Imogen, Obviously

by Becky Albertalli

On boys. It wasn’t that thunderstorm of feeling—electric, all-consuming, blaringly loud in my head. With girls, it was more like that feeling you get when you finish a book and your brain can’t quite shake it.

How weirdly does a person have to sit to count as bisexual?

By the time we screw the last shelf in, I’ve turned into a line of ellipses. Nothing but stuttering anticipation.

I press my cheeks. “How do I know it’s not a fluke? What if I only ever fall for one girl?” “Then you’re bi.” She pats my arm. “What if I’m talking myself into it?” “Not a thing—” “Okay, but what if the girl I like is kind of—I don’t know—boyish?” “Is she a boy?” Edith asks. “No.” “Sounds pretty bi.”