I'm So (Not) Over You by Kosoko Jackson

Author:Kosoko Jackson [Jackson, Kosoko]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2022-02-22T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty

Hudson and I continue playing songs for the kids for about fifteen minutes, until the sliding doors quietly open.

“Amelia Maria Elizabeth West, there you are,” a woman with too much bronzer and too-bright clothing scolds. “I told you about running off.”

You know when you see two people, usually related, and you understand everything about them? That’s how I feel when I look at Amelia and her mom. They’re spitting images of each other, down to the way the younger version frowns and pushes out her cheeks when her mom reaches for her.

“Amelia,” her mom says sternly. “We need to get you cleaned up. You will not embarrass me today.”

I glance at the girl, who in the past fifteen minutes has warmed up to me. When I first sat down, she was sitting properly, how I’m sure her mother taught her to sit. But now, she’s leaning against me, clapping along with the music. She looks more like an actual kid and less like some mannequin. The concern about embarrassment feels awkward, and I’m sure everyone in the room feels it, even if the other children don’t know exactly what the feeling is deep within their stomachs.

The mother keeps looking at both of us, narrowing her eyes a bit, trying to hide whatever it is that’s seething behind them. For a moment, I think it’s nothing but general annoyance. Parents, especially those with small children, can be pulled to their wit’s end. But then I see her eyes, hawklike in nature, how they dart to Hudson’s hand on my body with a light but still slightly possessive touch.

And that’s all I need to know.

I’m from North Carolina. I’m used to people not being cool around me for being gay. But the way she looks at us? Like her eyes could kill or cut out our gayness if she focuses long enough? It’s searing. It’s offensive. And it makes me want to shrivel up and fold in on myself.

“Amelia,” she says sternly again, reaching forward like she’s trying to bridge some cavern of space in an action-romance thriller. She forces her hand open and closed, open and closed.

If my mom were here, she would say something. Divya, too. Even if there weren’t any proof—and there isn’t. If you see hoofprints, think a horse, not a zebra. Homophobia would be a zebra. Amelia being a child, which is practically synonymous with “dirty,” makes so much more sense.

But I’m not crazy. Homophobe Sense is like Peter Parker’s—sorry, Miles Morales’s Spidey Sense. Or Ben Platt’s queerdar. You just know it when you know it.

And I’d know that cold feeling that makes me sink into myself anywhere.

Amelia sighs and slowly stands up. Before anyone, least of all me, can react, she throws her arms around my neck and hugs me tightly. I sneak a glance at her mother, who is wincing. As if I needed more proof.

“Amelia. Come,” her mother demands. Amelia pulls back with a sigh.

“You’ll play another song for me?” she asks.

“Anytime you want,” Hudson promises.

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