Old Enough

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC penguinrandomhouse.com Copyright © 2023 by Haley Jakobson Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader. DUTTON and the D colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. library of congress cataloging-in-publication data Names: Jakobson, Haley, author. Title: Old enough: a novel / Haley Jakobson. Description: New York: Dutton, Penguin Random House LLC, 2023. Identifiers: LCCN 2022038129 (print) | LCCN 2022038130 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593473009 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593473016 (ebook) Subjects: LCGFT: Novels. Classification: LCC PS3610.O437 O45 2023 (print) | LCC PS3610.O437 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220824 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022038129 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022038130 Cover design by Dominique Jones Cover image by Studio Firma/Stocksy book design by alison cnockaert, adapted for ebook by maggie hunt This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. pid_prh_6.0_143818288_c0_r0 For my mom, who listened. Author’s Note A note before reading— This is a work of fiction that navigates the messy, painful complexities of long-standing trauma. To my fellow survivors—as well as anyone who carries a tender heart—I ask that you go forth gently and with great care. As you hold this book, may it hold you too. 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