Guest Column

If I Told You
By Megan Huntsman

Would you still be my best friend if you knew? Would you still hang out with me? Go to the mall? Let me stay over? If you knew that I had feelings for you.

I saw you in Biology class today. I sat on your left, a man sat on your right. He was tall and thin with short blonde hair and a smile that hints at all the mischief he's dying to commit. You talked to him all period in that giggly voice you use around men. You never use that voice around me.

I hate men. When men are around, you are dead to me. I disappear from your world while you concentrate on them. Your eyes no longer light up for me, but only for them.

You asked me to drive you and your boy of the week on a date once. He didn't have a car. In the rearview mirror, I saw you kissing in the backseat. I will never forget that sight, nor the pain I felt when I saw it.

Why can't you kiss me like that? Why can't you put your arms around me and hold me like these boys hold you? Why can't we go out and hold hands? If I told you. If I told you I loved you?

We did kiss. Once. Briefly. We had seen a pair of lesbians walking down the street. They leaned over and kissed without breaking stride. I stayed over that night, and later, you asked me if I had ever thought of kissing a girl. I lied, and you asked me if you would like to try it. "I guess," I said, my heart beating so hard I could hear it in my ears. I kept a straight face. You started to giggle and lean over. I brushed my hair back and kissed your lips softly. The butterflies I felt in my tummy overflowed and ran down to my ankles and up to my head. I had never been so dizzy. Then you broke the kiss and the magic was gone. "Your lips are so soft," you said, smiling. "So are yours," I said, blushing, and that was the end of it. I still stay awake at night thinking of that kiss. And how there should have been a million kisses like them. Soft kisses locked in each others arms. No one in the world but us. Would it be like that? If I told you?

Later that night I watched you sleep. I reached out and touched your hair. Long, black and full of body my hair never had. Never will have. I love your hair.

I loved you from the minute I first saw you. It was by the soda machine at the Methodist Church. I was 13, you were 12. You got a Dr. Pepper. I got a Coke. You hated Coke. Later, I started drinking Dr. Pepper just because you do.

If I told you, would you love me back? Or would you stop being my friend? Because I'm... a dyke...

I guess I'll never know.

©1994 Megan S. Huntsman (mash@netcom.com)
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