June 4th, 2015 - Lexi Rosen

On June 4, 2015, I was sixteen and a half—almost, minus six days. I was probably working at the store that was attached to my dance studio, because June 4 was a Thursday and I worked on Thursdays, and because besides that, I was at my dance studio more than I was at home at sixteen. I had finals the following week, and dress rehearsals, and then, of course, recital weekend—the thing, the girls, most of my year revolved around.

June 4 was eleven days before the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup, which doesn’t really matter. But what does matter is that night I was at an Imagine Dragons concert. When the Hawks won, they set off a confetti cannon. Confetti—rainbow, probably, or maybe silver and gold—fell like shooting stars, and I stood there, covered in confetti stardust, and so did the boy I was with, the one I had had a crush on since we were born. We were made of suddenly earthside space-possibilities.

I, then and now, think of things in factions. I only know thises and thats: there was before, and there was after. Before having my license, and after having my license. Before my first kiss, and after my first kiss. Before I knew her, and after I knew her. These hinges, voltas, feel like the pillars of a scale, and when I try to visualize myself before and after them, the little mes—the pre me and the post me—and all the mes that make up those pre-mes and post-mes, sit and evil-eye each other on their opposing pans. I am always all-present. The scale always balances. But the moments of negotiation—deciding which little mes will fall into which pan—can be volatile.

The confetti that night was a hinge.

On June 4, I probably took a Buzzfeed “Am I gay?” quiz while sitting on the toilet in the bathroom I shared with my parents. I was, turns out. Buzzfeed said I was “bi”—every time.

On June 4, I lived in Northbrook, Illinois, and I knew exactly three gay women. One was my AP European History teacher—she was pregnant with twins and ran out of our classroom to throw up once a week for most of that semester. The other two were family friends, and I can’t remember if I knew they were a couple yet.

On June 4, I was at my dance studio. I have a picture of our dress rehearsal/recital schedule from that day, so I probably filled out my planner, which I was obsessed with. It was pale pink and said “I’M VERY BUSY” on it in holographic letters, and I was very busy. I was also very snarky and very sure. I worked with a girl that I did not have a crush on (true), and not with a girl that I definitely did not have a crush on (false).

Also false: I said the confetti was the hinge. But it wasn’t, because it wasn’t the moment that changed me. It was just the pretty moment.

Two moments changed me—eleven days after June 4.

One: That boy and I held hands. We had pit tickets, so we had to run, as soon as security let us into the arena, as close to the stage as we could. We didn’t want to lose each other, so we held hands. I had never held hands with a boy before. There is not a memory of my childhood un-tinted by the desire to hold his hand. And we did, practically and with reason. We ran to the stage, and when we got there, we were breathing heavy and laughing, and my heart was beating so fast. Then we looked at each other, heaving.

Two: Halsey opened the show. I bought her merch—a black muscle tank I wore like a cross for the rest of high school. June 4 was about two months before she would release an album called Badlands, which went triple platinum in my car. It was probably in September of that year that I had another hinge moment—a confetti cannon—alone, in said car, at 7 a.m. on the way to school. I’d have been a junior. I’d have been listening to “Young God.” I’d have realized, like an explosion, that I wanted Halsey to want to kiss me, which meant that I wanted to kiss Halsey, which meant that I, indisputably, wanted other girls to want to kiss me, which meant that I, indisputably, wanted to kiss other girls. Girls. Period.

But on June 4, I was not eleven days out from kissing that boy, nor kissing any girls. It was Thursday, so I had probably helped with a 2nd grade ballet class. I had probably texted a girl I didn’t realize I had a crush on for hours while I was working—selling tights, rearranging booty shorts, studying for my pre-calc final. I had probably felt like Atlas—my tongue the world, my lips his hands. I had wanted, I’m sure, to talk about my favorite girl, about any of the girls that I can look back at now and go, oooohhhh, right. And I’m sure I did, but not in the way I could talk about the boys I did, and was supposed to, have crushes on.

But actually, probably, I didn’t feel such weight because—actually, probably—I did not quite know that I should have. Probably, June 4, 2015, was just a Thursday and I was not remarkably changed that day. Probably, June 4, 2015, was just a Thursday, and I couldn’t have imagined the confetti—how loud, how bright, how much it would matter.

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Lexi Rosen (she/her) only knows how to want. She studied Fiction at The University of Redlands and holds a dual-genre MFA (Fiction and Poetry) from The Vermont College of Fine Arts. She loves her people, eating cake with a spoon, and disco balls, and her work can be found at Maudlin House, HAD, Bullshit Lit!, and Fugue. She is also a recipient of the Jean Burden Poetry Prize Honorable Mention. Lexi is Editor-in-Chief of Silly Goose Press and writes from the Chicagoland area and planes. Honk at her: IG @lex.rosen, others @lexirosenwrites

Lexi wants you to learn more about Altadena Girls: a 501c3 charity and social movement to support teenage girls who lost their homes and belongings in the Eaton Canyon Fire (and started by a 14-year old girl!). Visit www.altadenagirls.org.