Imogen, Obviously

by Becky Albertalli

Just waiting for my brain to stop doing the thing where I’m being interviewed on a talk show in front of a vaguely hostile live studio audience.

Right, so now I’m trying to picture the alternate universe where my reputation falls anywhere in the vicinity of badass.

“MAINE. He’s from Maine.” I blink. “Is Maine cool?” “And he likes lobsters. Because he’s from Maine.” Gretchen shrugs. “Sorry, that’s all I know about Maine.”

I was a human sailboat, blown in every direction by a storm of decades-old media discourse. Am I allowed to love this? That was always the question.

Immy, what does sus mean?

Knowing I got dressed in a shower stall this morning makes me slightly paranoid that I’ve missed some critical buttons or zippers. Just a fun little stress cherry on top of this morning’s anxiety sundae.

I’m getting breakfast with Tessa. Which means I’ll have to carry on a breakfast-length conversation with Tessa.

I press my nose to Daisy’s snout, and it’s like pressing pause on the entire world.

He’s that white guy with the eyebrow ring and the really light blue eyes, who kind of looks like a cult leader? And he has a bong named Creature?”

For example, Tessa. Dressed like Timothée Chalamet in Little Women. Specifically, the vest and the little necktie bow he wears in that scene with Florence Pugh, when Amy explains to Laurie how marriage is an economic proposition. That, but on Tessa. I can picture it perfectly.

Tessa’s not coming. And I don’t know why I care.

Hey, Tessa, guess who just had some extremely normal lucid dreams about you being in love with me! Bet you love hearing that from straight girls.

But you can still kind of see my dimple poking out if you look closely enough. I wonder if Tessa will look closely enough.

She just seemed to know so much about everything—gerrymandering, chaos theory, and what people meant when they used the eggplant emoji.

It’s just—when I pick up my phone, all I want to do is talk to Tessa. I may be getting slightly addicted. I’m trying not to overthink it.

Tessa does that low Tessa giggle. Which is pretty much a declaration of war against my heart.

Here’s what I don’t say: I looked Ilana up on Instagram last year.

A lot of her pictures were with this one particular girl, though I never figured out if she was Ilana’s girlfriend. I don’t even know if Ilana’s queer. But I spent hours investigating the issue. And in retrospect, maybe that means something. All these moments, scattered and separate. All these disconnected dots.

my brain’s still stuck on the part where we’re flirting. Is this flirting? Just . . . this? Joking and talking?

Tessa looks down and then back up at me, her smile almost shy. Okay, I’m pretty sure this is flirting.

I can’t picture those words coming out of my mouth. I’d need a million more raspberry vodkas and a lobotomy and at least two hours to practice my lines in front of a mirror.

Lili pinches and zooms until the screen basically looks like a blurry screenshot from an ultrasound, but still.

“Oh, yeah. Obviously. I meant other than Lili.” Fuck. Fuck. “Lili and I kissed . . . so much. We were always kissing. Wow, I’m talking a lot about kissing, aren’t I?” I laugh sharply. “Sorry—I’m not, like, obsessively thinking about kissing.”

Gretchen sidles up to Tessa, who keeps glancing back at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher. Tessa, who probably feels completely betrayed. Or at the very least, I’m sure she thinks I’m a total liar.

My parents actually got to eat part of it.” She sits up suddenly. “You’re descended from pancake royalty?” “I mean, yeah,” I say, “but deep down, I’m just a normal girl. You don’t have to treat me differently in pancake situations.”

Then she buries her face in the crook of my neck, and every breath she breathes feels like a love letter.

Hi, we made out last night and then I disappeared and then you disappeared and now I’m going home, and I know you don’t want to be official girlfriends or anything, obviously, lol, but I just want you to know I really liked it—more than liked it. Unless you disagree, in which case I liked it just enough that you should feel good about your kissing abilities, but not enough that you should feel ANY pressure, okay?? And maybe you can respond with an emoji or something? Just to give me a clue where you stand??

My voice sounds like a baby cartoon mouse. Perfect.

I blink. “Hey, I’m kind of obsessed with your brain.”

“I can’t wait for the part where you kiss me,” I say. And it’s true: I can’t wait. I can’t wait, so I don’t.