Be Dazzled

by Ryan La Sala

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. May gets a notification, too. It’s an official email from Trip-C with the list of teams who’ve made it to Primes. Even though Irma Worthy herself told me I was moving on, I still open up the list and scan until I find my name next to May’s. Inaya and Luca are there, too.

  “Congrats,” May whispers, a smirk on her lips. “See you in the morning.”

  “See you,” I say, and then I let her float off, too.

  Twelve

  Then

  Twelve months ago

  When Evie is home, everything goes artsy.

  It’s the music playing over the house’s ancient intercom. It’s the smells of incense and pot and perfume. It’s the sound of rapid pacing from behind her office door. Mostly, though, it’s the lighting.

  She’s very particular about lighting, and our house has billions of switches and knobs that control the billions of lights recessed into the ceiling or hidden in sconces or, in some cases, just floating in the open air of a hallway or staircase. They control brilliance, warmth, color, flicker—stuff that’d make a Broadway lighting designer drool.

  Maybe that sounds cool, but it’s honestly a pain. Evie’s atmosphere is like living in a selfie filter. A constant performance, basically. And because she always accuses me of changing the settings even though I never do, I’ve taken to not touching the lights at all. I just navigate my home by daylight and, at night, with my phone flashlight. Like a Victorian countess dropped into a twenty-first-century art exhibit.

  Evie is home right now, which means the house is currently in light-show mode. Almost everything pulses with mint-green light, like we live in the core of a radioactive spaceship. Except Evie has also taken to listening to flute music, so it’s a radioactive spaceship powered by the Boston Symphony.

  I’m in the bathroom, doing my makeup. I keep messing up my eyebrows. I’m nervous. Luca and I had our first real disagreement, and it was about tonight.

  Luca is meeting up with May and me tonight at one of Inaya’s shows. They’re two of my closest friends, and they know Luca from school. They think it’s funny that I’m hanging out with him, but they were impressed he wanted to go to an art show at all. Luca Vitale at a show? Points for Luca Vitale.

  I’m worried about how Luca will do at an art show, sure, but what started the fight was, of course, Evie.

  Luca offered to pick me up and even pop in to meet Evie, since she happens to be home this weekend. And I said no. It was an automatic reaction, and I felt bad right away when I said it, but I also felt secure in my choice. Evie doesn’t care that I like guys, but one glance at Luca’s classic looks and normal-boy clothes and she’d instantly make a permanent judgement. Luca, for all that makes him amazing, is careful to hide behind an illusion of normalcy that would drive Evie into a frenzy. And not a private frenzy, like most moms. A public one—an outright live critique session to Luca’s face.

  And if she found out he was a soccer player? World War III.

  Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s wrong not to trust your own mom to be nice to your maybe-boyfriend. But that’s the other thing. What are Luca and I? Boyfriends? Neither of us is eager to talk about it, and we would have to if Evie asked. And she would ask, especially if she sensed we were uncomfortable with the answer.

  So I told Luca the truth.

  I’ve made up my mind, I’m sorry. I don’t think you meeting my mom is a great idea right now. Let’s just meet there, okay?

  That’s what I finally texted him. And he knew why right away.

  Yeah. OK.

  And then, an hour later:

  I wish I could bring you to meet my mom. I wish I even had that choice.

  That text shook me. I was embroidering when I got it, and my fingers just stopped working. They haven’t regained their dexterity since. Which is why right now, I can’t even do my eyebrows. Every time, I come out looking like a cartoon villain. Eventually, that’s the look I end up settling on, because maybe that’s what I am right now. Villainous.

  But I do not feel bad about my choice. I like Luca, and I don’t want him to run from me, and Evie would scare him. This choice hurts him, but it saves us.

  May calls, letting me know she’s driving. I text Luca a timing update, promising we’ll talk about this later if he wants. Then I dress in the outfit I have out on my bed: a sleeveless turtleneck beneath a sheer black button-down. My skirt is thick black canvas with brass buttons. My rings are brass. My shoes have brass buckles. I hang a tote in the crook of my elbow (yes, it’s black with brass) and assure myself that tonight is going to go well. It’ll be good, even, once we’re all there together.

  My phone vibrates. It’s May.

  Outside.

  I venture into the nuclear green of the house. I can hear different music coming from my mom’s office. A comfort—it means she’s working. I let myself relax as I skip down the stairs—they are lit from below, and the ribs of the railing flicker when you step near them. I don’t use the front door, since Evie’s bedroom and office overlook the front yard. Instead, I swing through the halls to the kitchen.

  I should notice, but I don’t…until it’s too late. The kitchen lights are on, too. They have a motion detector, so they’re only on when someone’s making a cup of tea or microwaving takeout.

  “Oh, Raffy, you’re here,” Evie says, stopping me mid-stride. “Good. Sit down.”

  She doesn’t notice my outfit or that I’m clearly on my way out the door. Her command is light and dreamy as she motions to an empty stool. She doesn’t even turn away from whatever she’s got laid out on the granite island.

  I sit, and I see what she’s looking at, and suddenly all the artsy lighting in the world doesn’t matter. My mind goes pitch black with fear. Before Evie lies Plasma Siren’s gown. It’s pinned like a butterfly beneath her critical gaze. With only a few weeks until Controverse, it’s nearly done.

  “Found this while tidying the studio just now. I presume it’s yours?”

  I could swear I put it away, but I was distracted by that text from Luca. I must have left it out. I’m done, dead, finished. Nothing can save me. Not Jesus. Not Goku. Not even One-Punch Man.

  “Yes,” I finally answer. “It’s mine.”

  When Evie is considering something deeply, she steeples her fingers. Thumb, pointer finger, middle finger, and ring finger pressed gently into a scaffold, barnacled in rings. She always keeps her pinkies apart. She does this now, looking at the garment.

  “It’s poetry,” she says. “The structure of the chest is a lovely shape, and the flow into the skirt is nice. Even flat, I can see how challenging it must have been to architect something with so much shape that’s so lightweight. Did you use boning for these curves?”

  She pinches the ridges of the skirt.

  “Zip ties,” I say. “They’re cheaper and easier to install.”

  She looks at me now, a rare trace of appreciation knitting her brow. I glow with pride, but I’m still very scared of her. In another second, she’ll figure out she’s complimenting a cosplay.

  “It’s good work,” she says. “Although…”

  She lets the steeple of her fingers break as she uses her nails to peel up the seams and hems.

  “These are messy. They’ll bunch in the wash. You shouldn’t use such a simple stitch, ever. It’s neither durable nor impressive.”

  I see what she means, and through my fear, I find myself taking notes.

  “And while I appreciate the execution, I’ll admit the silhouette is somewhat”—she glances at me again—“cartoonish.”

  My mental notes incinerate as the blistering white fear returns.

  “Who’s this for?” she asks.

  “May,” I lie. “School project.”

  Evie, like some sort of immortal being who does not remember her schooling days eons ago, is easily tricked by this expl
anation. Or she just doesn’t care, now that she’s slipped in the dig of cartoonish. She said it with such pity.

  “I see,” she says, turning back to it. “I doubt your teachers will see what I see, but you simply must fix those seams and hems. And while the embroidery is nice, I suggest planning it out next time, like a print. As it is now, it looks rather too organic, like there’s mold growing in the folds.”

  Which is what I want, I remind myself. I don’t say this.

  “Thank you,” I say. It’s the only reaction I or anyone Evie works with is allowed to have in response to her feedback.

  “Here, I found some scissors in the studio, too. Maybe we can see about that skirt?”

  Evie is holding my scissors. She fully intends to watch me make edits right here in front of her. In fact, I’m sure she was about to do them herself before I ran through the kitchen. I’m stunned, and seeing this, she considers me again. I see her notice my outfit, my bag, and my phone lighting up in my hand.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “Inaya has a show.”

  She assesses me from head to toe, because suddenly we are entering the world of her expertise: galleries.

  “Where?”

  “The Armory.”

  She shrugs, not impressed. The Armory is a community space, not technically a gallery. Evie pretends never to have heard of it.

  “Send my love.” She dismisses me, flexing her ringed fingers through the scissors. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  I look at the dress. Weeks of work about to be sliced apart. But what can I do? If I push too hard, Evie might take a deeper interest in what I’m trying to accomplish, and that might mean the end of all my cosplaying.

  “Not at all,” I say. “It’s just a school project.”

  Turning away from it feels like leaving behind a child beneath the appraising gaze of a spiteful bully, but I have no choice. May is calling me now, over and over. I’ve got to move forward, and that means making hard choices. Choices that sting but also protect me, like not letting Luca and Evie meet. This is the same thing, but now I’m the only one getting hurt.

  I tell May everything on the way to the show. About Evie finding my work, about Luca being mad at me for hiding him. It’s a short drive, but by the time we park, I’m convinced I have done everything wrong. Not just tonight, but forever. Before Luca, I was careful. I had to be, between Evie and my work and pursuing my dreams. And before me, Luca was careful. He had to be, with his parents and his hobbies and his sexuality. We are two balancing acts, intricately and perilously put together, slowly collapsing into one another. The fallout will be impossible to hide from Evie or from Luca’s parents.

  “But do you like him?” May asks before we exit her car.

  “Absolutely.”

  “And are you happy when you’re with him?”

  “Yeah, for sure.” I’m not sure how to talk to May about how Luca brings me joy but also stresses me out a little bit. We’ve found a way of coexisting, but always in my studio, my space. Does every relationship feel like an invasion at some level? Tonight is the first time we—the pair, the couple, the combination of two boys—will be outside of our own small, carefully hidden universe. At first I was so excited. Now I’m dreading it.

  I look at myself in the dark reflection of the windshield while May checks her makeup. “I’m just afraid the more he sees of my actual life—like, my life outside of the studio—the more he’ll realize our worlds don’t go together.”

  “Raffy, you’re just panicking,” May says. “You love control, and Luca brings you chaos. But maybe you need to learn to work with both.”

  “Maybe,” I murmur.

  We head inside, quiet as we slide through the crowds of fashionable attendees. The Armory is a huge open space with market lights crisscrossing a vaulted ceiling and a large stage, the curtain currently drawn. The floor’s layout is mazelike, creating small enclaves for each artist to set up a mini gallery. Inaya’s work is near the middle of the show, where the maze opens onto a reception area. Ambient music full of electronic pulses and chirps hovers above the crowd’s din. Everyone here is stylish and self-conscious, like living art themselves.

  “Have you ever thought,” May says as we stand in front of a tessellated painting of a peach, “that maybe Luca knows what he’s getting into?”

  I think about his sad text.

  “I don’t see how he could know. If he knew, I don’t think he’d be into me in the first place.”

  “You seem to have a lot in common,” May offers.

  “Like anime and games? Sure, yeah. But what about everything else? What about Evie and his parents? And what about cosplay and conventions? I feel like it’s just too much.”

  “Too much what?”

  “Too much…” I pause. “Too public. Too out. Too hard to hide.”

  I’m sure that tonight is going to be a disaster. If there’s a place for Luca to realize he’s making a mistake with me, it’s for sure an art show.

  May checks her phone.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, Raff.” She winks. Then she grabs my hand and pulls me toward the front of the show, like we’re about to leave.

  “May, wait, where are we—”

  I run right into May as she stops short. She’s got her eyes on the door, and she’s grinning. I turn just as the crowd parts, everyone noticing the new face entering the art show. It’s an unfamiliar face. A brand new one to this scene.

  It’s a boy, my age, but taller and decidedly broader. He’s swathed in a fibrous black fur coat, so fuzzy that it nearly vibrates as he struts in. He lets it slide from his shoulders, revealing a torso clad in a skin-tight white cotton shirt, artfully torn to reveal patches of glowing tan skin. He wears a collar of thick, shining chain, and his pants are black with patent leather racing stripes down the seams. Combat boots would have been the obvious choice, but instead he wears high-heeled Chelsea boots, elevating the look to one that might be the most striking here.

  He scans the crowd, his face expressionless beneath expertly painted brushed brows. Then, seeing me, he smiles, and I realize it’s Luca.

  WHAT?

  Luca saunters toward us, cutting through the captivated crowd with gleeful pomp. He air-kisses May first, and I catch on to the conspiratorial smugness between them as they take in my shock.

  “You did this?” I ask May.

  “We collaborated,” Luca says. He doesn’t kiss me. Instead, we hug, and his hand leaves a five-pointed constellation prickling on my lower back when it lingers.

  “But how?”

  “You’re not the only secret crafter, Raff,” May says. “Just took a few trips to the Garment District and Goodwill and Sephora.”

  “But Luca—”

  “Shh,” he cuts me off. “I’m in disguise. Art disguise. Call me Vincent. Or Claude. Or something.”

  I step back. “Are you cosplaying me right now?”

  May and Luca crumble into silent laughter, and I have to wait a whole humiliating minute before they’re composed enough to face me again.

  “But why?” I ask. “What if someone recognizes you?”

  Luca is pure confidence right now. Before me is a totally different person. He’s unrecognizable. He’s incredible.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” he says. “Show you I can dress up, too, you know?”

  At first, I cannot reconcile this new stylish person with the boy I found by the bedazzling supplies at Craft Club, sweaty and confused, but then the memories of every moment since bridge it all together. Luca did say he’d dress up, just for me.

  “You didn’t have to do this for me,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “But I guess I did it for me, too. I like it. I feel hot.”

  “You are hot,” May confirms, and Luca winks at her.

  Luca does look hot. He knows it, t
oo. And then something occurs to me.

  “Is this why you wanted to pick me up? So you could meet Evie like this?”

  Luca stiffens, and without his confidence, the outfit suddenly looks like a costume.

  “You told May about that?” he says.

  “It’s cool,” May cuts in. “Evie is tough. I’ve met her a dozen times, and she still thinks my name is Mona. Raff was just telling me how he wished she were better with new people. Don’t take it personally, Luca. You look great.”

  Luca smiles, but there’s sadness tinting it. I feel that, too, imagining him putting together this look in order to gain not just my admiration but Evie’s approval. And I stopped that from happening. He could have said something, but instead he chose to execute this perfect surprise, just to show me he could. Meanwhile, I’ve spent the last few hours doubting him.

  He’s more than I deserve.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, slipping away from them. I know I’m about to cry. I snake through the makeshift galleries, push through a door, and find myself in a dark expanse, somewhere behind the drawn curtain of the stage.

  A second later, Luca joins me. I sniff and hold back my tears, but it’s clear I’m upset.

  “What’s wrong, Raff? You don’t like it?”

  “No, no, that’s not it. You look awesome,” I say, emotion cracking my voice. “But you always look awesome. You could have worn whatever you wanted.”

  “I wanted to wear this,” he says. “I like being with you, because I like being me.”

  That nearly makes me bawl.

  “But…”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t know how to put on…what do you call this?” He taps my cheekbone, where I’ve applied highlighter.

  “Want to share?” I offer.

  He smiles and lowers himself so we’re face-to-face. I lean in, brushing my cheeks against his one at a time, sharing my glimmer with him. Luca holds perfectly still, eyes closed, lips parted, like I’m anointing him.

  “There. Now you sparkle, too.”

  Luca grins. “You like it?”