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As promised by Elle’s Instagram post and the flyers Imogen had spotted on the way in, the exhibition hall of the Lambert School of Art has been transformed into a showcase of all things LGBT. The space is bathed in soft rainbow lighting and decorated with paintings, photo collections, mosaics, and countless other forms of art that are all just as impressive as anything Imogen saw hanging in the Louvre. The artists are easy to spot－they’re all wearing bright smiles and eye-catching outfits as they greet their friends and partners and proudly show off their pieces.
Imogen’s own smile is very consciously plastered across her cheeks. She feels as out of place as a hot day in December. Nick had assured her that it wouldn’t be weird for her to come, but he’s nowhere to be seen now. The first people she’d run into were Tara and Darcy, so she’s loosely following them around and trying not to eavesdrop as the pair whisper about something Darcy’s mum has texted her.
Aside from her awkward third-wheeling, there’s just a pressing feeling that she doesn’t belong in a place like this. It’s not that gay people make her uncomfortable or anything－obviously. She adores Nick and his friends. She believes that John Laurens and Alexander are the superior Hamilton pairing.
It’s more like a weird sense of guilt, weighing heavy on her shoulders. Imogen’s self-aware enough to realize that her personality is about as set in stone as a wet clump of pottery clay. If the boy she likes is on the rugby team, she’s suddenly on the sidelines of every game, cheering as if she has more than half a clue of what’s happening on the pitch. If her friends are spending lunch chucking bits of sandwich at unsuspecting Year 10s, she’s sitting right beside them, laughing loud enough to drown out the voice of her conscience.
It’s happening again with her new friend group. Back in Paris, after the disaster with Ben, she’d finally spit out the thought that’d been nagging at her for weeks. Everything would be so much easier if I was into girls.
She’d regretted it as soon as she’d seen the look that passed between Nick and Charlie.
It makes her feel ridiculous, the way she’ll bend over backwards just to feel like she even remotely belongs. And it’s stupid－she doesn’t need to be gay to be friends with people who are. Tao’s straight, and he fits right into their perfect little puzzle.
Still…Imogen thinks she would choose to like girls, if she could. She knows it’s not a choice. She knows she’s stuck with being straight. And she knows that’s a shit thing to say, now, because obviously being straight is easier and she should probably be grateful or something.
Tara and Darcy have paused their whispering, so Imogen stands a little closer to them at the next display. It’s a painting of a young girl with long, dark hair and a worried expression. She’s painted against a backdrop of cut-and-pasted internet articles. They’re chopped up and overlapping each other, but Imogen recognizes the Buzzfeed quiz format on a few of them.
“Oh my god, is this a thing?” Tara asks through a laugh. The twists in her hair bounce as she looks over at Darcy. “Does everyone do this?”
Darcy, who’s been more subdued than usual today, quickly springs back to her old self. “Googling if you’re gay? That’s, like, the hallmark of realizing you’re a lesbian, Jonesy,” she says with a grin, tucking her arm around Tara’s shoulders.
Tara leans into her hold. “I didn’t even get to the results the first time,” she giggles. “I got scared and closed the tab.”
“Considering I had to kiss you like, twelve times before you realized, I’m not sure the quizzes ever stood a chance.”
Tara rolls her eyes. “It was two times. Two.”
Darcy shakes her head in a way that says this is an ongoing argument, but Tara speaks again before she has the chance for a rebuttal. “Did you ever take one of these, Imogen?” she asks, leaning forward to look past her girlfriend.
Imogen chokes on a laugh. “Uh, no, I haven’t,” she answers truthfully, smiling because she feels like she should be.
“Straight people don’t ask Google if they’re gay,” Darcy says knowingly. She looks at Tara with mock sympathy. “I hate to break it to you, but you sealed your fate the second you pressed enter on that search.”
Tara laughs. Imogen, too. Then, a question pops into her brain, and it’s out of her mouth before she has the chance to squash it.
“Did you… not already know?” she asks Tara. She knows people come out at different points in time, but she’d assumed that they knew before that. How could you not?
“I mean,” Tara starts, glancing to the side as she thinks. “Like, when I look back on it now, it’s very clear I was always a lesbian. But I didn’t realize it at the time?” she says with a shrug.
Darcy nods in agreement. “The way I hear it, she was practically married to Nick before I swooped in,” she adds, getting an elbow in the ribs from Tara in response.
“Literally a half-second kiss at a party when we were 13,” Tara corrects, with fond exasperation. “But yeah, I did think I liked Nick at the time.” She grins, like the idea is ridiculous now.
Imogen knew about Tara and Nick’s kiss. Everybody did. But when she’d found out she was a lesbian, she’d assumed Tara did it to fit in, or something. She feels like she looks clueless enough already, though, so she keeps that thought to herself.
“God,” Darcy mumbles under her breath, looking down at her phone screen. It vibrates as more messages come through. “Sorry, I’ve got to…” she trails off, gesturing vaguely with her free hand. She lets Tara go and wanders towards a spot free from the crowds.
“Is everything okay?” Imogen asks, despite the evidence that it isn’t.
Tara’s lips are pressed together, her eyebrows knit with concern. “She’s just…yeah. Stuff with her mum, you know.” Imogen nods like she does. “I’m just going to go with her, if that’s okay?” Tara points towards Darcy’s direction. “Just to make sure everything’s fine. Um, I think the others are around here somewhere? I know Nick and Charlie will want to see you－” she adds, standing on her tiptoes to look for them in the crowd.
Imogen nods hard enough to give herself whiplash. “Yeah, don’t worry! Go on, I’ll find them,” she insists.
Tara smiles gratefully before rushing off.
After a bit of wandering, Imogen finds Elle chatting with a group she doesn’t recognize. She’s hesitant to interrupt, but the sooner she tells Elle congratulations, the sooner Imogen can leave this place that she clearly doesn’t belong in.
That sounds horrible. It’s a beautiful exhibit. As always, the problem lies in Imogen.
She pushes the thoughts aside and strolls up to the group. “Hi!” she chirps. One of the girls moves to the side, giving Imogen a full view of Elle’s dress. Her jaw literally drops at it. It’s pink, sparkly but in a subtle way, and it goes sheer around her legs. “Wow, you look amazing!” Imogen gushes. “Total Aphrodite vibes.”
Elle beams. “Thank you! I’m so glad you could come!” She gives her a quick hug before introducing her to her friends, who are all also future Lambert students.
She stands in the circle for a while, nodding and smiling and laughing at what she hopes are all the right times, before excusing herself to get some air. Really, she’s planning to go wait on a bench until her bus arrives, but on her way to the door, something makes her stop in her tracks.
Sahar’s here. In a patterned denim jacket with her hair perfectly framing her face. Chatting with Tara and Darcy.
The last time Imogen talked to Sahar, they’d been sharing a bed in a hotel room in Paris. In the days since, she’d thought about texting her, but how exactly was she supposed to open that conversation? Thanks for not making me sleep on the floor? Sorry I acted like an idiot a year ago, I’d really like to be friends again?
Here, though, was the perfect opening. Imogen walks over so fast she nearly trips on her own feet.
“Sahar!” she calls, in a tone that she hopes gives excited, yet casual. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
Sahar gives her an odd smile. “Yeah, Elle’s my friend,” she explains.
Duh. Horrible start. Imogen lets her nerves occupy themselves by fiddling with her necklace as she rushes to change the subject. She looks to Tara and Darcy. “So, you guys can’t tease me about being the token ally anymore now that Sahar’s here,” she blurts, hoping neither of them will call her on the fact that they haven’t been teasing her at all. It does feel good, regardless, knowing that at least one other person will get what she’s feeling here.
That is, until Sahar replies, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m bisexual,” and Imogen’s whole worldview tilts on its axis.
The thing about Sahar Zahid is that she’s the closest thing Imogen’s ever had to a best friend. Maybe that’s sort of pathetic, because they didn’t even make it two years before they fell apart, but it’s true. She’s known Nick and Ben and Harry longer, but none of them knew her like Sahar did.
Imogen knew Sahar, too. She’s unbeatable at Scrabble, but terrible at Mario Kart. She writes music and song lyrics in a black bullet journal that she keeps shoved behind her mattress. She has to get up twenty minutes earlier on days she wants to do eyeliner because she insists on scrubbing it off and redoing it until it’s perfect.
And apparently, she’s not straight.
Oblivious to Imogen’s shock, Sahar’s already taken off towards some of the art displays. Imogen rushes to follow her.
“Sahar!” she calls, catching the girl by the shoulder. Sahar stops walking. She turns and raises her eyebrows, giving Imogen a nonverbal what?
“I didn’t know you were bisexual!” Imogen blurts, in a hurry to fill the silence. She wonders if she should go in for a hug but, no, this feels very different to when Nick told her. She keeps running her fingers along her necklace, instead. “That’s, um, that’s great!” she continues.
Sahar’s head tilts. She’s squinting at Imogen, which also makes her nose scrunch. “It’s great?” she repeats.
“Well, you know!” Imogen starts. She hopes the dim lighting is hiding the flush on her face. “Congratulations! On, like－”
Mercifully, Sahar cuts her off. “I’ve been out for months,” she says plainly.
“Oh,” Imogen blanches.
“I think Tara and Darcy got most of the press, so,” Sahar shrugs. “But, yeah. Now you know.”
“Now I know,” Imogen parrots. There’s a long pause between the two of them. The lights cycle through the entire rainbow. Sahar’s looking anywhere but at Imogen.
“So…is there a girl?” Imogen asks cautiously.
Sahar’s gaze snaps back to her’s. “What? No!” she says quickly.
Nick only realized after Charlie, and apparently Tara found out from Darcy, so Imogen feels like it’s a fair question. She backs down under the stare Sahar’s giving her, though. “Sorry, I was just…” she trails off, forcing a smile back onto her face. “That’s cool, Sahar. Bisexual, that’s like, totally your vibe.”
Her ex-friend cracks a smile at that. “Thank you?”
“It’s a compliment!” Imogen laughs. “Sorry, I don’t know if that’s, like, okay to say－”
Sahar waves off the apology. “You’re doing great, token ally,” she deadpans.
The word needles at her brain like a rock lost in a shoe. Something in her chest sinks, which makes her feel stupid, because she is an ally. That’s a good thing! Nobody’s making fun of her by pointing it out.
“You wanna walk around with me?” Sahar asks, gesturing towards a wall of paintings.
Imogen checks the time on her phone. The bus won’t be here for another forty-five minutes. Maybe catching up with Sahar will help her get out of her own head.
“Sure!”
“Cool.”
They flit between exhibits, making small talk with each other and stopping to listen to some artists speak along the way, until it’s time for the reveal of Elle’s painting. It’s a beautifully done picture of her, Tao, Isaac, and Charlie in Truham’s art room. She gives an adorable little speech and the boys engulf her in a group hug before the applause is even over. Imogen claps and smiles and selfishly wonders if she’ll ever have friends that love her as much as that bunch loves each other.
She starts to say her goodbyes after everyone settles. Darcy’s disappeared, but she gets hugs from Tara, Elle, and the boys. Sahar asks how far the bus stop is and then insists on walking her the two blocks.
“My mum’s going to be a while, anyway,” she explains.
The sun’s still out, but it’s not overly warm, making for a nice walk. Imogen asks how prom planning’s going and laughs when Sahar launches into a tirade about how finding a photographer for the night is going to be the death of her. She waves her hands around as she talks, a fire in her eyes as she tells Imogen how Martin Dougherty had to cancel because he forgot about his sister’s wedding.
“And the whole time Mr. Farouk’s telling me just to get a photobooth, you know? Better for the budget, or whatever. But you can’t have a backdrop in a photobooth! The backdrop is essential to prom pictures.”
Imogen nods in agreement. She’s always enjoyed photobooths, personally, but Sahar’s so passionate about this, she finds herself immediately convinced.
“So, anyway. That’s that nightmare.”
She hasn’t seen Sahar look this stressed since her mum found out that her bandmates were technically strangers she met on the internet. She’s suddenly very determined to fix that.
“I could take pictures,” Imogen offers.
Sahar gives her a curious smile. “Since when do you do photography?” she asks, playfully accusing.
Imogen shrugs, shrinking a little. She stuffs her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans. “How hard can it be, right?”
Sahar laughs, which makes Imogen smile. She’ll take that as a win.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll keep looking,” Sahar responds. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to waste your prom behind a camera,” she adds. “We need you out on the dance floor keeping everyone’s energy up!”
Two weeks ago, Imogen was bugging Ben about what color his tie was going to be so she could get a dress to match. After the breakup, she’d bought a dress anyway because Imogen Heaney does not need a boyfriend to attend prom. But now, the more she thinks about another night of seventh-wheeling Nick and his mates…
“I don’t think I’m gonna go, actually,” she says shyly.
“Imogen!” Sahar exclaims indignantly. She glares at her like she's just suggested canceling the event altogether. “You have to go!”
Imogen stares at the cement as they walk. “I have no one to go with!” she counters. She keeps her voice light, like it’s no big deal. “Nick’s friends are going to be sick of me if I keep inviting myself to everything."
Sahar scoffs. “Mate, no one’s sick of you.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m the expert in being sick of you.”
A surprised laugh escapes Imogen’s chest. She laughs harder when Sahar starts fumbling over her words.
“Sorry, that sounded－I didn’t mean it like－”
“It was funny,” Imogen assures her. “And also true,” she adds with a grin.
Sahar smiles softly. “Okay, I am not sick of you now, let’s make that clear.”
The reassurance makes Imogen feel like she’s floating, so she rolls her eyes to cancel out the warmth in her face. “Okay,” Imogen agrees. “But I still don’t want to intrude on Nick’s group.”
Sahar raises one finger. “First off, you’re ridiculous. Tara’s literally told me she likes you, and Nick and Charlie practically ran to your aid after the thing with Ben.”
“That doesn’t－”
“Shh!” Sahar interjects. She puts up another finger. “Second, I plan on enlisting your help for setting up. And I’ll feel like a dick if I make you do unpaid labor when you’re not even coming.”
Imogen fiddles with one of the braids in her hair. “I can obviously still help－”
“Third!” Sahar holds three fingers up to Imogen’s face. She drops her hand back down once Imogen’s quiet. “Third, you can just hang out with me if you’re that worried about the others,” she says with finality.
The offer makes Imogen feel fuzzy. She bites her cheek to keep from smiling too wide.
“I have to get there really early. And my band’s gonna be playing for part of it,” Sahar discloses. “But if you’re really having an awful time, I can stick an unplugged keyboard on stage for you and just let you pretend,” she teases.
Imogen used to sit in Sahar’s room and listen to her practice all the time, before everything. She had a certain look when she played, like an asteroid could crash through the ceiling and her biggest concern would still be hitting the right chords. Sometimes she would go entire solos without blinking, the intense gaze only fading when she’d look up and ask Imogen how she sounded.
Perfect, Imogen always answered.
“We can go get pizza after. Or ice cream, or something,” Sahar adds, mistaking the silence for hesitation.
“Oh, you don’t have to－” Imogen starts reflexively.
“Well, yeah, but it might be fun, right?” Sahar interrupts. They turn the corner and the bus stop comes into view. “It’s been so long since we’ve properly hung out.”
Imogen’s breath catches in her throat. Holy shit. Sahar wants to hang out.
Be cool be cool be cool.
“I guess it’d be a shame for my dress to go to waste,” Imogen relents, all her eagerness written across her face. “And I do like pizza. And watching you play.”
Sahar beams.
When they reach the bench, she sits with Imogen until the bus arrives.