“You can’t choose to be a lesbian. You’re either born that way or you’re not. But you can choose to like girls; that’s what I did.”
That was the first time I admitted it out loud.
“Wait—you like boys, too?”
I shrugged. “To me, it’s more about the person.”
“Then open up your eyes!” she yelled. “Patrick Steel is gaga over you.”
I clamped my hand over her mouth. “Shut up.”
She pushed it away. “Seriously, Savvy, he’s … so damn sexy.”
“You would know.” I shook my head and sat down then pulled out the phone.
“You know, your idea of being celibate for a few months to connect with myself, find my center?”
“Yeah.”
“I found it. I may be a slut, but I’m okay with it. How’s that for centering?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, and I laughed harder than I think I ever had.
“I’m serious, Savvy.”
After getting myself together, I shook my head. “You own it. It’s on your terms. Do you, Chloe. But don’t call yourself a slut.”
“Be a ho, be a sexual being, own it, but slut’s a bit harsh.”
She and I are as close, maybe closer, than any other girls here now. I’m pretty sure it’s because we realize we’re both growing, changing, and becoming who we are supposed to be.
The realization that my fight to unite women so that we can become stronger is lost on ears that have yet to understand what it’s like to be truly powerful.
Patrick says I’ll find my tribe, my crew, that the less I scream, the more I’m heard.
* * *
We only have a month before the fundraiser. Tickets sold out, and the waitlist is so long we had to change venues and add more plates.
This has become a passion project. It has consumed me, just as the community garden did the last summer of my last life. But, unlike the garden, it wasn’t an escape from the reality that she was dying. With this, it’s nearly consumed me. I feel almost compelled by it.
Patrick tried to be helpful, he did, but we both quickly realized that pottery is not his thing. He felt bad, I could see it in his eyes, and I assured him that he shouldn’t feel any worse about it than I do, because I can’t play a guitar or sing.
“Straight up, Savvy, you’ve become my sounding board for everything going on in my life. Just wanna show you that I’m here for yours, too.”
“You want honesty, so you’ll get it. Just try not to take offense to what I’m about to say.”
“Is it going to be something along the lines that you spend more time fixing my fucked-up pieces than making yours masterpieces?”
I try not to laugh, I really do, but he is spot-on.
“Then you’re gonna have to deal with me sitting here, watching you work.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do. In fact, I know you do.”
“Front row seats for the Savvy show. Gonna be here whenever I can.”
“Then do it from a distance. I need to focus.”
“Do I distract you, Savvy Sutton?”
Without looking up at him, I answer, “I think you know you do.”
Tonight is the last night of the play that his cousins are in. He asked me to go, and I told him that I was busy—work then plates.
Five hundred plates may not seem like a lot, but making them by hand is time consuming. After the written plan was approved by the art department, we had three months. With three months to complete five hundred plates by hand, I set a rigorous schedule. It wasn’t a great time of year for all those who wanted to be part of that, some just to have the volunteer hours, and so they quickly stopped showing up, while others had to study for finals. That was something I never considered when I was wallowing in my own misery.
God, if You’re really a thing, I know I may seem ungrateful and a huge pain in the ass at times, but thank You for making me smart. And also, as miserable of a trip as it was to get where I am right now, if it never gets any better, and even if it gets worse, thank You for giving me this.
It’s me,
Savvy Sutton
Back to the plan. Forty plates from clump to kiln takes about seven days. Thankfully, Chloe has realized she likes to paint, and Ziggy and Roach come back after they’re high to help where they can, too.
Tonight, I use my key to get in to finish a few up after my shift.
I miss catching a buzz. When this is done, I’m going to have a get-together at the lake. It’s not lost on me that my anxiety has lessened. And for that, I’m grateful, too.
It’s late when I pull into the parking lot and see a Jeep at the boys’ dorm parking lot. I’m pretty sure is Patrick’s.
I shoot him a text.
11:01 p.m. - Hey, are you at McKinley?
11:02 p.m. - SAVANNAH!! I am and probably going to stay here. Had a few too many. Unless you wanna ride me home?
11:02 p.m. - That’s probably not going to happen.
11:03 p.m. – Shit, Savvy. Fucking phone, or is it fat fingers? I meant, give me a ride home.
11:03 p.m. - If you need one, yeah, of course. Come out.
11:03 p.m. - Come chill for a minute?
Fuck it, I think and park my vehicle.
11:05 p.m. - Give me a few minutes. I’ll be over.
I make quick work of signing in, changing into a hoodie and leggings that don’t smell like burritos, reading Chloe’s note that she’s at McKinley, and then slip out the back door.
As I’m walking across the quad, I see who I immediately know is Patrick, based on size, stature, and that hair—he truly has the best hair—leaning against the building.
“Hey!” I yell to him.
He raises a hand and steps … oops, nope, stumbles.
Shit, this is a side of Patrick I haven’t
