Be

Thin. Mostly tall and tanned, but all of them pretty. I wish I could be one of the women that little girls look at and say “isn’t she pretty?”. But when I look at the TV, I never see anyone like me.

There's never any shorter people with hazel eyes and caramel hair. I’m five foot three, but boy do I feel tiny sometimes. I’m usually the shortest- in my class, my year, my family. Even my mother stands an inch taller than me at five foot four, my father is two inches taller at five foot five.

“Supposed to!?” Francis Scott spits when I explain my thought process on the way from our last class for the day. “Linda, that’s…” he shakes his head when he stops walking to look at me. “That’s just silly. Lin, you could be one of those girls if you really wanted to. Heck, if there’s no one else that looks like you, you should be! Give them someone to look up to. Someone like them.”
“I know. I told myself I wouldn’t fall for that trap,” I say, my gaze gravitating downwards until I’m staring at my feet. “But when there’s all these super pretty, skinny mini people everywhere, how can you not compare yourself? How can I not wonder if I’m good enough?”
"You are enough, Lin," he says, his voice pleading. “You are so enough. No one said it was easy."
Slowly, I look up at him. “But you’re not caught in the trap.”
“There you go again.” Francis rolls his eyes at the cliché. “Comparing.” He coughs and splutters as if it will rid his mouth of the bitter taste of the word on his tongue and eliminate it's poisonous venom from his mouth. “And you’re wrong. I did get caught in the trap. But I’ve hauled myself out again.”
“How?” I ask in a whisper, like the answer is some big, magical secret Francis has to be sure will not be overheard by the wrong people if he is to say it out aloud.
“Let’s just say it’s easier said than done.” He stops in front of me, his yellow-green eyes pouring into mine. “But step one is to stop….”
Francis doesn’t seem able to finish the sentence, so I speak the dreaded word for him, at which he shivers vigorously before resuming walking again.
“Ugh!” he says. “It’s just like Macbeth in the theatre.” He sucks air in through his teeth, as if just entertaining thoughts of comparisons causes him pain. He closes his eyes, exhaling slowly, trying to blow out the unpleasant thoughts from his mind.

Francis clasps my hands, his gaze soft and solemn. “Linda, let’s promise to never speak that word again.” He pauses, I’m not sure whether for breath, dramatic effect or both. “Or do what it describes. That should be a sin.” Francis suddenly picks up the pace, and I have to run to catch up.
“Um.. Francis. I think it is a sin,” I pant, trotting beside him as he almost glides along the courtyard. I almost fall flat on my face trying to skid to a halt when he stops, but Francis throws his arm out, effortlessly catching me and gently pushing me upright again. When my eyes meet his, he blinks. “Pride?” I say. “I think what you’re describing,” I gulp, “the whole comparison thing, is known as pride.”
“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose in one sense of the word, but.. Pride doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Lin. What do they say?” He answers the question himself when I say nothing, his voice raised so the answer reaches me as he walks away, approaching the car waiting for him. “Out and proud, Darling, out and proud,” He sticks a hands up in the air and waves, quickly glancing back at me and flashing one of his super-smiles. I wave back as he opens the car door and slides elegantly into the seat. The window starts to go down, revealing Francis’s face, and his finger beckoning me to come over.

“Do you need a lift?” he asks when I get closer.
I glance at my watch. “No, thanks though. My ride shouldn’t be too far off.”
“You’ve made a reservation for tonight, right?”
I nod. “You’ve got the tickets?”
“Yep,” he says, a smile cracking the usual serious line formed by his lips. “Uncle Keys and I’ll be round to get you at five thirty.”
I nod again. “You got it!”

True to his word, Francis and his Uncle are at my place by 5:30 on the dot, and from there we head to Joanie’s, a little local restaurant with a very homey feel to it. “We should have a reservation for three,” I say, my voice barely audible. It's a miracle the girl on the other side of the counter hears.
“What name?” the waitress must be around Francis and my age. Her voice is robotic and bored, like she'd rather just stand and stare at her nails then talk to us. Or do her job. When I say nothing, freezing for no particular reason, she looks up to glare at me impatiently from underneath her lashes.
“Ah.. Linda,” I say. It shouldn’t be that hard to say my own name out loud. It’s exactly like I can forget it. But, I always seem to have this problem around people. Especially strangers. Francis and I have known each other since we were little. He knows how to handle me. I was there when he came ‘out and proud’, even though I’d known long before then. When the last Harry Potter movie came out when we were twelve, Neville, in all his newly blossomed sizzling hot glory, was the one we both swooned over. Francis never succumbed to the hypnotically alluring Veela from Beauxbaton’s like so many of the other boys in our year did. Not that they’d ever admit it of course.

“There's no reservation under that name,” says the bored waitress, not the slightest hint of apology on her heavily made up face.
“Are you sure?” Francis’s uncle steps forward, raising an eyebrow and resting a strong hand gently on my shoulder. “Is there anything like ‘Linda’ there? Any reservations for three?” I appreciate him not questioning whether or not I’ve actually booked, just trusting that I have. Although Keys is not the kind of guy you want to mess with. He’s more than just a pretty face.
“We’ve got a table for three under Belinda,” says the girl finally, looking back up at us, directing her gaze toward Keys this time.
“That’ll be us then,” he says, placing his free hand on my other shoulder and steering my half frozen self after the waitress, Francis trailing along behind.

Once we’re seated and the waitress had gone, I let my head drop into my hands, shaking my head as if this will rid it of the memory. “I’m so sorry.” Slowly, nervously, I look up at them to see no hint of anger in disappointment on their faces. Only a soothing, gentle kindness in their soft smiles, concern radiating through their gazes. 
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” says Keys.
Francis nods. “Uncle Keys is right Lin,” he says, “you’re just being you. Just being Linda.” He chuckles a little, and I can’t help but laugh too.
“Being Linda,” Keys repeats. “That’s a good one Francis.” He leans over and pats his shoulder.
“Well isn’t that what they say?” Francis asks, pausing for a moment before answering the question himself. “Just be.” He winks at his uncle, who nods, a small smile on his lips. We’re just about to see Kinky Boots, so I’m guessing it’s some sort of reference from it and I’ll understand perfectly by the end of the night. Francis had insisted that I come. “You’ve got to see it Lin! This is like the only musical society production Uncle Keys isn’t involved with this year." So here I am, about to see a show about a struggling shoe factory saved by drag queens.

Sure enough, when the curtain falls, I understand what they meant by ‘just be’. It was kind of the central message of the entire production. “Just be who you wanna be,” Francis repeats as we leave the theatre, hands clasped together over his heart.
“Never let ‘em tell you who you oughta be,” I finish slowly, letting the words swirl around in my mind.
“It’s a beautiful thing,” says Keys, catching up to us and snaking his arms around our shoulders, me on one side and Francis on the other as we walk down the street toward the car. “To just be. To be. The freedom that comes with it.” I can’t help but smile as I fall lightly against his side and the lyrics of that last song, reinforced by Francis’ repetition of them like a mantra, settle in my mind.

“They say it like it’s so simple,” I muse softly as Keys pulls away from the kerb.
“It doesn’t seem that way though, is it?” Keys replies empathically, meeting my eyes in the rear-view mirror.
“I wish!” I say, and Keys laughs. “But Keys, you seem cool in your own skin. What’s your secret?”
“I’m not all the time, Sweetheart,” he says. “Looks can be deceiving. But I think they said it beautifully. Just be I've tried on a lot of different hats in my life. I’ve tried to be so many other people. Anyone but who I am. And you know which hat fit best?”
“Which?”
“The one labelled ‘me’.” He smiles in the rearview mirror. “The hat where I just got to be me. Where I wasn't really wearing a hat at all. You are who you are, just as much as I am who I am. To deny yourself that, you'd be denying the world. Now that would be a tragedy. Don't be scared, Linda. Just be you.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes before Keys starts to talk again. “You know that song they were singing? The one about not being their father’s sons?” My brows scrunch together in concentration as I go back through the show in my head, reaching the song after a minute or two and I nod. “I think a lot of the answers you’re looking for may be in that song if you listen carefully,” says Keys. “Because I think that Simon is describing a time when he was in the same place as you are now.” Stopping the car outside my house, he turns, placing a hand on my knee and smiles. “We’ve all been there Honey,” he says. “Francis and I are always here if you need us. Right?” He glances at his nephew.
“Right,” says Francis, reaching out and squeezing my hand emphatically. “Always.”
“Thanks,” I say as I unbuckle my belt and open the door to get out. “For everything.”

Once I’m inside, I dress quickly in my pyjamas and slide underneath the covers. I stare up at the ceiling for a few minutes before closing my eyes. Images of ‘pretty’ girls flash one by one in my mind. Tanned ones, pale ones, taller ones, shorter ones. But all of them stick skinny. Tiny. I imagine the images on the glossy pages of magazines. The kinds I used to use to play ‘pretty ladies’ with my mother when I was little. My brows scrunch together at the memory, realising that even as a small girl, I was judging those women in the pictures by their looks. The very thought makes me feel sick. But seeing them now, ‘pretty and perfect’, really tears me apart. So I imagine reaching toward the magazine pages and ripping them into tiny pieces. Because I finally realise now, that I don’t have to be like them. Because I can just be me. All I need to do is to be.

Francis smiles, just like I knew he would, when I tell him on our return to school on Monday that he’s right. “That whole ‘Belinda’ thing at Joanie’s on Friday night. Embarrassing as. But, you were right with the whole ‘being Linda’ thing. Cause that’s what I do best.”
Francis pats my shoulder lightly, his smile widening. “Ah. See?” he says.
“Maybe I will be one of those girls.”
His eyes grow wide “What do you mean ‘one of those girls’?” Francis asks, his voice quieter than before. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to try and be like...” Francis pauses to shiver. Apparently ‘like’ is another poisonous word. At least in this context. “those ‘other girls’.”
As if reading my mind, Francis says, “Be who you want to be, Linda. Don’t let anyone else tell you who that is.” He smiles, reaching forward to pick at the scarf/blanket type thing I’ve wrapped around myself. I try my best to wriggle away from him. It’s too cold to emerge from this cocoon.
“Be free Linda,” he says. “Spread your wings, my beautiful little butterfly, and fly!” I laugh, understanding what he was getting at. I can’t help but oblige him, wrapping the ends of the blanket around my hands and spreading my arms wide, eliciting more laughter from both of us. We freeze when we hear someone else, and look to see Keys has stopped in front of us on his way past. “What are you two up to?” he asks.
“She’s emerging from the cocoon,” says Francis. “Becoming the beautiful butterfly I’ve always known she is.”
“Being free,” I say as Keys turns his gaze to me, my shoulders relaxing as if a weight’s been lifted from them. I spin around, my smile growing at the feeling of the wind rushing through, making the blanket fly a little in the breeze. The wind washes over me and I close my eyes, enjoying the feeling of it on my face.
A smile settles on his face. “I’m glad,” he says. “You don’t have to be like anyone else. There’s no use conforming. What good would the world be if we were all the same?”
“We’re broken and we’re bruised,” says Francis. “But we are who we are.”
“And all we have to do is be.”