My Invented Life by Lauren Bjorkman

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Better Than Chocolate
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    I tuck the DVD safely in my bag and roll over to visit Zip-Stop Jenny, a convenience store owner and overt lesbian. We happen to be on a first-name basis because of Mom’s moratorium on junk food in the house. I grab some chips from the rack and pour myself a cup of gnarly coffee. I scrutinize Jenny with new eyes while I pay.
    “Any gum-buying, Birkenstock-wearing customers lately?” I ask. “P. Tom must have to stock up now and then.”
    “Just you Peterson girls buy Juicy Fruit these days,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. Learned any ‘juicy’ secrets about your neighbors?”
    I raise my foot to show off my stylish winter boots. “These feet have never touched Birkenstocks,” I say.
    Jenny leans toward me and waves a hand over my head. “You are one of us, now,” she whispers. “We meet after midnight at the stone circle.”
    Another mythical incident in my invented life
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    I wish someone would invite me into a secret lesbian club. When I show Jenny my winter boots, she leans in and lowers her voice.
    “The Peeping Tom hit Harrison’s place. He must’ve gotten pretty bored watching reruns of old game shows.” Lesbians like to gossip as much as everyone else. Big surprise.
    Fifteen minutes into fifth period—it’s not my fault the lunch minute passes too quickly—I skirt the soccer field, where Jonathan cuts a sad figure on the damp grass. He looks like a well-dressed version of the Thinker. I veer from the path and drop down next to him.
    “Hi,” I say.
    He scoots away from me like I’m depleted uranium.
    “My father was no prostitute,” I say.
    He cleans his fingernails with the blade of a small pocketknife.
    I bottom crawl two yards in his direction. “Did you do theater at your high school in Bakersfield?”
    He stabs the blade in the grass between us. “I told you to stay away,” he says.
    Coming from him, the gesture doesn’t seem particularly threatening. I take some nail polish from my bag and touch up a few chips to prove that I’m not the backing-down type. As I blow on my fingertips, BlueDragon ambles over, wagging both head and tail. A gentle elbow to the ribs keeps him from jumping into my lap. Jonathan scowls at me. Obviously he’s never experienced the trauma of dog hair in wet nail polish. When BlueDragon curls up next to Jonathan, I leave.
    I dash over to the theater after my last class. Still no playbill, but there’s a note tacked to the Barn door:
    Greetings, aspiring thespians,
I will post roles tomorrow morning.
First rehearsal tomorrow after school.
Thank you for your patience,
Sapphire
P.S. Carmen and Roz, please come see me today
at 3:30
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    I look at my watch. That’s in five minutes. Bryan skids to a stop behind me and props his skateboard against the wall. I ignore him until he grabs me around the waist and lifts me off the ground. “You don’t like boys anymore, huh?” he breathes into my ear.
    “I didn’t say that.” We stare at each other.
    His eyes are a little too close together for perfection, but who cares? It gives his face character. And it won’tinterfere with his future as an underwear model. Before anything happens Oak-Tree Nico, Eyeliner Andie, and another girl who acts like Mandy Moore come around the corner. Bryan puts me down—the wimp.
    Mandy Wannabe comes right up to me and pumps my hand. “It’s so cool that you’re, you know, out in the open,” she says.
    “There’s plenty more where I came from,” I say, launching my program to eradicate ignorance. “Ten percent of people are GLBT.”
    “Geebee what?”
    “Gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender,” I say.
    Mandy Wannabe lets go of my hand. “Whatever.”
    Eyeliner Andie has her arms twined around Nico’s waist in a girlfriendy sort of way. This casts some doubt on her alleged lesbian status.
    Bryan points his chin at Sapphire’s note. “What’s that all about?”
    I shrug. “I guess I’ll go in and find