days and he couldn’t understand why.

I didn’t even talk about anything with Louise, just stupid stuff like “sleep well?” and “ugh, I ate so much”. But it was worth the pennies every text cost.

Obviously, we still talked a ton when we had History classes. That was when she liked showing me her sketches. I didn’t even know she liked art before—and I later found out she didn’t. At the time, I just thought I was so amazing, picking out the perfect present. Lol.

All of that was fine. It wasn’t different. No one would ask me about it. We didn’t hang out. I wanted to, but all I could think about was, “What if someone I know sees us?” Just thinking about what I’d tell my friends made me so anxious.

Then, one day, we were talking online. Her parents were going out. Her little sister was staying over at a friend’s. “Do u wanna stay ova?”

“Yeah!!”

I brought the dog plushie, change of clothes. She lived close enough to walk. I didn’t want to get there and her parents were still around, but it was February and the sun set early, so I had to accept it. They were nice, though. Her mum told us to order pizza and ice-cream if we want.

It didn’t really feel real until they left. We watched them drive off from her room, sitting on her bed.

Silence, then she said, “It’s a bit weird still having sleepovers, right? Sorry.”

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I struggled with what to say for a few seconds, so just blurted out whatever. “Nah. We’re gonna have so much fun, right?”

It was hard to smile, feeling like an idiot, but she smiled back and let out a laugh and then it was hard to stop smiling. “Yeah,” she said.

We ordered our dinner, not wanting a stranger turning up in the dark, and I had to be “brave” and talk on the phone. No ordering online or from an app. Her parents left cash, so we added a bottle of Fanta to, like, not get any change back. Honestly, I don’t know if delivery drivers ever gave change.

While we waited, we went through her family’s DVDs. I think we chose Bridget Jones’s Diary? A lot of those old romcoms blur together. But we didn’t really watch it, just made fun of it. Renée Zellweger looked good in it and, maybe because we were Brits, the guys were just weird. Hugh Grant and someone? Anyway, we spent the whole time bitching about them until the food arrived.

“You want to try my pizza? It’s so tasty,” she said, offering me a slice.

It’s funny, I never had mushrooms before. They were just super weird. I didn’t think twice, though. The strange texture got to me a little, but I pushed through and smiled for her. “Yeah, it is.”

“Right? My friends all think I’m weird for having mushrooms,” she said, pouting.

We watched the rest of the movie and ate most of our pizzas, then the ice-cream. Neither of us said anything about it, but we shared the tub, two spoons. Not a big deal. I mean, sneaking a drink with friends, we’d share the wine bottle. Still, it felt nice. Close.

After the movie, we put on a channel with something interesting on, but didn’t watch. Ended up chatting. Both of us curled up on the couch, looking at each other, eyes wide and smiling, giggling.

She wanted to know all about me. When I shared funny stories from when I was a kid, her face just lit up. I was so embarrassed, but kept talking, happy to see her like that. My cheeks hurt from smiling and blushing, so hot it prickled.

When it was too much, I started asking her all the questions I’d ever thought of and whatever stupid ones came to mind. I mean, fuck, I even asked her if she preferred tampons or pads. And it only got worse from there, kinda turning into truth or dare without the dares.

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?” I asked.

She shook her head. “D’you like someone?” she asked.

I bit my lip, then slowly nodded, looking down.

“Really?” she asked, but she wasn’t excited like she’d just learned a secret. A whisper. Like she wasn’t sure if she should be happy or sad.

“Yeah,” I said.

The silence dragged in after that, not exactly awkward, but I couldn’t come up with a question to ask her. It’s terrifying for the person you like to ask that question. My heart pounded, kind of giddy. Exciting. Freeing. Almost like telling a lie to her face and getting away with it.

But I didn’t get to enjoy myself for long.

“Have you ever… thought of kissing another girl?” she quietly asked.

I swallowed, throat tight. After a second, I said, “I guess, when I drink, I get pretty kissy.”

“You drink?” she asked, surprised.

“Yeah? Kate’s sister buys us stuff. I mean, we don’t wanna get in trouble, so we don’t drink that much. But it’s nice getting tipsy. Like, you stop caring what other people think.” I knew I was rambling, but anything to get away from talking about kissing girls.

She listened closely, nodding along, then said, “That sounds nice.”

I smiled. “Well, just a couple more years, then we can go out drinking together.” I said that without thinking about it, but it sort of came out like a promise.

So she said, “Yeah, that’ll be great.”

The silence this time was nice. We just looked at each other, smiling. I didn’t really see her face much before. Couldn’t be too obvious we weren’t paying attention during lessons. And now, we weren’t talking, so, like, all my focus was on my eyes.

She looked so pretty. I wanted to poke her cheeks and pinch her nose and run my fingers through her hair, and I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to kiss her so badly. But just looking at her was great too. It didn’t feel awkward, didn’t feel boring.

Eventually, she looked away, fluttering her eyelashes. “It’s getting late.”

We ended up in her room, sat on her bed, looking out the window. The moon looked pretty, but I can’t remember if it was full or a crescent or whatever. I just remember it was pretty and that she sat so close to me, our thighs touching—the mattress dipping under us sort of sliding us together. I didn’t know what to do with my hand on her side, so I just idly rubbed my other arm.

Speaking so softly I could barely hear, she said, “You know… my friends talk about boys a lot. Who’s hot and stuff. But, like, I don’t really get it.”

My heart pounded. “I don’t really get it either. A couple of my friends have boyfriends and I’m just like, ‘You kiss him? Ew.’”

“Yeah, just like that,” she said, giggling.

Again, it was terrifying and exciting. Admitting so much, but not all of it. Thinking I could be a little more hopeful. Maybe she was a late-bloomer, maybe she didn’t like the guys at our school, maybe—maybe she was like me. Maybe she could like me. Maybe she liked me.

I didn’t dare hope, but I hoped a little more. Half a hope. Enough to let me dream, but not enough to make me do something I’d regret. Because, really, I knew there was no way. Life wasn’t that easy.

And part of that, well, I was just as prejudiced as everyone else. The more I loved her, the more I believed someone so pretty couldn’t be a lesbian. There was no way she couldn’t get a boyfriend. It didn’t matter if she didn’t like him, she could get one and be “normal”.

I didn’t think about how, if she was like me, then she wouldn’t want any boyfriend. That she already turned Jamie down. I didn’t think that I was a lesbian because I was ugly. It’s just one of those not-so-funny things about brains, right? You can believe all sorts of things that don’t agree. You don’t even know you believe half of them until someone calls you out or something happens.

Eventually, we went to bed. I thought maybe I’d sleep in her sister’s bed or they had a blow-up mattress or something. But her bed was bigger than a single. Not much, but big enough for both of us. The night cold, we snuggled up close. She held my hand.

And… that was it. It took a while, mind going crazy thinking about her, but I fell asleep. Probably woke up when her parents got back, but they were, like, past midnight late.

In the morning, we had cereal for breakfast, then I left before her parents woke up. Kinda felt guilty. If they teased us for sleeping in the same bed, I thought they’d see through me. Didn’t want that.

Anyway, it’s obvious to you now, right? Typing it out, I can’t believe how stupid I was. But that’s just how it was when I was growing up. I had to be scared. Like, my parents could have literally disowned me. Or, well, not literally, but, you know. My friends might have cut me off. If I guessed wrong and Louise was homophobic and told everyone, my life would have literally literally changed, and only for the worse. No one was gonna treat me better, but who knew how many people would treat me worse.

I didn’t understand Pride events for a long time. But I do now. It gets people talking. Even if all they say is, “I don’t mind if people are gay, but do they have to shove it in our faces?” that’s still better than the complete silence. Better than when being gay was a scandal, even if the celeb wasn’t married or dating anyone. You can at least, like, get an idea of how people might react to you coming out.

Without that, I was just terrified. As far as excuses go, I think that’s a pretty good one, and that’s why I never blame anyone for not coming out.

But we both had some hope. Really, hope is amazing. Hope lets you think about how terrible everything might turn out and still ask yourself, “What if it turns out okay?”

Wasn’t thinking that just the best? I didn’t dare think about telling my family or friends, but I imagined Louise felt the same way, dating in secret. Our parents wouldn’t think anything of it. Not like we’d have to worry about buying or throwing away condoms. Sleepovers all the time, go wherever. Could probably convince my mum to let us drink a bit—better than getting drunk at parties where boys were around. Even our friends would just think we were besties.

Being a teen, a secret relationship is so romantic. Everyone’s so judgemental.

Where were we?

Right, I stayed over her house for the first time. Nothing changed. Everything changed. History classes were the same as ever, us messing about, but it felt so different. She started leaving little hearts on my homework diary, I searched for really romantic song lyrics. Instead of poking each other, we kind of held hands under the desk and fidgeted, little pinches and squeezes. After doing that for a month, we played “skirt chicken” where we’d both slowly slide each other’s skirt up their thigh until one of us broke—we never really went far, but that didn’t mean my heart wasn’t pounding every second of it.

Sorry, it’s really painful by now. Double sorry, the ending isn’t that good either.

Nearly time for the Easter holiday, I was trying to think of how to see her, checking what movies were coming out and stuff. But she didn’t let me get to it.

No, she dragged me off after our last History class, ending up in the toilets. We waited for the few girls who’d rushed after class to leave, then I asked, “What’s the matter?”

We were just together in class, so I had no clue what she couldn’t have told me there. But I soon learned. “Um, well, Vicky got a boyfriend yesterday. And now… I’m the only one who hasn’t… kissed someone,” she said, her voice getting quieter by the word.

“I mean, it’s no big deal. I never kissed a boy either,” I said, uncomfortable with talking about it.

For a long moment, she just stood there, her face making all kinds of expressions before ending in a slight pout. A couple seconds later, she asked, “But you kissed a girl, right? I don’t want to be left out, so maybe you can show me?” After a second, she laughed, not meaning it. “Just kid—”

“Okay.”

She froze, I felt like I was going to faint, heart racing. Slowly, she turned to me with a blank expression. “Really?” she asked.

“It’s not like kisses with girls mean anything,” I said, anything to make this happen.

“Yeah,” she mumbled, then smiled and said again, “Yeah, they don’t.”

So we went into a stall, closed the door behind us, and, well, kisses don’t have to mean anything, but ours did. She looked so beautiful, eyes closed and chin up, lips pursed, and the second I kissed her, we were glued. Everything I wanted and more. I mean, I thought about kissing her a lot, but never thought about her kissing me. Feeling her kiss me back, hearing her breaths come out as gasps, her hands hesitantly holding my waist. And I got to run my hand through her hair, idly curling it around my finger as I gently held the back of her head.

No joke, we kissed, like, twenty more times before I actually asked her out. And she wasn’t all like, “But we were going out this whole time?” God, we were both so stupid.

We still are too.

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