Old Enough: A Novel - Softcover

Jakobson, Haley

 
9780593473023: Old Enough: A Novel
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593473027 ISBN 13: 9780593473023
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

Finalist for the Lambda Literary Award in Bisexual Fiction

“Old Enough is full of growth, heartbreak, and winsome bisexual chaos.”—Vogue

A debut novel “as astute, funny, and loving as your best friend from college”* about a young bisexual woman who is pulled between a new sense of community and loyalty to a friendship she’s outgrown

*Isle McElroy

Savannah "Sav" Henry is almost the person she wants to be, or at least she's getting closer. It’s the second semester of her sophomore year. She’s finally come out as bisexual, is making friends with the other queers in her dorm, and has just about recovered from her disastrous first queer “situationship.” She is cautiously optimistic that her life is about to begin.
 
But when she learns that Izzie, her best friend from childhood, has gotten engaged, Sav faces a crisis of confidence. Things with Izzie haven’t been the same since what happened between Sav and Izzie’s older brother when they were sixteen. Now, with the wedding around the corner, Sav is forced to reckon with trauma she thought she could put behind her.
 
On top of it all, Sav can’t stop thinking about Wes from her Gender Studies class—sweet, funny Wes, with their long eyelashes and green backpack. There’s something different here—with Wes and with her new friends (who delight in teasing her about this face-burning crush); it feels, terrifyingly, like they might truly see her in a way no one has before.
 
With a singularly funny, heartfelt voice, Old Enough explores queer love, community, and what it means to be a sexual assault survivor. Haley Jakobson has written a love letter to friendship and an honest depiction of what finding your people can feel like—for better or worse.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Haley Jakobson (she/her) is a bisexual writer and playwright living in Brooklyn, NY. In her work she explores girlhood, bisexuality, brains, and bodies. Her debut novel, Old Enough, was named a New York Times Editors’ Choice and described by Vogue as being full of “winsome bisexual chaos.” Haley is a gemini apologist and a killer follow on Instagram.

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1

It was the first day of Gender and Sexuality Studies 101. There were only six of us and the pressure of forced intimacy was palpable. The first person I noticed was a long-necked girl sitting with perfect posture, tapping her manicured nails on her notebook. Coffin-shaped, pink polish, with thin gold bracelets on both wrists. She was very pale, with a light smattering of freckles across her nose. A single small, pear-shaped diamond dotted the center of a gold band on her left ring finger. It was a promise ring, I could practically smell it, but I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was a feminist move to reclaim her ring finger, a kind of "I'm-married-to-myself" fuck-you to the patriarchy. I hated that word now, "patriarchy." All I could think of were overpriced graphic tees and white liberal mothers on Facebook updating their status to "WE'RE STILL WITH HER" and "PANTSUIT NATION!" Not that I'd prefer timelines littered with American flag beer koozies and Bible quotes. Although, I did love the liberal Christians-the ones who believe Jesus is a woman and include their pronouns and a verse from the Corinthians in their email signature.

Promise Ring Girl was sitting next to a person in a navy button-up, ironed meticulously so that the collar was stiff and crisp. They were Black and wore a maroon beanie, a tight fade peeking out from underneath. I didn't want to assume their gender, not that I should have assumed Promise Ring's. They side-eyed her tapping nails and didn't seem amused. They lounged in their seat, legs spread, resting one elbow on the back of their chair. They took up space. There wasn't an ounce of self-doubt about them. I checked for rainbow paraphernalia. I didn't see any, but they didn't really seem the type. They shifted in their seat, and I heard the jingle of keys from underneath the table. I strained my neck until I clocked a silver carabiner hooked around their belt loop. Bingo. Ugh. Problematic that I was doing this, but I'm sure everyone was assuming that I was straight and in a sorority, so.

I looked around. The classroom was old and outdated. Desks the color of manila folders and uncomfortable plastic chairs. The kind with the two metal circle screws near the top, which always snagged my hair. The floor was shiny linoleum, but not shiny enough to cover years of scuff marks. There was a new wing at school that had been renovated over the summer, all plush carpets and ergonomic everything. I heard the STEM kids all had standing desks.

"Hello hello hello!"

Professor Tolino flew into the room carrying a tote, a purse, a leather backpack, and what looked like a burlap sack hanging all over her person. I knew who she was because I had looked her up on one of those teacher rating sites. Four and five stars, reviews that said things like "fair grader" and "final wasn't crazy" and one that said, "loose cannon, but in a good way." That sold me.

I only knew one person in the class, Candace Kelpin, also a sophomore who lived on my floor. She was very short, had a dimpled chin, and could be spotted a mile away because of her mess of frizzy curly red hair. Her Instagram bio read, "yeah, carpet/drapes." We'd been friends since last semester. The first time we talked we were both in the bathroom, and I was brushing my teeth. I saw her glance down at my Birkenstocks.

"You gay?" she asked.

I nearly choked on my toothbrush.

"Yeah," I blurted.

It had just come out. I had just come out. I had only told a few people I was bi. Izzie knew, and my mom, and Nova, obviously. After Nova ghosted me over the summer, I decided I should make an effort to look gayer, so I had gotten my septum pierced in July and bought a pair of Birkenstocks. Besides that, I was pretty femme and my nails weren't even that short, and I was too tall to cuff my jeans without them looking like capris. I thought Doc Martens were absurdly expensive for a wildly uncomfortable shoe. Candace was the first person at college I had come out to.

"Sweet," she said. "Come over later. Like sixish. Bring wine or cookies and weed if you have any. I'll introduce you to the queers. I'm in 217."

I showed up at 6:07 with wine and cookies and no weed. I entered the room to find, as Candace had promised, the queers. A lot of them. They were laughing and smoking, and a few people with technicolor hair turned to see who had walked in. Candace hopped up from her twin bed and threw her arms around me.

"I totally forgot your name, dude."

I laughed. "It's Sav," I said, presenting her with the wine and cookies.

She gestured toward her desk, and I added my snacks to an already heaping pile of cheap wine and a lot of weed. Candace put her fingers in her mouth and whistled, jumping up on a chair. Everyone turned toward her.

"Queers, this is Sav! Sav, these are the queers! Pronouns, Sav?"

"She/her!" My voice squeaked a little.

"Hey, Sav!" bellowed the queers.

A drink was shoved in my hand and I was pulled onto a floor cushion and into a conversation about why tops-and-bottoms rhetoric was bullshit.

"Wait, everyone is secretly a switch, right?" argued someone with oversized wire glasses and a silver mullet, definitely self-dyed and self-cut.

"Absolutely not! Touch-me-nots are real and valid and so are pillow princesses!" This from someone who looked like a cross between a young Sigourney Weaver and a midthirties Freddie Mercury.

I had literally no idea what they were talking about, let alone which category I fit into. My eyes wandered around the room. There was a large print on the wall with many squiggly lines that looked like a wave. I had taken a meditation class once where the instructor told us to imagine our breath like the tide rolling in and out. Meditation made me feel like I was going to die, but the wave image had stuck. I took a deep breath. There were little stalks drawn on the bottom of the print. They looked like what I imagined a broccoli tree to look like. Wait, did broccoli grow on a tree?

"It's a tarot card." Candace interrupted my thoughts. "It's all about joy and, like, celebrating success. Good vibes. My ex got it for me. No good vibes there, but I like the print."

"What happened with your ex?"

Oh, well, that was forward of me.

"I cheated. Not my best move. Don't worry, though, she cheated too. Right, Mitchie?" Candace cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed across the room. Someone with a long black braid swung her head around and flipped her off.

"Fuck you, Candy!" she yelled before turning back to the joint she had been passing around.

"You . . . still hang out?"

"Ah, young, sweet queer." Candace swung her arm around my shoulders.

"You have much to learn about the inner workings of the gay group dynamic."


•


“Cool if I sit here?”

I looked up to see very white teeth attached to a curly-headed person with a soul-crushing jawline and the kind of lashes no amount of castor oil could promise me.

"Yes, of course!"

I snatched my denim jacket from the desk next to me.

"Sweet, I'm Wesley. I use they/them pronouns." They sat down next to me. "I like your water bottle."

"I-thank you-I'm-Savannah. She/her, it's from Amazon, I feel guilty about it."

What had happened to my ability to string together a normal sentence?

"Ah, the clutches of capitalism and the quest for hydration and a dope aesthetic. I feel you."

They spoke like a quippy Twitter feed but somehow it was endearing. I resisted the urge to shout, "I'm good at banter too, you just have very green eyes!!" Before I could respond, a pile of syllabi was dropped onto my desk.

"Pass these around, my dear." Professor Tolino was already on the other side of the room, fiddling with the blinds.

"Vitamin D...

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2024
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593473027
ISBN 13 
9780593473023
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
336
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
gpsr@libri.de
gpsr@libri.de

Europaallee 1
Bad Hersfeld
36244
Deutschland

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