Imogen, Obviously

by Becky Albertalli

I’m the kind of person who has a favorite adverb (obviously, obviously).

My voice always pitches higher when people talk about girls kissing—which makes literally no sense, seeing as I’m surrounded by queer people 24/7.

Then she runs a hand through her hair, and there’s something so boyish about the gesture, it leaves me a little off-balance.

“I’m Imogen. She/her,” I’d said. “And I have a queer sister.”

Tessa pokes my arm, and my heart does the quickest half flip.

I used to get a little hung up on certain girls when I was younger. Not always. Just sometimes. Especially if I found out they were queer.

Tessa starts typing, and the world shrinks to fit into three tiny dots. In my stomach: a shooting-star feeling, out of nowhere.

One girl can’t topple your entire sexuality, right?

It’s unsettling, if you think about it—the way your whole mood can be hijacked by nothing but words on a screen. Tiny black lines on a glass rectangle.

All these moments, scattered and separate. All these disconnected dots.

It feels bigger than I want it to be. Do I really have to announce this? Can’t I just feel something and live inside it while it’s happening and not analyze it to death?

All the times I said I’m straight. All the times everyone’s said I’m straight. There it was, underlined and written in bold. How could I miss it? Like finding Waldo and realizing he was never really hiding.

Somehow our hands find each other’s, fingers fitting together like notes in a song.

The way she’s looking at me gives me this liquid-gold feeling.

A week ago, I’d never been kissed. A week ago, I thought I was straight. It’s like learning to read—the way the letters and phonemes click into place. That sudden burst of meaning.

“You’re my favorite,” she says, and I laugh.

“Imogen.” She rolls back down beside me, scoops my hair back, and kisses me. “Do you need me to spell it out? I’ve been”—she kisses me—“losing my goddamn mind”—she kisses me again—“ever since that dog wandered over, and you just—boom”—another kiss—“dropped down and hugged her. The look on your face. And then you’re like, ‘My goat was named Daisy.’”

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

“This is wild. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you just, like, completely lose your shit like this.” “No, I always lose my shit like this. Just not out loud.” She looks at me. “So this is what your brain sounds like?” “I mean. Pretty much?”

“It’s like there’s this idea that you have to earn your label through suffering. And then you have to prove it with who you date, how you dress, how other people perceive you.”

Maybe shared experiences shouldn’t be the foundation at all. Maybe it should be a promise to hold space for variation.

“I’ve never existed in the same space as someone like that. It’s so different from what I expected. Kissing’s so different from the inside. And I don’t think I really thought about what happens after—”

“Hey, I’m kind of obsessed with your brain.” “Oh, you know. Just a little move I have called ADHD. Chick magnet. Works like a charm.”

I mean if you’re not willing to risk an FBI investigation, is it even really revenge??

“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.