Almost Perfect - Brian Katcher [47]
“Jesus, Sage.” I’d never thought about that end of it.
“When I turned eighteen this year, I told them I was going to go back to school. They couldn’t stop me. So just like that, my dad quits his job, pulls Tammi out of school, and moves us halfway across the state. So no one would ever realize what had happened to his … son.” Sage had to force herself to say that last word.
“Logan, I promised myself I wouldn’t make any friends in school, and I wouldn’t date. I just wanted to have a normal semester in high school before college. But then I met you. And you asked me out that first week. And I thought, ‘Wow! This cute, athletic, funny guy, who could probably date any girl in school, wants to go out with me! I’m really a woman!’”
I reddened a little at Sage’s stream of adjectives. Then she continued.
“I could have snuck around and been your girlfriend. I wanted to. I didn’t, so you have to give me credit for that. I wanted to tell you the truth. And I had this stupid fantasy that when I did, you’d understand. I knew if you accepted me, then maybe other people would.”
A college couple crossed the quad, holding hands. I pretended to be waiting for them to pass before answering. Did Sage honestly expect me to be some new age, politically correct hippie who thought you could just choose your own gender? I was from central Missouri, for Christ’s sake!
“That was a lot to spring on a guy.” I left it at that. Sage was apparently getting enough shame from her family.
“We shouldn’t have kissed, Logan. I’m sorry.”
We sat in silence for a minute, thinking. Sage didn’t have to be totally sorry. I allowed myself to remember our kiss. It still kind of got me in the gut, and not 100 percent in a bad way, either. Just 99.9 percent. I couldn’t deny that last fraction, that forbidden decimal of enjoyment. Like that time when I was twelve and accidentally walked in on one of Laura’s friends changing in our bathroom. I’d been too embarrassed to come out of my room that night. But I wouldn’t have taken it back, either.
Sage was no longer looking at me. She was staring off into the distance, kicking her feet against the column, looking bored.
“Let me drive you home,” she said, sounding disappointed. Maybe she’d been hoping I’d say something more.
“Sage, listen. I was really messed up over Brenda. Ask Jack. All I wanted to do was sit around and feel sorry for myself. And then you came along, and I started getting over her, and suddenly, I’m gay!”
“You’re not gay, Logan,” she chastised.
“I know that now. I’d never have kissed a guy on purpose.”
Sage frowned. “I’m not a guy,” she whispered.
For the first time since New Year’s, I looked at the tall person next to me without prejudice, without fear. The long-legged, long-haired, defeated, lonely person on the base of the column next to me. This was not a guy. Not a girl, maybe, but certainly not a guy.
“Sage?”
She turned and looked at me, sad and a little tired. “Yes, Logan?”
How in the hell could I tell her what I was feeling when I didn’t even know? “You … want to get some food or something?”
Sage stared at me blankly. Then the faintest trace of her old smile crept across her face. I’d spent the past couple of months trying to destroy that grin. I was happy that I’d failed.
“I’m starved.”
We hopped down from the columns and walked toward town. It took us about ten minutes to get back to Sage’s truck, the old monster I jump-started on New Year’s. When we were seated in the cab, we turned to each other and opened our mouths to say something. Then we sat there gaping like a couple of drooling mental patients. Sometimes there just aren’t words. Eventually, Sage started the truck and we drove away.
We were friends again. Sort of. Which meant I’d have to face the consequences if her secret got out. But Sage was hurting. Her family was ashamed of her. I was the only other person she’d been honest with. She’d opened up to me in a way that