Normal, as Defined by Her

My dad always told me, “Jessie, no matter what people tell you or how you are judged, you are normal.” I was his perfect little daughter, the star student, faultless.

The first time I felt different, I was in middle school. Her name was Claire, a new girl. She was beautiful. Short, a round face, the perfect image of someone who could break my heart.

When I came home and told my dad, he shrugged it off. “Jessie, it’s just a silly school crush, you’ll grow out of it.”

But the next day, the first time Claire held my hand, I tingled. I felt lightheaded.

I wanted to hold her hand forever.

And, no, I didn’t grow out of it.

#

           Claire came home with me one day at the end of the eighth grade, for a sleepover. I introduced her as my “friend”, and my dad was warm, chatty, and friendly. He cooked us Chicken Alfredo, with a homemade sauce that was heavier than him.

           I kissed Claire that night. We were sitting on the couch watching Mean Girls. I gave in to the suffocating need to taste her.

           My dad saw us. He sent her home.

           That night, after Claire had gone, my father sat me down and said, “We need to talk.” The atmosphere was heavy. I was nervous, feeling I did something wrong, but not sure what it was. I will never forget what he said.

           He told me, “Jessie, you are confused. I know you want to find answers, but we do not kiss girls. It is sinful, and God won’t accept you into Heaven if you go down this road. You. Like. Boys.”

           So, I played with dolls like a good daughter, I dressed in feminine clothes like a good daughter, and I came home with boyfriends like a good daughter.

           My father was happy, but I wasn’t. Those boyfriends, the guys I dutifully dated, never once made me feel whole. I did not know it, but that was the day I decided to leave.

#

           Now, I am sitting in this pub in Oxford, England, listening to too-loud pop music. I am an entire ocean away from my father. A pretty girl sits just a few feet away from me, and I have to accept now, I know now, that I will never be the version of normal that my father imagined.

           I nervously tap my chewed nails against the sticky bar counter. I’m wearing orange dress pants, a black tank top. I should look good, but I feel I’m a shadow, barely noticed.

           The girl across the bar is beautiful. She makes the moon and the stars look mundane.

           I have to talk to her.

           I chug the rest of my Prosecco. My heart threatens to jump out of my throat, but I force myself to act, to make my way across the room. My hands are shaking with every step. Does my hair look okay? Are my curls too flat?

           I’m there. I tap the girl on the shoulder, and she turns to face me. Her green eyes widen, her eyebrows lift. The bass of “Gasolina” pounds in my ears and someone bumps against me to get to the dance floor.

           “Buy you a drink?” I ask, shouting to be heard over the music.

           She tucks her red hair behind her ear and smiles. “Aperol Spritz?”

           When I come back with two drinks, the girl says, “It took you long enough.”

           “What?”

           “You’ve been eyeing me all night. I wanted to go home an hour ago, but I was waiting for you to pluck up courage.”

           Something rises in my throat; my dad’s voice is in my head. It’s sinful, Jessie. God will not accept you into Heaven. My face reddens, and I glance back at the exit. I can run again, run like I always have. It would be easier.

           But running won’t stop how I feel.

           I don’t run; I face this red-haired beauty. She has a fine slit in her eyebrow, a tiny scar. “I didn’t know if you were interested in women.”

           “How are you supposed to find out unless you talk to me?”

           “I’m just not used to it—to talking to women.”

           “Lucky for you, I’m nicer than I look.”

           I grin. I tell her my name is Jessie.

           The girl smiles. She is delicate and beautiful, a rose. I would give anything to plant her in my garden, anything to say she is mine.

           Her name is Eliza.

           I nod to Eliza, but my tongue has been stolen, and all I can do is stare like a dumbfounded child.

           Eliza laughs. “Jessie, this is where most people say something like, ‘It’s nice to meet you.’”

           I take a deep breath, look out the window. An urban fox scurries into an alleyway. I look back at Eliza, breathe again. “Listen, I really, really, have no idea how to talk to a woman. I’m hopeless. But by God, you’re attractive. Can we try this again?”

           Eliza grabs my hand, and, without another word, she pulls me toward the front door. We step outside into the cool night. It’s darker than usual and the moon is covered with storm clouds—typical UK weather. I breathe in deeply. I face Eliza and soak her in.

           She’s tall. Her green jumpsuit compliments her pale skin; her high cheekbones are peppered with freckles. She is thin, almost bony.

           “Thank you,” I say.

           “You sound American,” Eliza says. “What brings you to Oxford?”

           My father pops into my head again, his words echo in my skull. You don’t belong here. Get out. Pack your bags and go.

           I don’t tell Eliza this. Instead, I say, “I needed a change of scenery. Someone once told me I needed to learn how to be normal.”

           Eliza scoffs. “Normal is overrated, at least how everyone pictures it. Normal is what makes you feel like you.”

           “I think I’m starting to get that.” I look at her, my cheeks burning.

           She grabs my hand again, gently pulls. “Would you like to come home with me?”

           My heart thuds in my chest. My brain tells me to run in the other direction. Sinful, sinful. Sinful little girl.

           But I nod.

#

           The next morning, I am wrapped in one of Eliza’s bathrobes, sipping on English Breakfast tea from a chipped enamel mug. Eliza is in front of the stove, cooking sausage and fried eggs.

           She glances back at me. “You didn’t come just for a change of scenery, did you?”

           “No,” I answer slowly, “it’s a little darker than that.”

           I set down my mug. “I had just graduated high school, working part-time as a waitress at a local breakfast joint—Molly’s. Somehow, I had managed to get the number of a girl I’d served, a sweet Latina with a no-bullshit attitude, named Maria. I was tired, sneaking around my father like a thief, so I sat him down and told him I was gay. I said I was going on a date with a woman. He said, ‘If you go out on this date, don’t come back.’

           He might as well have reached into my chest and pulled out my heart. I had a choice: keep running from who I was or discover myself.”

           But I’m here now, on the English side of the pond, in this very tiny, very English room. I look down at my hands and twist the belt of the bathrobe around my fingers. “It was the hardest decision I’d ever made. It would be easier to be the daughter he wanted, to be passive, less confrontational. But he’d never forget what I told him. He’d always hold it over my head. So, I did what any non-confrontational person would do: I ran. And now, here I am in England, watching a beautiful red-haired girl make me breakfast.”

           Eliza sits next to me. She gently grabs and face and pushes my chin up to look at her.

           “I’m happy you came to Oxford,” she says, “I’m looking forward to teaching you how to be yourself.”

           I had never totally believed my father, but he was still my father. But now, with Eliza holding my face, her skin like a smoldering flame against mine, I begin to understand the meaning of normal. I am home.