FIC: I Like Girls (The Simpsons; Patty Bouvier)

[schizoauthoress_library]

Title: I Like Girls
Author: D.L.SchizoAuthoress
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: based around "There's Something About Marrying (Season 16, Episode 10)
Warnings: use of (reclaimed) slurs, mentions of homophobia and transphobia, mentions of suicide methods
Prompt/Fill: none
Word Count: 4473
Summary: Patty Bouvier, before and after the wedding that wasn't.

Word of the Day: sententious, adjective:
1. Abounding in pithy aphorisms or maxims: a sententious book.
2. Given to excessive moralizing; self-righteous.
3. Given to or using pithy sayings or maxims: a sententious poet.
4. Of the nature of a maxim; pithy.

I Like Girls

'All right, Patty. You can do this. You know for a fact that Reverend Lovejoy isn't an option, and none of the other religious options in this town have stepped up to fill the gap. Just this guy. This guy that you hate. But you can do this. You can swallow enough of your pride to ask for this... this is important.' With those thoughts in my mind, I knock on the door of my little sister's house.

'Be nice, be nice, be nice,' I think to myself. And then Homer opens the door, and the insult springs out of my mouth automatically, "Hey, Saturated Fats, I came to ask you a favor."

"Lemme get my belt sander, maybe I can grind the ugly off your face!"

"Very funny," I retort, even though I can see he's left some of his power tools next to the console table in the foyer.

"I wasn't joking." He picks it up and flicks the switch into the on position. It comes close to my face, but as always, he stops just short of actually doing me harm. Marge has kept him in line that much, at least. The belt stops spinning, and I push his arm down, so that I can look into his fat, stupid face and meet his eyes.

"I'm getting married," I tell the hateful pig, knowing that my little sister is going to overhear, "and I need you to perform the ceremony."

I hear Marge's gasp, and she hurries into the entrance hall from the living room, exclaiming, "You're getting married! Patty, that's wonderful!" She grabs me by the hand and leads me back into the living room, continuing to talk excitedly, "So, tell, tell! Who's the lucky man? What does he do? Ooh, let me guess... does he work in customer support?"

My heart breaks a little when she asks me about 'the lucky man'. I've always been closer to my twin, and Selma and I were never that nice to Marge, especially when we were kids. But this is just proof that Marge doesn't even know basic facts about me.

"You can guess all night and never get it." I look away, take a deep breath to steady myself, and look back at Marge. "Her name's Veronica."

Marge stares at me. She protests, confused, "But Veronica's a girl's name. Did you know that?"

"I'm marrying a woman!" I exclaim. How is it so hard for her to understand this? Why does she have to make this so hard to say? "I'm..." I can't look at her for a second, but sneak a glance to her face as I finished, "I'm gay."

She sits back on the couch, back going stiff. I recognize this posture -- Marge putting her walls up. Once again, I've said something, done something, to shake her foundations.

I won't be ashamed of myself. I won't. But I ask, trying to bring her back out, "You're not disappointed, are you?"

"Oh, no... no, no..." Marge puts a hand to her heart and smiles at me. She thinks she can convince me with that polite little fakery on her face? Or maybe she's so shaken that she's running on autopilot, not even aware that she's giving her discomfort away. "No, I'm just... surprised!" She folds her hands in her lap and flashes a tightly uncomfortable smile at me. I manage a small smile back at her.

"Yeah, big surprise!" Homer mocks. He puts his hand on the back of the couch and leans down between us. He leans closer to Marge and says, "Hey Marge, here's another bombshell: I like beer!" And he starts to laugh.

It is pretty funny, but I don't even feel like the grudging half-smile I usually allow for Homer's rare successful zingers. How can this complete moron have caught on to the fact that I'm a lesbian, and my own sister has been living in denial for years?

"Um." Marge wrings her hands for a moment, then jumps to her feet. "I'll go make us some coffee! Can't have an important personal discussion without coffee!"

And with that nonsensical declaration, she flees through the TV room to the kitchen. I sigh deeply, and go digging in my pockets for my pack of cigarettes and my lighter. I guess Marge's obvious discomfort got through even to her big dumb husband, because his laugh peters out. I feel his eyes on me as I light up, hear him shuffle his feet on the carpet, but instead of saying anything to me, he turns away muttering about putting away his tools.

I take a moment to fetch an ashtray from the end table. Marge keeps at least one stashed away in each room downstairs, and Selma and I know the locations by heart. I slide open the drawer, and can't help the little smile when I see that she's moved one of Dad's into this spot. It's a big one, about the size of a cake pan, made of amber-colored glass. It commemorates the bicentennial, and has the American Eagle impressed on the bottom, under the smooth glass surface of the ashtray. I'd set it out if I were going to stay, or if Selma were here with me. But I pick up the smaller, clear glass ashtray sitting inside it instead. Still, the sight of one of Dad's old things makes me feel a little braver.

Homer comes back into the living room and plops his big butt on the couch. I feel the springs sink, and edge myself more onto the cushion that is farthest away from him. He says, "I'll perform your wedding ceremony, as long as you pay up. No family discounts. You do know there's a diaper fee for chimp brides at my chapel, right?"

"You're disgusting," I tell him. "I doubt this'll do any good, but... you do realize that equating homosexuality to bestiality is exactly the argument that people are using to deny gays and lesbians the right to marry?"

He frowns. "Yeah, I guess I've heard that."

I take a long drag on my cigarette, enjoying how he flinches in anticipation that I'm going to blow the smoke in his eyes. I direct the stream of smoke upward instead, just to keep him on his toes. "They're not the same thing, and it hurts to hear someone suggest that they are."

"Well, they're both weird!"

"What's so weird about what I want to do?" I ask. "I met someone who loves me. Someone who makes me happy. Someone who I make happy. And I want to spend the rest of my life with this person. We're both adults, we both consent. How's that any different from what you and Marge have, except for the fact that Veronica and I are both women?"

He looks away. Everybody in Springfield's queer community knows that he's really only in the marriage business for the money we pay him. The fact that he started marrying 'anything to anything' -- once nobody in our community was left to give him business -- was just proof of that. But when you've been pushed to the fringes by society, you take what you can get -- even if the man presiding over your wedding is a clueless hypocrite who can't seem to decide if he's homophobic or not. The marriage licenses are legally binding, and in the end, that's what matters.

"I guess it's not so different." Homer glances toward the TV room, probably checking to see if Marge is coming back. I do wonder what's taking her so long with the coffee. He looks back at me. "It's hard for me to remember that. It's weird, I guess. I was friends with Julio and Grady when they were my roommates, but it was easy to forget about all that when I moved back in with Marge. I hear people at work making jokes, and it's easy to laugh. I hear people in church calling it wrong, and it's easy to agree."

"That's you, though," I say, "always taking the easy road."

"Heh." He grins. "Why bother taking the hard road if there's an easy one?"

I roll my eyes. It's like talking to a wall. Every time I think I might be getting through to him, he says something that just pisses me right off, and I don't want to try anymore. I didn't sign up for the emotional labor of getting mature conversation out of this pig -- that was Marge's big mistake.

We sit in silence. Marge takes maybe five more minutes to get back, and I light up a fresh cigarette in that time.

"All right, here we go!" Marge trills as she comes into the living room with the coffee service on a tray.

Oh, Lord. She's got Grandma Bouvier's antique enameled coffee pot out, along with three of the matching cups. No wonder she took so long. And she's got her 'happy hostess smile' on, the one that's so much like Ma's from before Ma stopped giving a crap.

Marge sets everything down on the coffee table, sits in the green armchair, and starts pouring. "So, Patty!" Something about the way she says my name makes me feel uncomfortable, and I glance away from her when she looks at me. You're a woman who likes women!"

She puts the coffee pot down, and Homer and I both reach for a cup.

"I guess that fear I always had of you stealing Homer away is unfounded!"

I spit out the mouthful of coffee I'd just tried to drink, and beside me, Homer does the same. Marge's delusions about my heterosexuality run deep.

"Marge, I'd be a lot more worried about me leaving you for a sausage patty than your sister Patty!" Homer says, and he starts to laugh again.

The moment he puts his free hand down, I stub my cigarette on the back of it, dead center. He screams, flings the coffee cup, and flees the room.

"Next time it'll be your eye!" I vow at his fleeing back.

Marge glances at the floor, probably at the spreading coffee stain no doubt soaking into the carpet. I bet she's fighting the urge to clean it right now. With the way this family makes messes, she's already got an industrial-strength carpet steamer. Selma and I chipped in to get it for her, after we found out how much time she was spending doing things the old fashioned way. Even if the coffee sets now, she'll be able to get it out later. I can practically see her reminding herself of that.

"Marge, did you really think I was straight?" I ask.

"Well... I guess I should have seen the signs..." She thinks back about it, and I give her a little time to reminisce. I toss my stubbed-out cigarette into the ash tray and dust at my dress.

"You could see it from space, Marge!" I declare, throwing my hands in the air for emphasis. I reach out to her, offering one hand. "This... isn't a problem for you, is it?"

She waves her hands in a defensive gesture, as if she could dismiss my words physically. "Oh no, no, no! Why would it be?" She giggles nervously. "I love you, I love gay marriage... so I'd be a super-hypocrite if I didn't love your gay marriage, right!"

She has a big problem with it.

****

"So, how did it go?" Selma asks from her spot on our couch.

I sigh. "You were right. She didn't have a clue." I use the toe of left shoe to hold down the heel of my right, so I can pull my right foot out, then repeat the process, leaving the shoes on our tiny tiled excuse for a foyer for the moment.

"Did she lecture you?" Selma asks. As I pass by her to take my place on the couch, she holds up her pack, a cigarette already extended. I pluck it out with a little nod of thanks, and I'm already lighting up as I sit.

"No... she was too shocked." I take a few puffs. "On the plus side, Homer said he'd do the wedding. Full price, but at least he's not turning it down just because it's me."

"That's good." Selma grabs the remote control and flips the channel away from the start of a sitcom to the news, though she also turns the volume down pretty far. "It isn't right that you have to jump through all these hoops to get married, though."

"Eh, Marge would have dragged Homer along to the wedding anyway, even if we hadn't had to settle on him to officiate."

Selma gives me that knowing look of hers. She can always see through me when I'm trying to find a bright side I don't really believe in. I'm thankful that she doesn't push the issue, though.

"Oh, turn it up!" I exclaim, as something on the screen catches my eye. "A car chase!"

"Ooh!" Selma does as I say, and we lean forward to watch the helicopter footage.

****

Veronica and I are looking at wedding rings -- titanium, my idea -- when my cell phone goes off. It's Marge, still sounding nervous and a little too 'up', but she asks if I'd like to bring my fiancée to dinner tomorrow night.

"Hang on," I reply. "Let me ask Veronica."

"Okay..."

Marge sounds uncomfortable. I'm irritated by it, and the vindictive part of me decides I'm going to keep using Veronica's name on purpose, so Marge can't pretend that I have a fiancé. I look up, and Veronica holds up a truly heinous-looking ring with what looks to be a wooden inlay. I pull the phone away from my ear and shake my head emphatically.

"Never, babe. Try again. But before you do -- my little sister wants to have us over for dinner tomorrow night."

"That sounds great!" Veronica says with a smile. My bad mood eases a little bit. I love her smile. "I'd like to get some practice time in tomorrow morning, but there's nothing on my schedule that evening."

"All right then. Try to find me something with a gemstone. I'd settle for cubic zirconia."

Veronica raises an eyebrow. "You don't have to settle, pixie."

I roll my eyes at her silly nickname for me, but I can't help smiling at the affection in her voice. I turn back to the phone call. "Veronica says her schedule is clear. When should we be there?"

Marge gives me the time, and says that she'll have the family all dressed up, since it's like a special occasion. Well... at least she's trying. I agree that we'll wear something nice, as long as she agrees not to have ribs for the main course. Marge sputters a bit, and I laugh briefly.

"Gotcha. I know you wouldn't. Anyway, Veronica's not allergic to anything food-related, and she's not a vegetarian, so you don't have to make extras of whatever Lisa's having. But you know I'm not crazy about fish? Veronica isn't either."

"Oh! Oh, that was a joke. Ha, you did get me..." I hear some scratching on the other side, and figure that Marge is probably writing herself a note about menu restrictions.

"Thanks for this, Marge."

"It's no trouble, Patty."

"I've got to go," I tell her. Veronica seems very excited and pleased with herself, and is waiting impatiently for me to hang up the cell phone. "See you tomorrow, sis."

"See you tomorrow. I... I love you, Patty."

"Love you, too, Marge." I click the call end button before she can reply, flip the phone closed, and slip it back into my purse. I look over at Veronica. "All right, all right, let's see your next attempt."

"Feast your eyes!" Veronica declares with a giggle, and she points out a pair of rings. They're not exactly identical, but close. Both are in the dark silver color I prefer in titanium, with a single inset diamond in the broad band. One is completely smooth, and the other is etched with a deep line near each edge of the band's face. Veronica picks up the smooth one and holds it out to me, diamond sparkling in the overhead light. "For you, dear Patty."

"Oh..." I reach out, run my thumb against the edge of the ring, and smile at her. "It's beautiful."

"Then it matches the woman who's going to wear it."

I laugh. I don't get called 'beautiful' very often, even by the women I've dated. Usually, I get called 'striking', which I know perfectly well is a polite way to say 'not conventionally pretty'. I pick up the other ring and study it. There's a flicker of worry in Veronica's eyes that I catch, but I won't call attention to it.

"This matches pretty well," is all I say. "It will look good on you. You did good."

Veronica lifts her chin and strikes a haughty pose. "Was there ever any doubt?"

I tap the display case, where the jeweler had put back that ring with the wooden inlay. Veronica picks up on what I'm indicating, and laughs, dropping out of her put-on snootiness.

"I can't get one over on you," she tells me.

I kiss her on the cheek. "And don't you forget it, pretty girl."

****

I'm not an idiot.

I might be an old dyke, but we're not all set in our ways. (I think I have the right to call myself that. I grew up in a time when they threw that word at women like me to hurt us. I took it up, like a lot of lesbians did, and used it for myself to show the assholes they didn't get to have that power over me.) Veronica never told me much about her past.

I had my suspicions, even before Marge stopped the ceremony. But plenty of women have facial hair -- I have a particularly stubborn mustache that I choose to bleach away. I've known plenty of lesbians who prefer to dress in masculine styles. And of course I caught on to the fact that the ring Veronica had picked out was in a man's size. But she did have big, strong hands, as some women do. I always assumed that Veronica would have let me know. She'd seemed like the sort of person who wouldn't hide that from me. I knew it wasn't always an easy thing to come out, and I didn't want to rush or pressure her.

Still, even in that moment, with all our wedding guests staring and muttering in surprise, I'd held out hope. This was just a misunderstanding. My Veronica was still a woman, just a trans woman.

And then... Veronica said "disguised myself as a woman" and "lied my way onto the LPGA tour", and my heart dropped into my toes. Marge was right. 'Veronica' is a man.

He tried to excuse his lies by laying it at my feet, saying that because I'd fallen in love with the woman he pretended to be, he kept on lying. When he got to his knees and asked me if I'd marry the real him, I'd wavered.

I really did like Veronica, the person I'd thought Veronica to be. And parts of this Leslie fellow had to inform how he'd been as Veronica, right...?

But Veronica wasn't real. Veronica was a lie, and this man, this Leslie Swisher, had used that lie to do what people accused transgender women of doing -- gain access to women's spaces for their own benefit. He'd hurt me, and the truth of what he had done would hurt other women. He smiled up at me, and in that moment, I hated that smile which had always made me feel good before.

I shook my head sharply and pulled my hand out of his, declaring, "Hell, no! I like girls!"

Our guests applauded, but it all felt hollow to me. He got up and slunk out of the garage, probably to change out of the dress he was wearing.

If I never see him again, it will be too soon.

I made up with my sister, because what else was I going to do? Marge had saved me from being tricked into marriage with a man. (But if she starts lording it over me, I'm gonna sock her like I used to do when we were kids.)

****

Selma is at work. I'd arranged for a week off when planning my wedding, to allow for the honeymoon. Since there is no honeymoon, I'm alone. After I cancel the hotel reservation in New Orleans, I don't feel like doing much of anything but lying in bed.

At least I'm not on the hook for the airplane tickets. Veron-- Leslie is the one who footed the bill for that. Good luck getting a refund, buddy.

But even my vindictive satisfaction doesn't last. I was supposed to be getting married. If I'm spending the day in bed today, it ought have been with the woman I was in love with. But I'd been in love with a lie. Maybe I still am.

If only she'd said anything else! 'I was scared you'd leave me' ... 'I couldn't think of how to tell you' ...

A knock at the front door interrupts my thoughts. I groan and turn over, turning my back on the idea of answering it. I can't deal with solicitors today, even less so than I usually do.

The knocking persists.

Screw you, whoever you are! Nobody's home!

"Patty!" a man's voice, but one I recognize and don't immediately hate upon hearing, calls out, "I know you're in there. Would you please open up?"

...All right, fine. I get up, throw a housecoat on over my pajamas, and shove my feet into my fuzzy slippers with the kitty cats embroidered along the toes. (Selma got them for me, a little joke that we'd snickered over at our birthday party a few years back.) I'll answer the door for him, but I don't have to dress up for it.

I stomp over to the front door, unlock the locks, and yank it open. "What the hell do you want, Waylon?"

I'm startled by how relieved he looks to see me, and startled all over again when he pulls me into a hug.

"Hey!" I snap. Waylon pulls away immediately, cringing a little, and I feel sort of bad. Still, he shouldn't have sprung that on me. I step back, giving him a path into the apartment. In a less sharp tone, I say, "Get in here if you're gonna hug me."

"Sorry," Waylon says, and he takes the invitation. I shut the door behind him, and lock it again. (A girl can't be too careful, after all.)

I walk back to the couch, intent on grabbing a pack. He's going to make me talk about what happened, I'm sure. Mr. Burns had him doing some sort of personal assistant crap at the same time that the ceremony was planned, and Waylon had opted for job security. (Which I don't blame him for.) I'm definitely going to need a cigarette or twenty to deal with this. "What's the big idea, man?" I ask, without looking over at him.

Waylon sits on the far end of the couch -- I hear the old springs creak softly as he does.

"I overheard Homer talking to his friends about what happened."

I freeze. That evil pig bastard! But Waylon must see the anger in my posture, because he's hastening to explain even as I spin around to glare...

"I was passing by his work station. It was only his two buddies, not like they were gossiping in the lunch room or anything."

"Having a big laugh over the dyke getting tricked by a man, huh?" I ask bitterly, as I sink into my seat on the couch and light up.

"It... didn't sound like that. More like he couldn't believe someone would go to all that trouble to be married to you specifically." Waylon doesn't sound happy about that, but he's a decent guy and a good friend, so I'm not surprised. "But I... I got worried about you when I heard it."

"So you rushed over here on your lunch break to make sure I was okay?" I ask. I know I shouldn't take it out on him, but I can't stop myself from saying harshly, "Well, here you go. I'm not dangling from the ceiling fan and I haven't emptied my veins into the bathtub, so there's your good deed for the day."

He winces, but his eyes are hard when he meets my gaze again. "Don't joke about that. I've lost too many friends, Patty. Don't blame me for wanting to keep the few I have."

I look away, and take a big drag on my cigarette, exhaling all the smoke before I mutter, "All right. Don't know why you bother."

"People other than your twin sister do care about you," Waylon says dryly. "Some of us even like you."

"Heh. And here I thought you were smart."

He sighs. I know he doesn't like it when I get in these moods, when I tear myself down. I'm so used to other people doing it, and trading insults with them, that sometimes I can't stop myself. He doesn't scold me over it, though. He offers, "I could keep you company today, if you want."

"Like your boss would let you."

"I'll tell him it's a family emergency. And that's not a lie."

He's sincere, and I almost want to cry because of it, I'm so touched. But I cried so much last night, after I was sure Selma was asleep. I'm sick of crying, and not entirely sure I have tears left right now. I do point out, "You're an only child and your mom lives out of state, and I'm pretty sure Mr. Burns can remember that."

"Look, do you want me to go?"

I make an annoyed sound in my throat. "Nah, go ahead and use me as an excuse to duck out of work. Maybe that'll finally clue your boss in to how much you do around the plant."

Waylon snorts, and says "Maybe," in a doubtful tone. Poor guy.

I point him to the telephone in the kitchen, and finish off my cigarette while he makes the call.

Like my airport adventure with Selma earlier, this is bound to be little more than a temporary distraction from my broken heart. And it will probably be about as successful at soothing the pain... which is to say, not very. But I can appreciate the attempt.

Dad used to say that sometimes, you can only wait for time to make something hurt less.

... Maybe there's something funny playing at the second-run theater.

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