The first few weeks after we had gotten together, I had lost the feeling that all eyes were on me every time I walked into school. I could go to my classes, go to lunch, even walk around arm-in-arm with Lonnie sometimes, and people didn't even look at us twice. Nobody knew I was a lesbian. There was no reason for them to gawk. I was invisible.

But this time it isn't just a feeling. Everyone's eyes are on me. There had been a crowd near my locker before I even arrived, and now that I'm here, my eyes are stuck on it, and I can feel their eyes stuck on me. I'm frozen, and I don't know how to turn invisible again.

DYKE!

It is just a word, one word, emblazoned black over my locker. How can one word be so strong that I can't even move?

I wish someone would say something. Can't they ask what happened? Or accuse me of something? Can't they do anything else but act like I'm an animal in a zoo cage they've formed with their bodies?

I'm going to run. That's the only option there is, right? Just push my way out and it will be over. I can come back after first period (they can't just stand here forever, right?), everything will be fine. And that's what I'm just about to do before another person appears in the crowd, skirting around the edge. How immediately I recognize her, from just the smallest glance of her hair, feels like a betrayal, because as my eyes finally stick to someone, the others around me turn to look, too.

Lonnie just seems to notice that everyone is formed into a circle as she reaches her locker. She has headphones on, her Walkman shoved into the pocket of her sweatshirt. She cocks her head to the side, side-stepping to see into the center of the crowd, to see me.

She pulls the headphones off and calls out, "Sam?"

No, no, she can't see me. I can't see her. They can't see us.

I shoved my way past people without even looking at them and ran down the hallway, out the heavy steel doors to the school courtyard.

It's only a few minutes before she finds me in the middle stall of a girl's bathroom. As much as I might try to hide by keeping my feet up on the toilet, my sniffling isn't exactly quiet, and then she's just standing there in front of me, holding the door while I try to hold my whole body.

"Are you okay?" she asks. Her eyebrows are pinched in concern, and that only makes me more scared.

I shake my head, but I can't say anything just yet.
She takes a step inside, locking the stall door behind her and leaning against it. She sighs loudly, slowly, her painted nails tearing at the creases of her jeans. What is there even to say? We knew this could happen. We knew this would happen.

But at the same time, I had never actually prepared myself for when this would happen.

She doesn't look up from her own hands as she asks, "Do you know who did it?"

I'm more in control of my breathing now, but it's hard to talk. There's a knot in my throat of fury and fear and it hurts when I swallow. "No. No one should know."

And that was just it - no one should know. We had been so careful - not touching too much in front of friends, never kissing in front of other people, making sure we spent lunch sometimes with our other friends, looking away when we couldn't help but watch each other with our stupid, stupid smiles because we were so in love. But that was the answer, wasn't it? We are in love, and no matter how much we hide it behind clever tactics, everybody can see it.
We were never really fooling anybody, were we?

Lonnie doesn't say anything for a long time. We just sit in our own thoughts, probably working through the conversations we'd have to have if worst came to worst. What would I tell Dad? What would I tell Mom? Would they try and call Katie at some hotel to let her know about her gay sister? If they did, would Katie stick up for me? As perfect as she was sometimes (always), she was never very good at sticking up for herself, nor anyone else for that matter.

Then Lonnie takes a step forward in this gross, cramped stall, and as I look up at her, she takes my head into her hands. The morning drive left her fingers cold, but that isn't what makes me flinch. She doesn't really react to my fear, though, and leans down, kissing me. Kissing me until I know what I have to do.

When we're done kissing, I look up at her, my arms still wrapped around my legs. I say, "You probably shouldn't be around me today. It will only look worse."

I'm right, and she knows it.
She doesn't say anything, she just leans back against the stall door again, and nods.

It's late into second period when I get a note calling me to the principal's office. The bubble for 'Come at the end of class' is filled in, and that's how I find myself sitting in his office at the start of third period, nervously tapping my fingers on the arm of the wooden chair I'm in while he makes his way around to his seat. Once he's seated, he removes his glasses and sets them on his desk, sighing for a long time before finally looking at me. Then a note on a desk, and back at me.

"Samantha Greenbriar, is it?"

I nod my head with a, "Yessir."

"I heard that your locker was defaced this morning. I'm sorry to hear about that."

"Thank you." I'm not sure that's what I was supposed to say, but that's the only thing coming to mind. I don't know why I'm here, but there aren't a lot of good reasons that I can imagine.

He nods, and then continues, "Now, as I understand it, none of your property was damaged - your textbooks and other school materials are fine?"

"Mmhmm. Yeah."
What is the point of this? It's not like I have any information that he doesn't have, obviously - as much as anyone who got a look at my locker.

"That's good, that's good."

He seems to be almost as confused about me being here as I am, which leaves me even more nervous. His mouth pinches into a point as he thinks, and every time he looks at me, he looks away after a second.

"Sir," I say begin, and then pause. Calling him 'sir' leaves a sour taste in my mouth, but there isn't a man over thirty who doesn't feel better hearing it. And there was still some chance that, whatever sort of trouble I'm in, that being a sweet little girl being bullied will get me out and keep me out (preferably without a phone call home).
"Why am I here?"

He nods again, though his eyes still refuse to focus on me. As he sighs again, he brings a hand up to his mouth, slowly dragging down his face as he finally comes up with the words he wants to say.

"Well, Samantha, I wanted to let you know I was very sorry for the harassment you've received, and to ask you if you know anything about who may have painted your locker. As you can imagine, incidents like this can be very . . . distracting for students, and it is in the best interest of everyone that this incident does not repeat itself."

Something about the way he talks bothers me. Despite everything he's saying, I can just tell that he blames me. He's looking to me to fix a problem I gave him, instead of what his school gave me.
Bullshit.

I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. "Well, I don't know who did it or why they did it." I plaster a wry smile on my face and say, "Kids can be cruel, sometimes."

This has to be what he expected, because he only nods. "That's too bad," he replied, "I would hate for this to happen again."

Why does it feel like he's blaming me? Why is he suspicious of me? Even if I'm gay, it's not like I spray painted my own locker.
This is bullshit.

When he starts talking again, it's faster, more Principal and less Person. "Now, if you happen to find out who did it, or this happens again, you would, of course, be protected under Title IX for an environment safe from harassment due to sex. Are you familiar with Title IX?"

I nod, "Yeah."

A pause. Then he says, "Now, I should let you know that Title IX does not protect you on the grounds of sexual orientation, so while we can remove the graffiti from your locker, there is little else we can do, even if you find out who defaced it."

So that's it. He called me in here to tell me they're not going to do shit. That I'm on my own. He's a coward, and that pisses me off.

"So what?" I ask, leaning forward in my seat. I can tell I'm starting to glare, and men absolutely hate that, but I hate cowards more. "So my classmates just get to paint my shit and call me a dyke and you just want me to know you'll repaint my locker?"

He matches my stare, now. Finally he's looking at me. I don't know if that makes me feel better.
"Well, are you?" he asks.

That takes me back a step. I'm blinking stupid now, I know that, but I'm not sure what to make of that question.
"What?"

"Are you a lesbian?" he pronounces every word so distinctly that I can tell he's been rehearsing the question in his head.
That's why he couldn't look at me. Because he was going to 'accuse' me of being a lesbian.

"Excuse me?" I know now, of all times, I shouldn't snap at him - if I get in a fight with him, I'll end up in detention, or suspended, or something else that results in my parents being called, but I can't keep the indignation out of my voice.

Now he's talking more quickly again, "If Miss DeSoto is, in fact, your girlfriend, then I would advise you to keep quiet about it. While I suspect this is some boy - someone you've turned down, or an ex-boyfriend maybe - lashing out at you, that this is a one-time act of frustration, I understand that things are not so straightforward for all students. Everyone has their own personal business, of course, one way or the other. It is best to keep these things private, for everyone's sake."

And by then, it's clicked. By the time he's finished talking, I've started laughing, and the look of discomfort that brings to his face makes it almost worth it.

He wants me to be invisible. Back in the closet again, door locked, no one can see me. No one can see her. No one can see the dykes bringing graffiti to the school.

But we're not invisible anymore, are we?

"Of course," I say, but I can't stop laughing. "For everyone's sake."

"That bastard."

It's late that same night when Lonnie and I finally get a chance to talk over the phone. Mom's been on the phone with work constantly when she's home lately, so it's nearly impossible to get some uninterrupted time without the possibility of her listening in on accident.

Luckily, Lonnie and I seem to be on the same page about the principal. "And that's not even the worst part," I say, remembering newly found depths of irritation; "he said it like he was doing me a favor! Like being quiet, painting it over and pretending nothing ever happened was what was best for me."

Lonnie groans in response. "I hate hate hate people like that. But bureaucrats never stick up for people."

I sigh, slumping sideways to lay down instead of sit against the wall. "But I guess it's best it happened this way. They didn't steal my stuff, he didn't call my parents." Beat. "I'm just the school dyke now, I guess. Maybe if I cut my hair real short and look real pissed no one will fuck with me."

Lonnie's quiet for a moment, thinking. "Yeah, maybe," she replied. "I just wish you didn't have the wear the scarlet letter by yourself, you know?"

That reminds me of the chain around my neck, so I pull it out of my shirt to hold up the half-hearted 'L' where I can see it. It's beautiful and bright, warm from sitting against my skin all day, but now it leaves me worried. Nobody could have noticed it, could they?
"Do you think we should stop wearing the necklaces?"

Lonnie's breath catches, and then it's just quiet from her side of the phone.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay." Beat. "I just . . . I hate this."

The strain in her voice brings a lump to my throat. God, I hate this too.
"Yeah . . . and you know what the stupid thing is? By the end of the school day, when I put my books away, I was kind of angry that they were going to paint it over. I felt like, maybe, maybe I was out, and that was it, and there was nothing I could do, and it was over. If people already know, then why can't I just say it?"

The question is rhetorical, but at the same time, I desperately want an answer. I hate this gray area, forced to protect myself as a show when everybody already knows it's a show because it would be wrong not to pretend. Most people, I think, are just like the principal - they don't actually care who I kiss, who I love, or who I screw, they just need me to play my part in the stage play they've been working on. It's my personal business, but that's all that it can be. Asking other people to deal with it . . . I don't even want to think about it.

"I get what you mean."

And I know she does. I know she gets it. Even as her response irritates me, even knowing that she's dedicating herself intentionally to playing the part of the straight girl for years to serve under Don't Ask Don't Tell, I know she gets it. Choosing something doesn't always mean you had a choice.

There's silence on both our ends for a long time, and then she says, "I love you."

And that cuts through the fear, if only for a moment. I smile and whisper back, "I love you too."

And then she said, "I'm going to keep the necklace on. I just need to keep something for me."

I wasn't entirely sure what she meant by that, but I clutched the engraved fragment of her heart against my chest and said, "Me too."

Nobody watches me the next day at my locker, as if nothing had happened. Occasionally someone just coming into the hallway checks to see if the paint is still there (it is), but otherwise, I'm allowed to stuff my textbooks in, get my notebooks for the first two periods out, and work on my eyeliner in the mirror I've attached to the locker door.

That is, until I see her coming.

She's wearing her US Army jacket, patched up with enough anti-nationalist slogans to probably get her kicked out of the ROTC, and her head phones covering her ears. Her hands are in her front pockets, and though her eyes dart over to me, she doesn't wave, doesn't smile, doesn't slow down. She's approaches her locker at a brisk pace, and now that she's closer, I can tell she looks pissed.

I close my locker, pick up my bag, and walk towards her. I stop short when I realize that her headphones are blasting the Missfits so loud that I can hear it from ten paces away, and that scares me a little. I stop and watch.

She looks left, then right. Then she draws something out of her pocket - at first I think it's just her Walkman, but then I hear the rattle of a spray can.

What does she think she's doing?

Oh.

I know what it is before she's finished, even though her head blocks most of the view for me. Everyone is watching her, doing nothing but standing there like they did with my locker yesterday. She doesn't seem to care. She's a moron. She's a lunatic. She's a-

DYKE!

And as soon as the words are done, she pivots and walks away, tossing the spray can into the trash can. Not that it matters - everybody saw her, she's going to be suspended by first period, and yet . . .

People clear out once the first bell rings, living me alone with this brand we share now. There's no going back from this one - the meaning is clear for everyone to see, but she did it anyway. She's reckless. She's a damn fool.
And as I run a finger along the dripping border of the 'K', staining my index finger black, I'm filled with reverence. She took something desecrated and made a shrine. How could I ever doubt her?

Along with her post cards back home, Katie often sends us pictures of her adventures in Europe. Pretty as they all might be, there is one that has always stuck out to me the most, filled me with a feeling much like now. Love. Awe. Something wonderful in something crude. The tomb of Oscar Wilde.

I know I'll be late for class, but I take the time to go back to my locker, get a tube of lipstick, and apply it as heavily and carefully as I can in the mirror. Then, next to the dripping paint, I leave a lipstick stain in bright red.

There's no going back for her. There's no going back for us. Not on the first time we said 'I love you', nor this time.

We're in love, and that's the only thing it can be.