Bianca Torre Is Afraid of Everything, page 2
The guy who lives there is outside, watering the grass in the front lawn. Guess they don’t care much about wasting water either. His farmer’s tan is severe, the line clearly visible with the tank top he currently wears. He has something in his hand, the one without the hose, but I can’t quite make it out. He moves behind a bush, and I rise to my tiptoes to get a better view.
“Bianca, you want tea?” Mom asks.
I snap my head toward her, trying to hide the fact that I’m watching people again. “No,” I say a little too slow. “I’m good.”
She shrugs, putting a cup of water into the microwave and pressing one of the buttons to start it. “Kate, did you get an update on the musical?”
Kate’s supposed to be starring as Audrey in our school’s winter show, Little Shop of Horrors. But apparently the PTA has some issue with the content. Not the abusive boyfriend dentist character. Or the multiple murders that happen.
They think the lead, Seymour, taking care of a plant is going to make kids want to grow their own weed.
I wish I was joking.
“We’re doing that preview show on the eighteenth.” Kate sighs. “If that goes well, we can do the full run next month before break.”
“Good, we’ll be there, of course.” Mom then turns to me. Her mouth opens but she doesn’t speak, like she’s trying to think of what she can ask me about. “How’s the . . . bird group going?”
“It’s good.”
“School?”
“Good.”
“You know, dear, what I really admire about you is your way with words.”
She breezes past me to flick my shoulder before grabbing a banana off the counter. Mom’s a theater professor at a few community colleges in the area, so everything she says is projected and overenunciated. It’s a little weird, but I still love her.
“I’m a regular Chekhov,” I say, earning a proud smile from both her and Kate.
For someone who would rather take a venomous snake to the tit like Willy Shakes’s Cleopatra than step onto a stage, I know a little too much about theater from living with them.
And that’s saying something, because
Fear #25: Snakes
Which is nothing compared to
Fear #1: Public Speaking/Humiliation
Dad sits with his espresso, trying to enjoy a small moment of peace before his long shift. “I’m glad you have fun.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“You know . . .” The microwave beeps, only momentarily stopping Mom as she grabs the mug and adds her tea bag. “You should have some of your bird group over, you never have anyone over besides Anderson, and all you two do is watch those Japanese cartoons.”
He’s the only person I have to invite over. So. “You know it’s called anime,” I say, like that’s a good comeback.
As if Mom’s voice could summon her, I get a text from Jillian, who is in charge of my birding club.
Jillian: You’re able to make it today, right?
Yep, will be there.
Her response is almost immediate.
Jillian: Awesome! I have good news!
I feel like her good news is probably just a bird sighting, but I don’t mind. I really like Jillian. Aside from running the one thing that gets me out of the house on weekends, she’s a cool person.
She’s also like, thirty, so I’m not exactly going to invite her over to dinner.
“If I’m off, I can make food for your bird pals,” Dad suggests after swallowing his shot of espresso. They just can’t let the whole Bianca Has Basically No Friends thing go.
And bird pals? Really?
“Because my cooking’s bad?” Mom asks, voice light.
Dad laughs. “Does anyone go to Ireland for the food?”
“Italians.” She makes a show of pointing to his espresso.
“Grazie, mi amore. Posso fare il mio Bolognese?”
“We get it, Dad,” Kate says, head against the table. “You’re Italian. You can do spaghetti whenever, leave Bianca alone.”
Dad actually clears his throat. “Spaghetti Bolognese non è vero. Te l’ho detto tante volte! Tagliatelle, Catarina, tagliatelle.”
Kate rolls her eyes. “Sì, lo so, lo so.”
“You’re so sexy when you’re heated over pasta,” Mom says to Dad.
With a smile, she puts her mug down to hug him from behind. He turns to kiss her, then places a light touch on her chin to kiss her again. Kate gives an annoyed groan, but I think it’s kind of nice. I can’t imagine finding anyone who would like me that much for so long. They’re such different people, it gives me hope.
“No one has to cook anything,” I say. “It’d be weird to invite them over. They’re old.”
“Not that one . . .” Kate starts before catching herself. “No, wait. Yeah, Mom, they’re all like, sixty. Who is Bianca supposed to invite over?”
The tension in my chest releases. Kate not only knows that I’m a lesbian, but she knows about Elaine Yee. Not even Anderson knows about her, because we don’t really talk about girls of the 3D variety. Elaine’s the only other person in the Greater Los Angeles Ornithological Enthusiasts group below the age of twenty.
And, also, basically my dream girl.
So, of course, I could never invite her over. I’m a damn sheep. I can barely say hello to her.
In fact, the mere thought of it terrifies me.
Fear #13: Beautiful Women
Not that I deal with many, obviously. I’m certainly not going to find them in my bedroom, no matter how many computer ads promise that Sexy Women Nearby Want Me.
“Well, I don’t know,” Mom replies, defeated. “I’m not saying you should stop birding, but perhaps you should do something where you can meet some people your age.” She gets a look in her eyes. Here it comes. “A boy, maybe.”
Fear #11: Telling My Parents I’m a Raging Lesbian
“You sure it won’t work out with Anderson?” she asks.
“Yes, I’m sure. We’re not really each other’s types, and we’re just friends.”
“I just think you’re old enough to date a nice boy. We don’t mind.”
Dad looks up, grinning. “Or don’t date. Focus on school.”
Not exactly where I’m going with this either, but okay.
“Yeah, Mom, I don’t think I need to worry about meeting a boy right now, and school’s fine, Dad, but thanks.” I can barely stomach the rest of my toast. I take a bite and swallow the lump along with it. Maybe I should tell them. Kate and Anderson accepted me when I came out to them.
Sure, Kate has gay friends from theater and Anderson’s brother is trans, so they have queer people they love, but my parents would accept me too.
Probably. I think.
“I’m only saying,” Mom says. “Kate needs to focus on her career, but I would love for one of my daughters to bring a boy home.” She brightens. “Maybe you should take one of my improv classes.” She eyes my outfit. “And it wouldn’t hurt to wear clothes that look like they’re for girls.”
Fear #52: Improv
There is a lot to unpack there and really all of it makes me want to throw up. “Mom, I love you, but I would rather stab both my eyes out Oedipus style than take a single improv class.” I cross my arms. “And I’m not exactly going to wear a dress and heels on a hike.”
Or . . . ever. But still. I could probably tell them today. Now. No, Mom, I’ll never bring a boy home like that. So easy.
Say well, I’m a lesbian so and be done with it. Simple.
“Mom? Dad?”
They both look at me. Waiting.
My palms sweat.
“I’ll see you later, I have to go,” I say quickly. “Kate?”
She downs her own espresso shot and stands up to join me.
“Ciao, ciao,” Dad says.
“Have fun,” Mom adds.
Kate grabs her keys and walks with me outside.
She has her backpack high on both shoulders and a separate rehearsal bag in hand as she gives me a look. “I think I know what you meant by that lesbian sheep thing.”
I adjust the binoculars around my neck before applying sunscreen to my arms for the second time today. Despite it being so early, the temperature is fairly high, especially for early November. Most of the group is already gathered. Clutching their cameras and field guides. I stand among them, not talking to anyone.
“Bianca, there you are!”
Jillian Kingfisher, president of the Greater Los Angeles Ornithological Enthusiasts (GLAOE), and leader of the bird tours, smiles warmly at me. She really is a textbook bird enthusiast, down to her last name. She knows everything there is to know about the birds of California—and probably even the rest of the world, if she were tested on it. Currently dressed for the hike in a shocking amount of khaki, her red-framed glasses fall down her nose. She’s not unattractive, but definitely the quirky type.
She reached out to me after I submitted a nervous contact form to the GLAOE when I came across their website last year. It’s super outdated, and kind of looks like the page you’d find when typing .net instead of .com by accident, but the passion for birds was clear in the description.
Jillian reached out and immediately invited me to chat more and go on a hike. It was nice, and Mom and Dad were glad I got out of the house for once, even if they made Kate go with me the first time. What a nightmare that was. Kate is the theater kid who doesn’t understand that stage whispers aren’t meant for normal life, and probably scared away half the nearby birds. And maybe even other hikers.
I was welcomed into the group and Kate was politely asked not to come back.
But Jillian and I got close enough, and she doesn’t mind if I message her with random birding questions. A person like that can’t be easy to find.
“Hi, Jillian,” I say. “How are you?”
“I’m doing all right,” she says, pushing her glasses up. “Hoping that we have some great finds today.”
“Me too,” I reply because it’s something to say.
“I’m so glad you’re able to come weekly; I know junior year can get busy. It gives me hope, you know, to see such a promising young ornithologist.”
I blush. “Thanks.”
“So, onto my good news. We are doing some spring internships at the museum,” Jillian says. “I’ll definitely recommend you, if you’re interested. I can’t imagine you won’t get accepted even without me, but it would be great to have you!”
The museum exhibit where Jillian works is mostly taxidermy birds, but they do a lot of research. Plus, there wouldn’t be contact with many people, and I already know her. Excitement builds in my chest. “That’d be great,” I say.
Jillian holds the binoculars around her neck. “The deadline is mid-December, so there’s only a few weeks, but I’ll send you the application info. I’ll also write you a letter of recommendation, you can send that in as well.”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, “thank you.”
“Don’t worry at all, I’m just so glad you’ve been coming. I know it took some getting used to.”
Yes, meeting with a group of strangers from the internet in nature was not exactly the most comfortable experience.
“It did,” I admit. “But I’m glad I’m here.”
“Me too.” Jillian chuckles lightly. “Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to birds. They’re never really alone. Most of them are with their flocks. It’s kind of beautiful, huh?”
I feel like that’s a callout for me being too shy and awkward to talk to people, but she’s pulled aside by another member before I can question it.
She has a point. At least this group is something. And now there’s the possibility of the internship too. Jillian really is the coolest. Without her, I’d be holed up in my bedroom with nothing to do. Now, I might even get to look forward to next semester. I don’t know what the hours of the internship are, but it’s not like I have any after-school conflicts anyway.
I check the time on my phone to distract myself from smiling alone like a strange person. It’s 7:28.
We never start late, so everyone else will have to get here in two minutes. Of course, our group maxes at maybe fifteen people, so it’s not like there will be many more coming.
And who am I kidding? I’m waiting on one person.
It’s exactly 7:30 when she arrives, parking her blue Subaru in the lot at the bottom of the trail. The dented car stands out in the crowd of Porsches, BMWs, and Teslas the rest of the group drives. But I can’t help but stare as she gets out of the car, looking incredible in her hiking gear. Elaine Yee gets my heart fluttering like you wouldn’t believe, and her large Nikon and birdwatching field guide only add to the overall hotness of her demeanor.
She could be a model. Or an actress. Or probably, like, end world hunger with an OnlyFans.
But she’s a sweet and intelligent badass who spends her Saturdays on birding hikes.
She gives a soft smile that isn’t quite directed at anyone, but not not directed at me, as she joins the group. Her hair is tied back in a low ponytail. Stray strands flutter in the light breeze as she stands and waits for our birding adventure to begin.
It would be easy enough in theory to say something.
Just a hello. Not like a full question or anything.
My arms itch and my stomach turns like I had too much iced coffee.
Fear #6: Initiating Conversation
Jillian saves me from making a fool out of myself.
“Welcome, everyone,” she says. “I hope you had a wonderful week, and it is so lovely to be here with you all. Every walk is a new opportunity for sightings! Last week, Terrance and Margaret spotted a chestnut-sided warbler. An excellent find from our newest members.” She gestures to Terrance and Margaret, a retired couple who consistently arrive at least fifteen minutes early and hold on to their cameras proudly. Aside from Elaine and Jillian, they’re probably the nicest to me in the whole group, and they’ve only been coming for like two months now.
Jillian smiles like a satisfied mother, giving a moment for congratulations before continuing. “Who knows what incredible species we may spot on the trail.”
There’s a very small murmur of excitement. Jillian lives for this.
“Now, we can’t forget our safety reminders,” she says. “We know there is no smoking of any kind from our organization, as wildfires are a constant threat. Also be wary of mountain lions and snakes—don’t be too quiet as we go to keep those predators away. Stay on the trail to ensure we don’t disturb the wildlife. And go at your own pace, but try not to get too far behind.”
It’s the same speech every week, and it’s virtually impossible to get left behind on a birdwatching hike. It’s not really about the exercise.
I take a step closer to the warning signs the park has posted and try to cement the advice into my mind. Stay on the trail be alert fire danger medium oh dear God in heaven. I rub in more of my sunscreen.
Fear #9: Wildfires
Fear #25: Snakes
Fear #33: Mountain Lions
Fear #48: Skin Cancer
It’s kind of a wonder that I come out here every week in the first place.
“Let’s get started!” Jillian claps her hands together without being too loud about it.
She gets the least enthusiastic response ever, given nobody talks with raised voices for fear of scaring off possible sightings.
My feet crunch over the dirt path as we start up the trail. Trees sprout up from the ground, some greenery visible from the few rainy mornings we had recently. There’s hardly a cloud out today. A few wisps of white spread across the sky, but not nearly enough to shade from the huge sun that quickly warms any visible skin. I pull down the baseball cap I’m wearing over my eyebrows. Sunglasses can obstruct birding views, but it’s too bright to go without something.
Although there are a few whispers and breaths of excitement at any wing flutters, the group itself stays quiet. Our steps and movements are louder than our voices. I keep my field guide open, occasionally flipping pages like I’m trying to find something in it. But I’m really hiding behind it. Watching the people around me more than the surroundings.
I’ve gotten so used to everyone here, they’re practically like a second family.
Jeffrey Mayfield, a white casual birder in his early thirties or so, looks a bit too put together. Like he’s an influencer or something. He scans the sky for birds but also keeps checking his phone every so often. I found his social media account once, and he manages a vegan bakery his dad owns, which kind of fits his vibe.
Mr. Wattson, my least favorite member of the group because of the homophobic things he posts on his Facebook, walks ahead, and I make a point to not even bother him. His exterior fits his horrible personality—I thought he was like seventy until he posted about having his newest kid at fifty-three.
Terrance and Margaret look at the photos in their camera a lot, probably reliving the glory of last week. Terrance is a tall Black man and Margaret is a tiny Vietnamese woman, but they have the same mannerisms. Behavior learned from years and years of marriage.
It even shows up in the way they dress, with matching short-sleeve button-ups dotted with little songbird silhouettes that look great on both of them.
They also avoid Mr. Wattson as he passes by. He’s asked if Elaine was Margaret’s daughter on multiple occasions, despite the fact that he knows Elaine is Chinese and they arrive separately.
I hope he quits. Or gets pecked in the ass by a goose daily.
Terrance looks back at me, making eye contact. My face heats.
“Bianca, you didn’t get to see the picture, did you?” He holds the screen of the camera so I can take a look. “A real beauty, isn’t he?”
The clear rust-colored streak on the side of the bird indicates it’s a male, and the shot highlights his head capped in yellow. The photography itself is impressive. “Yes. Such a great find. Congratulations.”
