Tank Baby Page 2

  “Enough said,” said Margo. “So you find girls attractive but not boys?”

  “That’s about it,” Elodie said. “But, like, you know, I’ve never been with anybody. I’ve always been too busy to think about dating and stuff. But since school started this year, it’s like my hormones are celebrating the fourth of July every day.”

  “You’re a late bloomer,” said Margo.

  “I guess.”

  “So, um, you’ve never kissed a girl?”

  “Uh uh.”

  “Would you like to kiss me?” Margo asked, with a devilish smile on her face.

  “You?” asked Elodie, taken completely by surprise. She was also surprised by her answer, which came without thinking. “God yes! You’re gorgeous.”

  “Thanks,” said Margo. “But I’m not a lesbian.”

  Elodie felt her face fall. “But the meeting,” she said.

  “I’m bisexual,” Margo said. “I would probably want to date both Bryn and her boyfriend.” Then she added, “But not together.”

  “Oh. Listen, why haven’t I noticed you around the school before? You’re a senior, right?”

  “I just transferred in a couple of weeks ago,” the girl replied.

  “From where?” Elodie asked.

  “Miami. They had a good LGBT program there. It was like some utopia, I guess. I mean, half the graduating class had podcasts about coming out. It’s really different here. But I’m smart and I’m strong and I can get things done. And now I have a best friend.”

  “You do?”

  “She’s smart, she’s cute as an elf, and she has the most beautiful name in the world, I mean, except for mine: Elodie.”

  “Gulp,” said Elodie.

  Chapter Two

  The Coming Out Dinner

  Elodie lived in a gray-brick, ranch-style house just outside the city limits. A line of non-native poplars made a rough barrier to the left while the right side was still woodsy. Behind the house was a large patio stocked with wicker chairs and tables for drinks and whatever reading material Elodie or Sandy or Carmah chose to take out there on cool evenings. And beyond the patio were two fenced-in tennis courts surrounded by a well-kept lawn.

  Elodie turned onto the concrete driveway that wended its way from the road to the house and pushed a button on her dashboard that raised the double doors of the carport. She parked in the garage, plugged her Tesla in for the night, and walked through the side door of the house she had lived in for the last ten years.

  The house was cozy-warm when she entered. In the living room was an attractive black woman in her 50s. Carmah Williams was one of Elodie’s mothers, and she was reading a book in her favorite wingback armchair, both bare feet over one of the arms and her head nestled in the curve of the chair’s tall back. Long and statuesque, she was a little thicker than she appeared in pictures of her younger days. She was dressed in light clothing and wore her hair in a cascade of graying dreadlocks that reached just past her shoulders. Curled up in Carmah’s lap was a black cat that looked suspiciously at Elodie as she approached.

  Elodie’s other mother, Sandy, was out of town on some kind of mission.

  Elodie put her books down on the kitchen table and went over to kiss Carmah on the cheek. “Hey,” she said. She stroked the cat. “Hey, Midnight.” Despite her former look of distrust, the large cat began purring like a refrigerator.

  “Hi,” replied Carmah, closing her book and placing it gently on the rug beside her.

  “Whatcha reading?” Elodie asked.

  “I’m looking through a couple of plays by Wole Soyinka,” Carmah replied.

  “Who’s he?” asked Elodie.

  “He’s Nigerian,” Carmah replied, then added, “I’m trying to find something to interest some of my male students.”

  “Good luck,” Elodie said. “Is there any word from Sandy?”

  “Yeah,” replied Carmah with a sudden frown. “I got a weird email from her this morning. All it said was to make sure that our security system was working. And to make sure it was always on.”

  “We do that anyway,” Elodie said.

  “Muscle memory,” Carmah replied.

  “Know where she is?” asked Elodie.

  “China,” Carmah replied. “I think she mentioned something about Shanghai.”

  “What’s she doing there?” Elodie asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “For The ORG?” Elodie asked.

  “Of course.”

  The ORG was Elodie’s code name for a secret foundation whose purpose was to locate deserving girls or women in need and give them educational and job opportunities. Both Carmah and Sandy had been contacted by The ORG as young women, and both had benefited greatly. Now, Sandy was the foundation’s director and Carmah, although technically no longer part of the foundation, was Sandy’s go-to advisor on all things.

  There was something about Sandy being in Shanghai that disturbed Elodie, but she decided to let it pass, at least for now. “Is that spaghetti sauce I smell?” Elodie asked.

  “Yep. I bought some garlic bread, too. Everything will be ready in about half an hour.”

  “Cool. I need to get online for a few minutes, but I have something important to tell you later.”

  “Okey dokey,” Carmah replied and reached back down for her book.

  Elodie’s bedroom was not at all a normal teenager’s room. For one thing, it was twice as large as most bedrooms and had two different sections. The back half contained a double bed against one wall flanked by a dresser and vanity table. The front of the room was taken up by a long polished desk along the far wall, complete with a computer and 50-inch monitor. A swivel chair sat behind the desk, with two cushy armchairs set nearby for when Elodie and her mothers used the monitor to watch DVDs or to stream movies. There was also a bookcase, with most of the excess wall space being devoted to decoration: a Tegan and Sara poster, a print of Van Gogh’s “The Potato Eaters,” a framed calligraphy Elodie had finished a couple of years earlier, and ancient posters from plays that Carmah had been involved in.

  Another thing not normal about the room was the color of the walls. One was light brown, two others were different shades of white, while the fourth was an eerie shade of cobalt blue, which always made Elodie think she was staring at it from inside a bottle. Despite the disparities, Elodie found the room both cozy and professional.

  Elodie was neater than most teenagers she knew. She generally put her clothes away and made sure her bed was made. Right now, though, she kicked off her shoes willy nilly, pulled off her socks, and booted up her computer. First she checked her email, but there wasn’t much there except for a short note from a girl she knew from her old school. Elodie genuinely tried to keep up with the few friends she had made over the last several years, but it seemed like her schoolwork, her personal interests, and her tennis always intervened.

  She went to her BuddyBox page, which she had opened under the user name Math Nerd, and typed Margo Schwadron in the Search box. Not surprisingly, there was only one Margo Schwadron and her new friend’s face beamed out at her. The picture must have been taken on a windy day because Margo’s hair, loose from its ponytail, was blowing across her face. Elodie quickly hit the Add Buddy button, then clicked onto the page itself.

  For such a forceful personality, Margo’s posting history was fairly unexciting. A few anti-Trump memes along with a lot of detritus that was sent to her from her friends: food, cats, makeup. Certainly nothing to show her vibrant personality. In the photo section Elodie found the dozen or so obligatory selfies, each showing Margo with a different hair style, makeup, and clothing. Elodie studied each one with interest. There were also photos that Margo had tagged ‘Mom and me’ and ‘Dad and me,’ although there were none with both parents together. Scrolling further, Elodie found half a dozen shots of Margo and a man in his late teens or early twenties with shaggy brown hair and no real excitement to his features, at least to Elodie’s way of thinking. Did Margo have a boyfriend? It seemed so, because the two of them looked happy to be with each other.

  For some reason, the shots of Margo and the young man, with his brown hair and wishy-washy features—it couldn’t be her brother, could it?—dampened her mood.

  Just as she was about to click out of BuddyBox, a note came through its Go-Between email program. It was from Margo and it said. “Hi, Bestie. What’s with the nerdy handle?”

  Elodie was saved from having to compose a slick reply by Carmah’s soft voice coming from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready, Elodie.”

  Elodie quickly put a smiley face into her reply box, followed by “Later, B. Dinner first.” Then she clicked out.

  Elodie pushed her chair away, but before she could stand up, she heard the ding signaling an email message. Thinking that it might be Margo—Elodie had written her email address on the sheet of paper Margo had passed around—she quickly opened it, then blinked. It was not from Margo. In fact, the message on her screen puzzled her greatly. It was a couple of lines of binary code—zeroes and ones.

  01010100 01100001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01000010 01100001 01100010 01111001

  No words of explanation, just the code. The sender’s name was written out simply as SENDER, which told her nothing. The address—0047ab@gmail.com—which was in parenthesis next to the name, told her even less. It was probably just spam, but something about the numbers in the message struck a chord in her memory.

  She opened a translation program she often used for her Chinese studies. But instead of choosing English to Chinese, she chose Binary to English. Then she went to her email screen and copied the lines of code, pasting them into the translation program. Instantly, the translation appeared:

  Tank Baby

  “Yikes!” Elodie whispered to herself. br />
  Tank baby was a term Elodie had not heard for over a decade, when her birth mother was still alive. That and the fact that Sandy was in China sent a chill through her. Suddenly Elodie wished that Sandy was home so she could ask her what was going on.

  Whatever it was, though, was going to have to wait. Right now she needed to steel herself and have a talk with Carmah about something completely different.

  ~ ~ ~

  There were no rules in their house about not discussing things over dinner, but for some reason, Elodie felt shy because of the subject she wanted to broach with her mother. It was times like this that Elodie appreciated Carmah’s boulder-like patience. Sandy, on the other hand, was sometimes so hyper, so anxious to know what was going on—not only in the world, but in everyone’s lives—that she might try to get Elodie to talk before she was comfortable with what she was going to say.

  So Elodie cut her spaghetti into bite-sized pieces (Carmah rolled hers up in a spoon), and ate silently with a couple of slices of the garlic bread Carmah had toasted in the oven, listening to Carmah tell her about her day at the university. Even when they had finished and taken their plates to the sink to rinse and put in the dishwasher, Elodie wasn’t ready to talk. Even when they put the rest of the food in the fridge and wiped off the table.

  But when everything was tidy, Elodie padded to the living room and sat down on one side of the couch and waited for Carmah to join her on the other. Then she turned to face her mother, put her bare feet in front of her on the cushion, and hugged her knees.

  “I know you’ve told me a lot about Desirée over the years,” she began, “but did you ever meet her?”

  “That was before Sandy took over The ORG,” Carmah replied. “So, no. We didn’t even know she existed before Karen Globus asked us to adopt you.”

  “Do you know if she was gay?”

  Carmah looked at Elodie intently, and a little surprised. “Now there’s a question I didn’t expect.”

  “Was she?”

  “I don’t know, honey. The fact that she had you indicates that there was probably a man in the picture somewhere, but the fact that you have her last name may indicate that he wasn’t around much.”

  “What if Fontaine was her married name?” Elodie asked.

  “We know enough about her to be sure she was never married,” Carmah replied. “Otherwise, your adoption wouldn’t have been so easy.”

  “So we have a few probables based on research,” Elodie summarized, “but not enough actual facts to come to a valid conclusion.”

  “What’s this about, Elodie?” Carmah asked.

  “I went to a Gay/Straight Alliance meeting today at school.”

  Carmah raised her eyebrows a touch, but didn’t say anything.

  “I told myself I was going because of you and Sandy—to support you and every other gay and lesbian person. But it wasn’t true.”

  “You don’t support us?” asked Carmah with a smile.

  “Of course I do. But I went for myself.” She paused.

  “Go on.”

  “I know you and Sandy have never asked me about my sexuality,” Elodie went on, “but over the last few months—ever since the new school opened—I’ve started realizing that I’m attracted to girls.”

  “And do you think that somehow we’ve influenced you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I don’t care. And I don’t really think it matters. I love whatever influence you’ve had on me. Nobody could have been better parents. I mean, you’re a lot better mothers than Desirée was.”

  “I wouldn’t think you could remember back that far.”

  “Come on, Carmah, I have a great memory and I was seven when she died. Desirée was, like, welded to her work. I was less of a daughter than a subject. But I can’t help thinking of her when I wonder about sex. If Desirée was gay, then I’d wonder about heredity, if not, then I wonder about environment.”

  “Any conclusions?”

  “I don’t think it’s either. I just can’t imagine myself kissing a guy—no matter who I grew up with.”

  “And you can imagine yourself kissing a girl?” Carmah asked.

  She could imagine it very well; in fact, she had fantasized about kissing several of them. Even holding hands would be a delight, but in answer to her mother’s question, she just nodded shyly.

  Carmah reached out and took one of Elodie’s feet and began a slow massage. It was a routine that mother and daughter had settled into years before, and Elodie felt herself melt into it.

  “Anyone in particular?” Carmah asked.

  “No, not really,” Elodie replied. “There’s Bryn from the tennis team. And Kelli’s kind of cute, too.”

  “I remember Kelli from last year,” Carmah said. “She is a cutie. Anyone else?”

  “Well, there’s Ms. Callen my history teacher, Margo Schwadron—”

  “Margo Schwadron?” asked Carmah.

  “Yeah. She’s this girl that I met at the Alliance meeting. She’s got this intense blond hair and she took over the meeting like, well, like Sandy would have.”

  “One of those, huh? I’d like to meet this Margo.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Look, Elodie. I’m not going to deny that Sandy and I have talked a lot about this. Like why you never mention boys or why you never date—why you’ve never even had any close friends. But we also know that you’re different from us. You’re way more cerebral, and we thought that maybe you had somehow channeled your sexuality into your studies, or that maybe you were just asexual.”

  “Margo says she’s bisexual,” said Elodie.

  “But not you?” asked Carmah, taking Elodie’s other foot and kneading it in all the right places.

  Elodie shook her head. “I told you. Boys don’t do it for me. “Listen, is talking about sexuality with my mother supposed to be so easy?”

  “It is if you’ve been raised right,” Carmah said. “Not that I’m bragging.”

  “But Margo—” Elodie began.

  “Margo again?”

  “She said I was cute.”

  “You are cute. You’re gorgeous.” Carmah gave her foot a squeeze.

  Elodie opened her mouth to protest, then shut it. “Oh my god,” she whispered, as much to herself as to Carmah.

  “What?”

  “I . . . I told Margo she was gorgeous,” Elodie confessed.

  “Yikes.”

  “Yikes is right,” Elodie said.

  “What did she say?” asked Carmah.

  “Umm; that’s when she told me she was bi. And I’m pretty sure she has a boyfriend.”

  “Go with your heart, Elodie, but be careful.”

  “I will. I guess.”

  “So, um, how’s the tennis team coming?” Carmah asked.

  “Way to change the subject, Carmah. But it’s okay. Final cuts are on Friday, and Monday we’ll be playing each other to figure out the ladder.”

  “How do you think you’ll wind up?”

  “Well, Bryn is clearly the best player—as well as being the best looking. I mean, think of a left-handed Maria Sharapova. And even though she’s just a junior, she’s ranked in the top twenty in the state. Kate Bristol may be Number 2; she’s tall and really strong. She’s not as fast as I am but she hits more powerful shots. I’m Number 3 for sure. And I’m a better doubles player than Kate so I’m going to ask Coach if he’ll pair me up with Bryn and see how we do.”

  “You don’t think her looks will be a distraction?” asked Carmah.

  “There’s that,” admitted Elodie. “But I’ll try to deal with it.”

  Chapter Three

  Tiffany the Lawyer

  On Friday morning, Elodie was called out of her first-period class by Ms. Beauchamp, the assistant principal.

  “I need to talk to you in my office, Ms. Fontaine,” she said. “Bring your books.”

  Elodie stood and walked toward the door, but she was worried. She had never been called to the principal’s office before and most of the people who had been came away with either bad news or suspensions. Had Sandy been in an accident? Or had someone reported her for going to the Gay/Straight Alliance meeting earlier in the week? Elodie knew that this was silly thinking, but she couldn’t help it.

  Melanie Beauchamp was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties—young for an assistant principal. She dressed nicely and smiled when it was appropriate. Elodie liked her okay, but suspected that there was more to her than met the eye.