Margaret Lacey is a Lesbian

Margaret Lacey had friends. She had interests. She had a nice little life, surrounded by her family (whom she occasionally hated), her dogs (which were frequently smelly), her boyfriends (who were as smelly and occasionally hated as her family and dogs combined), her girlfriends (who were soft and warm and giggled and were very, very secret) and her books (which were perfect). Her life was not defined by the people she met in secondary school.

At six, she had been a beautiful, charming young girl with white blonde hair and a grin to woo millions into buying her candies and gifts. At sixteen, her hair was a middling, mousy brown, and she might be called pretty in the right lighting and with a make up specialist on hand, but could generally be referred to as plain. At six, she was spoiled with beautiful dresses and many dollies and games to keep her occupied. At sixteen, she was just beginning to push out the fronts of dresses that had belonged to her mother, and was content with her books and her scribblings in journals and diaries. At six, she could approach any stranger and make them feel uncomfortable with the amount of love and attention to detail she would pay them. At sixteen, she could do the same.

Margaret Lacey did not know everyone in her school. She knew about and around many of them (those people who were attractive or interesting enough to garner her attention were frequently fictional, celebrities, or already her close bosom friends), but failed to care enough to acquaint herself with every teenager suffering from poor dentistry and a repressed sex drive. What she did know about the students in Quarry High School who were not directly her friends, was more likely to be about the shape of their ass than the shape of their personality. If someone was nicely sculpted enough in both areas, then she would nod approvingly at them in the hallway, and never wish to speak with them, for fear of her heart racing and her tongue becoming thick and stumbling over her words, which would inevitably become, “You’re weirdly attractive.”

Music, art, literature, and (not as publicly stated as those listed previously) sex were her passions, but not her talents. With that in mind, it wasn’t a shock that she could be found acquainting herself with Stu Sutcliffe, local artiste and Casanova. It was left unclear to her peers whether or not the duo was an actual “item,” but they did share smirks, giggles, and cigarettes quite frequently. If one were to eavesdrop, they could be heard discussing quite factually matters of politics, intercourse, and philosophy, but their talk always came back to music.

“Here comes the big question: Elvis or Bing?” she’d ask, lolling back against a hedge in some empty suburban street.

“I’m offended,” he’d respond with a smirk, in a twin position, maybe a foot away from her. As he was long, tall, and thin, his loll against the hedge was far more impressive. His bones seemed to turn to jelly in his total relaxation under the grey skies. His glasses were as black and thick as his hair, and his leather jacket was as close to them as it could be. Every part of him that wasn’t skin or eyes seemed to be made of dark fabrics, metals, and plastics. Should he lie in a coma, his smirk would remain upon his face.

“You’re a prick. Does that make you feel better?” She was lazy in her quips.

“That’s less offensive than being asked if I’m a Bing Crosby fan,” he would gruff, trying to force his words into a tough-guy growl. “That’s mother music, not me music.”

“I don’t know Stu, I’ve come to think of you as my mam, it hasn't hurt your image much yet,” she would say, and commence chuckling at how goddamn funny she was. Completely sober, she could barely get over herself.

“That’s either a confession to Freudian lesbianism or I've just discovered that you’re very rude.” And, perhaps, they’d kiss. Or maybe they wouldn't. It’s hard to tell.

The bond that grew between the teddy boy artiste and the bookish nymphomaniac failed to spread beyond the two of them for many months, and their groups of friends remained adjacent but separate, with only the link of Margaret Lacey and Stu. Margaret Lacey’s friends thought of Stu & Co. as pretentious and overwhelmingly sexist, while Stu’s mates thought of Margaret Lacey etc. as lesbians and judged that the girls would not show them their vaginas, so felt no need to make contact.