From Bi to Bye

Chapter 1-2

Anyway, I had probably written about four poems to Goth Girl so far. I could obviously never show them to her, because she’d probably punch me in the throat and call the police. Nothing says creepy stalker lady like watching her at a distance and writing love poetry for her. I didn’t mean to be creepy, though. And as Kristen had pointed out before, “Nobody ever criticizes women for finding men handsome on public transport. Why should they judge you for finding a woman beautiful?” The reason for that is that when homosexuality became involved with attraction to strangers, it was labeled as predatory, because the person being admired might be straight. But the same could be said back to straight people—you never know if that cute guy or girl would reciprocate your attraction just because they “look straight” (whatever that means).

But still, it was hard to not feel predatory. Despite never having approached her or spoken to her at all. I guess the reason for my absolute fear of coming off as a creep was, after having approached a few women at parties before, I had been spat on and cussed at. I had been polite, and I thought I had picked up on signals, but my mistake apparently was being attracted to women. It felt awful to see the horror and disgust in their eyes. I had spent way too many nights crying, thinking about that look on their face.

So needless to say, I was terrified of approaching this girl, whoever she was. I had concocted so many plans about approaching her during our hour-long bus ride to campus. I had thought about walking up to her and saying, “Excuse me, do you have the time?” or even just pointing out the pins on her backpack and saying, “I love that movie!” Instead, though, I just fantasized about actual verbal communication.

God, women were scary.

Other than my time-consuming obsession with Goth Girl, and my work with school, I didn’t have much on the go. I had submitted a script to a theater festival a few months back. I had done a little dance of joy when I received the receipt of submission email but realized dejectedly afterwards that it would take about eight weeks for it to even appear on their site. It certainly wasn’t a loss, but it meant I wouldn’t be hearing back for a while. And usually when I heard back from publications, it wasn’t good news.

At least I had their response to look forward to, regardless of what they decided. Otherwise, I was scribbling down short poems or anything else that came to mind, submitting to magazines when I could. Everything I did felt particularly uninspiring, mostly because I knew I was still a Nobody. I enjoyed my writing, but I felt like I wasn’t living up to my potential. I had to keep working hard if I ever wanted to be recognized, but most of the time it didn’t feel like my best was good enough. I often outlined novels but never got anywhere close to completing them, or even really beginning.

When I wasn’t working on journalism, going to class, and generally just failing at socializing, I was working retail. I worked as a customer service agent at a clothing store, just for the month. I only had a few days left. I had been putting in around eight hours a week, which was perfect for me since I was busy with many different projects. I won’t lie to you; retail wasn’t where I thought I’d end up. I wasn’t exactly thrilled with where I was in life. There were things to enjoy, certainly. Working in retail, as awful as it was sometimes, offered insight into people’s lives—people I would have never really encountered in my “other life,” as I liked to call it, in academia.

Working in a clothing store gave me the opportunity to learn how to socialize, in some ways, with new kinds of people. Some of them had interesting stories. A few days ago, I met a man who had previously owned a health food store, and he told me how challenging it was for his business once big chain stores started getting in on the trend of “health.” I met a woman in her sixties who still went out on the lake and kayaked every week. I met the millionaires of the neighborhood, who seemed like normal people except for their stunning good looks. Of course, there were always customers you liked a little less, but that’s how it goes with any job, really.

Some customers were teachers. I often made an effort to ask them about their jobs. I suppose I did it because it gave me a glimpse into my future and my career if I decided to go into teaching after getting my B.A. While having a friendly discussion about education one time, a former teacher asked me if I was a student.

“Yes. At Dalhousie, actually.”

He inclined his head to the side. “Oh, what do you study?”

“I’m doing my B.A. in English Literature.” I braced myself for the shock that would likely come—and it did.

His eyes widened. “You’re going to university? Then why are you working here? Shouldn’t you have an internship by now?”

He was not the first (nor the last) to ask me that question. My emotional response to that was usually a mix of amusement and annoyance. Amusement because everyone seems to think by my appearance (and the fact that I work at a clothing store) that I’m a teenager (I mean, I am still technically a teenager, but not a young one). Annoyance because that question is always heavy with judgment, asking why someone “like me” is working in a place “like this,” as if the fact that I was going to university made me superior to my coworkers. It also served to reinforce the notion that I had failed in some way—failed my duty to society to perform at a higher level, failed myself for not getting an internship that would pay me instead of being a volunteer opportunity.

“I like it here,” I’d usually reply after a moment of discomfort.

“You can do better than this,” they’d tell me under their breath, whenever I’d have this conversation (which was, unfortunately, quite often).

I know they meant well. They wanted to help me. Save me from the purgatory of retail. But the reality was that I didn’t need to be saved. I was already trying to do that myself, and where I worked was part of that. It was nice, too, to just help people find clothing. Instead of always working on writing or schoolwork. Gave me a bit of a mental break. I needed to take care of my mental health just as much as my physical health.

But of course, I couldn’t tell them that at the register while I packed their clothes neatly into a bag. I’d just smile back at them and wish them a good day, hoping that they would walk away feeling like they had inspired me to some greater purpose. At least they could leave the store feeling like they had accomplished something good.

My bus arrived eventually, and I stopped thinking about work and unsolicited advice. My phone buzzed on the way home. I checked it. It seemed the editor had sent me my next assignment.

Dear Lilian,

Since you have such a unique perspective on modern dating, being bisexual, we thought it would be wonderful if you could write an advice column about the most eccentric stories you have. That shouldn’t be too difficult, right? Especially considering what you talked about during the interview!

I felt my temperature drop to sub-zero. Oh God. This was the universe punishing me for my lies. I knew I was going to regret the things I said during the interview!

Everything I had written thus far had been fictitious. I had a feeling most columns were made-up, anyway. But this was the moment of truth. Georgina didn’t just want me to write about some abstract think-piece about dating. She wanted me to write about my own personal experiences.

Experiences I didn’t even really have.

I texted Kristen.

Me: I’m in trouble.

Kristen: What’s going on? Run into Goth Girl again?

Me: Well…yes, but not that kind of trouble.

Kristen: You sure? You do tend to get pretty worked up around her.

Me: It’s Georgina. The editor. She’s asked me to start writing about my own experiences with dating.

Kristen: Oh no…

Me: Yeah. Unless I somehow find a way to meet dozens of people in the next couple weeks, I’m screwed.

Kristen: Let me think. I know we can figure something out. Maybe I could get you in touch with a ghost writer?

Me: No way. I’m not letting people write for me. That kind of defeats the purpose of an internship, doesn’t it?

Kristen: Good point…

Me: I am so screwed.

The bus stopped. I felt my chest constrict as I watched Goth Girl get off the bus once again, without being able to talk to her. But I had bigger things to worry about right now, such as how the hell I was going to weasel my way out of this issue.

* * * *

When I got home, I called Kristen.

“So you need to write an article?” she asked. She was sitting at her desk. Behind her was a bed that seemed fit for a princess, with a canopy and everything. “About the life of a promiscuous woman?”

“Georgina didn’t use the word promiscuous, but essentially…yes.”

Kristen smacked the gum she was chewing loudly against her teeth and blew a bubble. “You’re not very promiscuous, though.”

“Kris, have you not been listening to a single thing I’ve said to you? That’s exactly my problem! I have no sweet clue what to write!”

“Why don’t you just go speed dating or something? Seems to me like a good way to meet people.”

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, what? Do you have a better idea? By the way, staring adoringly at Goth Girl from a distance of fourteen feet does not count as approaching someone.”

I groaned. “I really was going to talk to her today, though…”

“So you say.” She smirked. “You just need to start throwing yourself into situations you normally wouldn’t. Starting tonight.”

“Tonight?!” I exclaimed and looked at my laptop’s clock. “It’s nearly 8:30! My bedtime is in an hour.”

“Bedtime? Seriously?” She snorted. “And you wonder why you’re so miserably single.”

“I thought you said the right person would love me no matter what,” I muttered. “That they’d like me exactly the way I am.”

“Yeah, that’s if you ever go out and meet anyone,” she said. “Do you really think you’re going to meet the love of your life by sitting alone in your room waiting for it to be ‘bedtime’?”

“Stranger things have happened,” I said. She did not look amused. “Okay, okay. You’re right. So what’s the first step, then? Where should I go?”

“Normally I’d suggest a bar, but given how sensitive you are to alcohol, probably a bad idea.”

I nodded. “True that. Where else?”

“Let me see. I’ll check if there are any interesting events in your city tonight.” Her face was illuminated as she switched screens. “There are a few things that might be cool. But nothing you’d like. A dance party…nope. Cooking classes…nope.”

“Why not cooking classes?”

She raised a brow. “Do you not remember the time you set rice on fire?”

“Shouldn’t that be proof enough that I’m in dire need of cooking lessons?”

“You’re trying to score a date, remember. Not scare people off.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to me—”

“Oh! I found just the thing for you.”

My laptop dinged. She sent me a link. I clicked it. It led to an event page for an anime night. “Oh God.”