Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake

I'm not indecisive, Mother, I'm bisexual. There's a difference.

That's the thing with putting yourself out of your comfort zone: once you get there, you're like, Now I'm uncomfortable, what am I supposed to be doing?

That was sex for you -- it only got really good when you didn't care how undignified the whole business was.

Lauren had serious - and honestly, correct - opinions about the way society had gone from judging women for failing to live up to unrealistic beauty standards to judging them for both failing and succeeding.

Miss Wooding turned the nervous shade of pink that Rosaline found people often turned when her sexuality went from an idea they could support to a reality they had to confront. “I appreciate this is a sensitive topic and one that different people have different beliefs about. Which is why I have to be guided by the policies of our academy trust, and they make it quite clear that learners shouldn’t be taught about LGBTQ until year six.” “Oh do they?” asked Rosaline, doing her best to remember that Miss Wooding was probably a very nice person and not just a fuzzy cardigan draped over some regressive social values. “Because Amelie’s in year four and she manages to cope with my existence nearly every day.” Having concluded this was going to be one of those long grown-up conversations, Amelie had taken her Panda pencil case out of her bag and was diligently rearranging the contents. “I do,” she said. “I’m very good.” Miss Wooding actually wrung her hands. “Yes, but the other children—” “Are allowed to talk about their families as much as they like.” “Yes, but—” “Which,” Rosaline went on mercilessly, “when you think about it, is the definition of discrimination.” Amelie looked up again. “Discrimination is bad. We learned that in year three.” The d-word made Miss Wooding visibly flinch. “Now Mrs. Palmer—” “Ms. Palmer.” “I’m sure this is a misunderstanding.” “I’m sure it is.” Taking advantage of the fact that Miss Wooding had been temporarily pacified by the spectre of the Equality Act, Rosaline tried to strike a balance between defending her identity and catching her train. “I get that you have a weird professional duty to respect the wishes of people who want their kids to stay homophobic for as long as possible. But hopefully you get why that isn’t my problem. And if you ever try to make it Amelie’s problem again, I will lodge a formal complaint with the governors.” Miss Wooding de-flinched slightly. “As long as she doesn’t—” “No ‘as long as she doesn’t.’ You’re not teaching my daughter to be ashamed of me.” There was a long pause. Then Miss Wooding sighed. “Perhaps it’s best that we draw a line under this and say no more about it.” In Rosaline’s experience this was what victory over institutional prejudice looked like: nobody actually apologising or admitting they’d done anything wrong, but the institution in question generously offering to pretend that nothing had happened. So—win?

It didn't stop her from pretending, though. Imagining for a moment she could have a life like Harry's. Where your world was whatever you made of it and whoever you let into it and you were allowed to be happy with that.

I get that you have a weird professional duty to respect the wishes of people who want their kids to stay homophobic for as long as possible. But hopefully you get why that isn’t my problem. And if you ever try to make it Amelie’s problem again, I will lodge a formal complaint with the governors.” Miss Wooding de-flinched slightly. “As long as she doesn’t—” “No ‘as long as she doesn’t.’ You’re not teaching my daughter to be ashamed of me.

There was power in it....Living in a world where you got to choose what mattered. And with time, and work, and perhaps a tiny bit of therapy, maybe she could have the too.

Maybe even wasn't the point at all and you didn't have to keep a constant record of who owed what to whom. Because most people, at least most people you wanted in our life, wouldn't be out to use it against you anyway.

You might've lost me. The way I see it, if they're your family, either they'll love you no matter what, or fuck 'em.” “Yeah, they don't work like that. They're more, _We're here for you no matter what you choose, as long as you choose what we want you to._ It's sort of the Model T Ford of emotional support.

And that's what life's all about at the end of the day. Doing something you're okay with that pays enough that you can take care of the people you want to take care of.

She was fine. She was just…jumbly, as if her whole life was a jigsaw puzzle that had been put away in the wrong box, so she’d been trying to make a picture of a sunset with pieces that were meant to be a cow. And while the prospect of no longer trying to build a skyline out of hooves was enough to make her genuinely giddy—like when she’d been running through some poor farmer’s field with Anvita and Harry—she was also on the verge of resentful. Deeply, deeply resentful.

Yeah. Turns out bisexuals ain’t like quinoa. You get ’em round my way too.

Author’s Note This story includes a (non-graphic) scene of attempted sexual assault. For further content warnings, please see the author's website.

It was a first kiss. Some things take a while to build.” “It’s sex. Not Lego.

No one can have everything. You’ve just got to figure out what matters. And then not let stuff what don’t matter get in the way of stuff what does.

Are you suggesting”—it was the sort of half-playful

Most of the bakers”—Lauren went back to her narrator voice—“have chosen to make something a human being might want to eat. Kitchen temptress Rosaline

If there was one impulse Rosaline would always understand, it was the impulse to avoid doing things that people in a position of influence might resent and hold over you.

She’d had every conceivable advantage. Excellent schools. Affluent parents. Good teeth and twenty-twenty vision. But none of it had quite compensated for her ability to make genuinely atrocious decisions.