by T. A. Kunz
That’s a morbid thought.
I put the car in park and just stare at the house. I feel like some kind of sentimental lurker.
Lori’s bedroom is at the top left corner. Her curtains are closed. The Panic! At the Disco decal stuck to the inside of the window stands out against the bright pink fabric. That was the last concert we both went to over the summer. A picture from that night is the one that showed up whenever she called me. I had been convinced that night was an indication of how our senior year was going to go. But damn, was I wrong though.
Her curtain sways to the side and catches my attention.
Probably just the air conditioning kicking on.
Then the curtains part, revealing a slice of darkness between the pink panels of fabric just wide enough for someone to peer through before closing again.
Maybe someone’s home.
Light fills the room and shines through the tiny gap left between the closed curtains. I unbuckle my seatbelt and step out of the car, never letting the window leave my sight.
It’s probably just her mom or brother.
Lori’s dad usually works late, and her mom is a seamstress who sets her own hours at a boutique she owns with a couple other ladies around town. Lori’s brother goes to the same middle school as my sister, so he’s probably home by now too.
To settle my inquisitive mind, I look through the bank of tiny windows near the top of the garage door for a vehicle. I stand on the tips of my toes, but I’m still too short, so I jump. I get a brief glimpse of the space inside. No cars.
Then maybe her brother’s home alone?
I take a few steps back and peer up at the window again. The light is still on. I move to the front door and knock twice. There’s no answer. I knock a few more times with the same result. I walk out to the middle of the lawn and look again at Lori’s window. The light’s off now.
That’s strange.
The front door cracks open, pulling my gaze as it creaks back. A girl my age is framed by the doorway. I don’t recognize her. Her pleasant smile complements her light blonde pixie cut and pale pink fuzzy sweater.
But why is she here?
“Hello. Can I help you?” she asks.
“Not to be rude, but who are you?” I reply.
“Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”
“What are doing here?”
“Again, I could ask you the same thing.” Her smile now looks more shrewd than kind.
“Look, we’re getting nowhere here. I’m Drea. I was Lori’s friend,” I say. “I live in the neighborhood.”
“Oh.” Her expression dulls. “I’m Nancy. I’m looking after her little brother. I was friends with Lori too. We went way back, but I go to another school. I can’t believe what happened.”
“Yeah, I can’t either,” I say, matching her melancholy tone.
She takes a step out onto the porch. “Is there something you need? Lori’s parents aren’t here. It’s only me and little Nate.”
“Not really, no. I was just driving by since I live around here. I saw Lori’s bedroom light on and felt like checking in with her family to see how they’re doing.”
She sighs and motions back to the house. “Yeah, Nate was up there messing around. I was trying to get him to leave. That’s why it took me so long to answer the door.”
“Ah, I see. False alarm then,” I say with a hollow laugh.
“Seems like it.”
“Could you tell Lori’s parents that I stopped by? I was supposed to help out at Mrs. Stine’s store yesterday but ended up flaking on her for obvious reasons.”
That jerk-face named guilt strikes again.
Her pleasant smile returns. “Of course.”
“Thanks. It was nice to meet you,” I say with a slight wave.
I begin to feel a bit foolish for how I handled our initial interaction. My suspicions about her weren’t warranted. Jumping to conclusions is becoming a new trait of mine, I guess.
“Yeah, nice meeting you too. Drea, right?” she confirms.
“Yep.”
“Take care,” she says while moving back into the house.
“You too,” I say to the closed door.
Huh, I wonder why Lori never told me about Nancy before.
Retreating back to the car, I pull away from Lori’s house with my final destination being my own home.
I withhold a groan when I see my mom’s van in the driveway already. The one thing I’ve had a reprieve from during my time of mourning is her not grilling me about why I’ve decided to take a break from cheerleading, but I can tell she’s just itching to pick up where we left off.
It’s only a matter of time.
“Is that you, honey?” my mom calls after I shut the front door. She sounds a mile away.
“Hi, Mom,” I reply, searching around to find her. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the basement. The dang circuit breaker went out again while I was baking.” The lights suddenly flicker on. “I swear, your father said he fixed that ages ago, but here we are.” Her voice gets louder with every step up the basement stairs. “Hey, could you join me in the kitchen?”
When I enter the room, she’s standing there looking like the picturesque version of a housewife. It’s deceiving, as she’s an absolute boss who just happens to really like to cook and bake for her family. My mom has always been a go-getter and highly driven in life, which is what she wants from me as well. And yes, she was also a cheerleader in high school.
Like mother, like daughter.
“What’s up, Mom?”
Empty cans of pumpkin puree, boxes of cream cheese, and an open bag of sugar and flour clutter the countertop. It dawns on me what she’s baking … her signature pumpkin pie cheesecake, which happens to be one of my all-time favorite comfort food desserts. She’s really laying it on thick, but I’m not complaining.
“I’m making your favorite,” she says as she clasps her hands in front of her chest.
“I see that. But there’s no reason to go all out on my behalf,” I reply, giving her a hug. I can tell she’s waiting for one.
“I know, but I figured with everything that’s been going on, it would be nice for something good, you know?” I sense she’s apprehensive to actually mention the thing in question.
“I really appreciate this, Mom. Thank you.” I place a kiss on her cheek before moving to leave the kitchen.
“So what brings you home so late?” she asks. The inflection in her voice sounds optimistic, and I deduce it has to do with me possibly being at cheerleading practice.
“No, Mom, I didn’t rejoin the squad,” I reply, turning around to meet her hopeful gaze. “I had a few things to do after school, that’s all.”
“But you love cheerleading and it makes you happy,” she implores. “Maybe that’s what you need right now.”
“It used to, Mom, but not anymore. I’ve got plenty of more important things to concentrate on now instead.”
“Okay, honey. I’m sorry I pushed. I just want to see you happy.”
“Me too. Thanks again for the cheesecake,” I say as I leave the kitchen and head for the stairs up to my room.
And the hits just keep on coming.
Donovan
I have no idea how Marcus did it.
That silver-tongued Miz Markie Marc was able to convince my aunts to let me help with the charity gig tonight. When Aunt Helen called near the end of my work shift, she reminded me of our conversation at school—like I needed a reminder—and to be extra safe. She said she understands why I want to go support something like this. I mean, I do want to support the cause, just not exactly in the way Marcus told them I wanted to. Fact is, I’m more of an introvert. Sure, I’ve partied from time to time, but playing video games in the comfort of my own room and watching horror films are my true loves in life.
“Aww, we’re going to pop your gay bar cherry tonight,” Marcus says, giving me a light shoulder shove outside the back entrance of Mae’s lounge. “This
is a momentous occasion in a queer person’s life you know.”
It’s the third time today he’s referred to my gay bar cherry being popped, and I can tell he’s quite tickled by it. It’s true, I’ve never been to a gay bar or to any bar, at that. Most of them back home were eighteen and over, and this kind of deal has never been my scene. I consider myself more of a “suffer in silence on my own” type. Come to think of it, Marcus is my first openly gay friend.
Huh, that’s a sobering thought.
I’m sure there were other queer people at my last high school, but they were most certainly not out and proud about it in the rural south. Neither was I, really. There wasn’t a ton of room to be diverse. And if you happened to be, it just made life easier to pretend you weren’t.
Sure, my closest friends had an inkling about me, but it wasn’t something I advertised, especially with my new stepfather being a prominent pastor in town. That’s not to say I didn’t wonder what it would be like to have a friend who understood what I was going through day in and day out. I just never actively sought them out.
I’m glad Marcus didn’t give me a choice.
His reaction was priceless when he initially told me he was a drag queen at Mae’s and I told him I’d never been. He gasped dramatically and did what he called “clutching the pearls” to display his great shock over the news. He proceeded to spout off an entire dissertation on how gay bars help provide a safe space for our community, and are one of the rare places a queer person can feel and be their true selves without fear of being mocked, ridiculed, or judged. I appreciated his bravado.
The dressing room in Mae’s Lounge is quaint but highly colorful. Each wall is painted a rich red color and the floor is comprised of black and white checked tiles. I can’t quite put my finger on the exact aroma permeating the space, but it’s like a hint of fresh flowers stuffed in a gym locker mixed with sweet perfume. At the back of the room are a few rolling racks with different outfits hung on them, positioned next to shelves filled with foam heads holding wigs of all colors and types. There’s even an entire rolling rack dedicated to an obscene amount of multi-colored feather boas.
“Okay, so all you have to do is wear that black sequin suit,” Marcus says, pointing to the outfit hanging on the rack nearest to us, “and hold those sparklers,” he moves his finger to point at the box of them on the small table beside me, “while I do my routine. Feel free to ad lib any dance moves or steps, just as long as you stay in your area of the stage, understood?” Before I can reply, he speaks again. “Can you vogue by any chance?” I shake my head, but he doesn’t look at me for an answer. “You know what? Never mind. Forget I asked.”
Marcus’s multi-tasking skills impress me. He was able to explain all of that without ever looking at me. He just continued to apply his makeup while staring into a vanity mirror lined with large, old-fashioned bulbs. He never missed a beat.
It’s also fascinating to see how effortlessly he’s able to go through his transformation. He calls it his “quick-ish drag,” given our time crunch, and though he’s only half done, he is most definitely selling the illusion.
“Got it. Like I said before, I’m good,” I reply.
He turns to face me, one eye completely done with a full lash and the other one just started. “Uh-huh. We shall see, but I do appreciate the confidence,” he says with a bit of sass.
I can’t help but chuckle at his half-finished face. He gestures to my costume on the rack. “Get going, mister,” he orders playfully. “The bathroom’s there,” he adds, returning his focus to the mirror.
I collect the garment and head off to change. The fit of the outfit is a tad snug, but overall I find it flattering as I scrutinize myself in the full body mirror attached to the back of the door. And, damn, is it shiny. Even in the low light, it shimmers like a million twinkling stars in a cloudless night sky. All I can think is how bad I feel for the audience’s eyes when they’re subjected to this.
“Come on, let’s get a look at ya,” Marcus says through the door. I jump out and strike a pose. He gives me a soft clap with a genuine smile on his face, which is, for the record, finished and beautiful. “You clean up nicely, sir.” He gives me a thumbs up before carefully adjusting the pink and blue cotton candy swirl colored wig atop his head.
“Though I agree, I have to say this is hands-down the gayest thing I’ve ever done,” I say with a laugh while staring down at a garment that somehow dances in the light without me moving at all. “And to think, I’m doing this before I’ve even had my first kiss.”
He scoffs. “Oh, please, get out of here with that mess.”
I shrug my shoulders. “What? It’s the truth.”
“Hold the phone. Are you telling me you’ve never been with a guy before? Wait. Donnie, are you a virgin?”
I feel the embarrassment crawl up my face and settle on my cheeks. I clear my throat and smooth down the front of the suit jacket, not really knowing how to answer the question. “I only came out to my family last year and I’m kind of a loner, so I didn’t really have many opportunities to do so,” I reply. I look back at Marcus, who’s staring at me with wide eyes and mouth agape. “What?”
His facial features soften. “Oh, nothing, I just assumed … actually, you know what? I’m an asshole, and good for you,” he says finally, and I perk up. “There’s no need to rush anything, especially when you’re just coming to terms with who you are.”
“Well, that sure makes me sound like a complete loser,” I say, feeling myself retracting again.
He snaps his fingers and spins on the stool away from the mirror to face me. “Uh-uh. You are the furthest thing from a loser, my friend. We all do things differently and there’s no need to throw around labels. Just keep being you, Donnie, and I’m sure things will work out just fine. Trust and believe.” He goes quiet for a moment. “Hey, I know I kind of forced you to do this—”
“Kind of?” I interrupt with a laugh.
“Oh, don’t act like this won’t be fun.” He sounds offended, but I recognize his joking tone.
“Tons, I’m sure.” I gesture up and down my outfit and receive Marcus’s trademarked side-eye.
“Can you let me thank you, please?” When I nod, he says, “I just wanted to say I really appreciate you doing this with me. It means a lot, seriously. And I hope you get something out of it too. I only wish Lori could be here to see it all. Her and her little dances that she loved to do.” Marcus’s mood changes for a moment and he gets reflective while returning his attention back to the mirror. “I really miss that silly girl. She was good people.”
“Yeah, she was,” I choke out.
The dressing room door swings open and a male’s voice calls into the room, “Two minutes to show time, Miz Markie Marc.”
Marcus adjusts his wig once more, followed by the breast plate under his garment, and then does final checks on his makeup before standing to face me. “You ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He leads the way through the back halls of the bar until we reach a door leading to the stage. There are countless flyers and posters lining the walls for upcoming shows, and many for events that happened over the years. A lot of the older ones are torn, tea-stained, and have curled edges, making me wonder if they serve a dual purpose. Like to cover up the holes and cracks in the wall underneath.
“Just have fun out there, Donnie, okay?” Marcus whispers to me over his shoulder.
“And now, please give it up for Miz Markie Marc and her special guest, Donnie Wahlberg,” the host announces, and roaring applause follows.
I turn to Marcus and mouth, “Donnie Wahlberg? Really?”
He mouths back, “Live with it.”
We both ascend a short staircase that ends at a red velvety curtain. It parts, and a guy dressed in black wearing a headset has me present the sparklers to him before he carefully lights them. The song “Firework” blares from the speakers lining the stage. Marcus nudges me to move ahead of him.
Applause erupts again within the bar as I round the corner and enter onto the stage. I’m so focused on finding my spot that when I finally look out over the packed house, my chest tightens and the sparklers begin to slip within my sweaty palms. Even with all the lights in my face, I feel everyone staring at me since I’m the only up here. I draw in a deep breath and strike my first pose with the sparklers. It gets a fair amount of applause that grows exponentially louder once Marcus enters. I glance over my shoulder at him and he’s perfectly lip synching to the song.
I face forward and adrenaline kicks in. I embrace the silliness of it all and do a few improvised maneuvers, which seem to be well-received if the applause is any indication that the audience loves it. Marcus is so in his element. He’s a natural entertainer, and just like at the café, he has everyone captivated by his performance. The crowd eats it up.
I strike another pose and Marcus plays off it by taking one of the sparklers. He spins it around as he twirls gracefully across the stage before returning it to me. The man who lit the sparklers places a bucket of water at the front of the stage. He instructs me to dunk them in it as the song comes to a close. The crowd erupts with applause again as Marcus curtsies to the audience. He grabs my hand and we both do a bow before he points to me and the crowd cheers once more.
The stage lights dim, allowing me to clearly see the faces in the crowd. In the back of the bar, I see a lone figure dressed all in black posted up against the wall. The only detail I can really make out is the mask the figure is wearing. It’s also black, but bears the basic outline of a fox’s head in thin neon pink strips of light. The figure’s hand slowly rises into the air and waves back and forth just as slowly, and ever so eerie.
Was that meant for me?
Marcus prompts me to do another bow. When I look back up, my eyes return to where I saw the masked figure.
They’re gone.
“You turned it out tonight, Donnie,” says Marcus as we return backstage.
“Thanks. You didn’t do half bad yourself.”