Imogen, Obviously

by Becky Albertalli

I haven’t quite unclicked my seat belt, but I’m getting there. Obviously. 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.

Was I just another straight girl invading queer territory? Was I an outsider, sucking all the oxygen from the room? The discourse offered no clear consensus. I hated that—hated the lack of certainty. My mind never really settles in a new space until I know all the rules for engagement. What’s encouraged, what’s allowed—or even what’s not allowed. Because restriction carries its own kind of safety.

This is a girl who carried thick, dog-eared Tamora Pierce books all around camp every summer, just in case there was unexpected free time and someone tried to talk to her.

mostly to distract from what Edith calls my Resting Bunny Face: wide-eyed, soft, forever on high alert. I don’t think it’s as bad as it used to be—now I only really slip into bunny mode when I’m meeting someone new.

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.

But the fact that she thinks I’m wondering that? Like I’m that special kind of straight person who assumes all queer people can barely keep their pants on around her? I mean, admittedly, I do wonder sometimes what queer girls think of me. But it’s just the occasional fleeting thought. Definitely not a you-love-me kind of thing. Not that I’d mind if a queer girl was into me. I’d honestly find it super flattering.

“Imogen, are you ready to experience culinary perfection?” “Oh,” Lili says. “This is not that.”

By then, we’d have our own language—layers of inside jokes and references, incomprehensible to everyone but us. Entire conversations tucked into the quickest exchanged glances.

The truth is, I’ve never quite been able to pin it down. The way queerness announces itself. And how it seems so intuitive for people. How people just seem to know. I mean, there’s Gretchen’s whole unspoken-recognition gaydar thing. But it’s more than that. There’s a certain aesthetic to queer girlhood. Or maybe it’s several aesthetics, but I don’t fit any of them. I don’t have Tessa’s tomboy energy or Gretchen’s pink hair, or a jean jacket like the one Edith wears every day. Even Lili, in her ringer T-shirt and gym shorts, looks potentially queer. Like she could be queer.

I was already scouring the internet for other people’s reactions. But that just made me more confused. Every think piece felt like the definitive final word—and then I’d be fully convinced by the exact opposite points in the next one. I was a human sailboat, blown in every direction by a storm of decades-old media discourse.

I mean, it would depend on the situation. Let’s say a hypothetical girl needed me to kiss her to make her crush jealous. Or to discourage some guy from hitting on her. Or if we were at a party on campus and her ex walked in with another girl. If the hypothetical girl in question asked me to, I’d definitely hypothetically kiss her. It wouldn’t be a big deal at all. Except—it would be my first kiss. So maybe it’s a slightly big deal in that sense. I’m not necessarily dying for my first kiss to be a favor for an acquaintance. It just wouldn’t be the absolute end of the world, is all. Favor or no favor. Of course, it would have to be a favor—otherwise it would be problematic, for sure. I don’t want to be that straight girl who kisses queer girls and discards them like it’s not even real. Or it doesn’t count. Or they should be grateful I bothered.

OVERTHINKING QUEEN

Or maybe the issue was me—loving a movie that wasn’t mine to love.

How do I explain the part where Tessa’s smile made my chest hurt? Or when she covered my mouth with her hand and I sort of wanted to kiss it. It’s like scrolling through someone else’s pictures, catching a glimpse of yourself in the background. That sudden jolt of hold on, wait, go back! Was that me?

who kind of looks like a cult leader? And he has a bong named Creature?”

I can’t explain why that scissor emoji makes me so jumpy. I know that Gretchen’s just teasing. Obviously. But I feel so weird about it. Why do I feel so weird about it? It couldn’t be lesbophobia, right? That wouldn’t even make sense. My two best friends are queer women. I have a gay little sister. Other than Otávio, I literally don’t have any close friends who aren’t queer. Though that’s what every bigot says, right? Queerphobic??? Me??? BUT I HAVE A QUEER FRIEND!!

I’ve always loved a good low-stakes transformation. Unless it’s not a transformation at all. Maybe it’s recognition. It’s that little click of hi, me, nice to meet you!

I guess it’s just a little embarrassing, right? The way I thought it was real. My college friends. The group chat. Just one of the pack, right? Like I wasn’t just some random high school kid they met literally two days ago. Like I’d carved out some kind of home with these people.

But that was it. It’s not that I wanted to date her. She just had the sort of tomboyish confidence and easy laugh that made me want to be her friend. And— I guess I kind of understood that if I were queer, I’d probably be attracted to her.

But it always felt like someone else’s daydream—something I walked out of the store with and forgot to pay for.

It’s like I’m incapable of being normal around queer women.

Kind of like how I went along with Lili’s fabricated relationship backstory. And how I let everyone believe I’m bisexual. It really begs the question: When, exactly, did I get so comfortable with lying?

But I feel so unzipped for some reason. Like someone left me wide-open.

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

If I were queer, wouldn’t I at least sort of know? It’s my own brain. I have open access to it. No one’s redacting parts of the story. Especially not something as fundamental as who I’m attracted to. And I know denial exists. But this isn’t denial. Denial’s a curtain with a clear truth behind it. There’s no curtain to pull back here. I’m staring straight at this question, shining every light on it, and still—

I guess you could call it a preoccupation. Or like a tiny pull I felt when I was near them. Not quite the same as a regular friendship. Like taking the word friendship and underlining it.

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.

Some queer people just really seem to love shitting on other queer people. Every day, someone’s out there weighing in about whether bi and pan girls even count as queer to begin with. Or we’re only queer under certain circumstances. They’ll say it with their whole chest. Absolutely zero awareness that their very specific queer experience isn’t one hundred percent universal.

“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.”

How I felt. Dizzy, off-balance, unsteady. Like my bones were too big for my body. Like I couldn’t zip myself closed. Like I’d colored outside my own outline, stepped out of frame, made myself three-dimensional.

“Look, I’m happy to hang with parents. Parents love me. Well, not the homophobic ones, probably, but in general? I’m a parental love machine.” She stops short, pointing at me. “Not, like, in an I-want-to-hook-up-with-your-parents way, though. God. Yeah, no. First of all, you know I’m not into dads.” I blink. “Hey, I’m kind of obsessed with your brain.”