It’s not a number I recognize. I run around the loft, phone ringing in my hand, looking for the pants I wore last night. What if it’s Lincoln? I want to cross-reference the phone numbers. I don’t know how he would have gotten my number, but something tells me it’s him. I give up on my search and hit accept.
“Hello?” I try not to sound too eager. No one responds. “Um…is anyone there?” I plug up my left ear and listen closely. And I hear it. Deep, labored breathing. “Who is this?!” I demand, but the caller doesn’t say anything; their breathing just gets heavier and faster. Freaked out, I hang up, hitting the end button on the screen about a thousand times. I spot my jeans and dig out Lincoln’s number. It doesn’t match.
I get a chill, and I’m suddenly painfully aware of my state of undress. I wiggle back into yesterday’s jeans and oversized Hawaiian shirt. I crack open my laptop. My inbox is a mess. It exploded overnight. I start deleting notifications, but there are too many to manage. I scroll through some of the posts. There’s a surprising number of hashtag supporters. The Quentin client even posted wearing his own Sharpie-scrawled #PINZHASAPOSSE shirt. But the anons are out in full force, and way, way worse than before.
There are long wall-of-text posts; I shy away from the tl;drs. I don’t want to know. There are posts that try to analyze my blog, pointing out my laptop, my phone, whatever they can see in the backgrounds of photos to prove I’m spoiled or entitled. There are pictures of my face photoshopped onto porn. There are death threats.
Kill yourself.
I wipe the tears off the keyboard and slam my laptop shut. I fall into the beanbag and stare at all the work I finished last night. Even without the hem, Wizzy’s robe might be the most interesting and satisfying costume I’ve ever made. And I designed the whole thing myself. I breathe, long and deep breaths. This will get me out of Eugene. This will get me into design school. This will get me up on the big screen. A screen that the randos can’t harass me on.
Lincoln’s number on its increasingly worn scrap of paper lies on the floor, begging me to pick it up. Dotty’s perfect handwriting nagging me to call him. I need a break, time away from Wi-Fi and work. I slip on my sneakers and grab my wallet. I’ll walk to coffee and buy my fabric. I tap his number into my phone. Halfway into town I hit call.
It’s ringing.
“Hello?” His voice sounds even better through the speaker of my phone, soft and deep like the crushed velvet I’m about to buy.
“Hey. Hi. Hello. Is this Lincoln?” It’s a struggle not to slip into the tenor voice I use when I normally talk to him.
“That’s right. Who’s this?”
“Oh, I, ah, your grandmother, she told me you needed, um, help with a sewing project?” I take the long way into town, walking past the butte just like we did last night.
“Did she now? It’s okay—you didn’t have to call. I’ve got it.”
“But I wanted to call?”
“Oh.” He laughs the smallest laugh, barely audible over the sounds of scrub jays squawking from the pine trees.
“I’m actually pretty good at the sewing thing. What are you trying to make?” I ask.
“A map, but you know, out of fabric.”
“What kind of map?” I ask, and he pauses. The early-morning sun shines through the tops of the trees and casts a glow over the park. It’s just as beautiful in the morning as it was last night. I sit down on the bench, right where he was sitting hours ago, and lean against the cold wood. I tip my head back and let the sun warm my face.
“I have to warn you, kind miss, that it’s for something very, very nerdy.”
“I can get down with nerdy. Everything I’ve ever made has had some pretty decent nerd cred.”
“Like what?” he probes. I kick at the ground. Of course he needs me to clarify. I’m a girl, so I must not like nerdy things. I can’t just say I’m down with geeks; I always have to prove myself. I picture him in his bedroom, leaning back in his desk chair. I imagine he’s surrounded by X-Files and Doctor Who posters. His desk cluttered with papers and dice.
“Girls can be geeky too, you know.” I get up and follow the trail around the butte into town.
“Of course! I know quite a few. But I’ve never known a geeky seamstress.” I can hear him pacing as he talks.
“Once, I watched my brother play through all of Portal. So naturally I wanted to dress up as Chell, but who has the money for a Portal gun?”
“No one I know.”
“Right? So I sat down and made my own out of PVC, card stock, and Bondo. Oh, and some glow sticks.” The pause is palpable. It lasts just long enough for me to reach Wandering Goat Coffee and push open the door. “Hello? Are you still there?”
“How have I never met you?” he finally asks. “It seems impossible.”
“I’m new in town—hang on, I gotta place my order.”
“What’re you getting?”
“Caffeine. Preferably iced caffeine.”
“Well then, a dirty chai is in order.”
“What’s in it?” I ask him, loitering in the back of the shop, trying not to annoy other customers with our conversation. But it’s not like I’m gonna hang up.
“You’re kidding, right? You can make a Portal gun, but you don’t know about the magical elixir—nay, nectar of the gods—that is a dirty chai?”
“And your nan works in a fabric store and you can’t sew two pieces of cloth together?”
“Touché. It’s chai with espresso, and it’s—”
“Otherworldly. Got it. Hang on a sec?” I press mute and order one sixteen-ounce iced dirty chai. The cashier writes my name on the clear plastic cup, and spells it right for once. I don’t know why every barista is convinced it’s spelled Camron or Cameran. Sometimes they mess up altogether and write Carmen. “Back,” I say after getting my drink from the counter.
“And?” he asks. I take a sip. My mouth fills up with sweet cinnamon and cardamom cream, with the slightest nutty note of coffee. It reminds me of fall.
“It makes me want to carve a pumpkin.”
“Right? So good.”
“It may just be my new favorite.” I play coy because of course it’s my new favorite. Everything about today is my new favorite. My phone beeps, and I check the screen. Another unknown caller. I don’t even bother hitting ignore, I just go straight back to talking to Lincoln. They can wait. Everyone can wait. “So…,” I start.
“So.”
“When do you need to finish this ubernerdy project of yours?”
“Good question. A few weeks? No big rush or anything. When are you free?” he asks, and I want to tell him right now. I’ll hit up Kozy Corner, buy my fabric, and walk straight to his house.
“Whenever” is what actually comes out.
“Look. It’s okay—you don’t have to. I know my nan can be very persuasive.” He doesn’t fool me, not for one second. He wants my help. He wants to meet me.
“Just pick a time and I’ll be there, wherever there is.” I cross the street; the neon sign in Kozy Corner flashes OPEN. I imagine Dotty yelling at me for not calling her precious Link while he’s actually on the phone with me at that very moment. Maybe I’ll hand my cell over to her and let her embarrass him for a few minutes.
“I don’t know…um, how about…” Lincoln pauses, perhaps trying to think of an open date in his schedule, and I’m on the edge of the phone like, Just say now, dude. The bell jingles inside the shop. The bell jingles through the phone. Startled, I spill dirty chai all over myself. Lincoln and I stare at each other, phones to our ears, jaws on the floor. “How about right now?”
* * *
He’s putting down his phone. He’s leaving the counter. He’s walking toward me. The loose knit of his henley shirt looks well worn and stretches across his soft tummy. An obvious favorite. He’s bending down. His hair falling forward in a s
andy curtain. He’s picking up the cup. He’s reading the name scrawled across it in permanent marker. He’s looking up at me. He’s smiling.
“I knew it.”
* * *
“I’m so sorry I…” I pat my pockets, searching for a napkin I know won’t be there. I look up, over the spill, to the counter. No paper towels in sight. “I’m a mess.” I can’t bring myself to look him in the eyes.
“Nah, you just made one.” He rummages through a cabinet underneath the counter and produces two rags and some Windex. “Here.”
“Isn’t this for windows?” I ask, sopping up the beverage.
“Beggars and choosers and all that.” Lincoln sprays the floor, and we make fast work of the spill, neither of us saying a word. There’s no radio or other customers to break the awkward silence. I try to think up an excuse, a lie, anything I can tell him to make this situation seem the least bit understandable. But nothing is coming. He takes the rag from me and stuffs it back under the counter. He doesn’t look mad, but he does look like he’s trying to keep himself from laughing in my face. I don’t know which is worse.
“As I was saying.” Lincoln folds his arms and leans forward on the counter between us. “I knew it.”
I kneel on the floor, unable to move. “There’s no way you knew,” I say to the white linoleum floor.
“I totally did.” I can hear him smiling. The same way he does when he talks to Dotty, and when he talked to me on the phone.
“I mean, you know right now. You just realized that—” I poke the floor for emphasis.
“I may have pieced it together at some point between Skinner Butte and your house. I was pretty certain by the time I got home last night.”
“Oh, God.” I cover my face with my hands.
“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know for sure it was you on the phone,” he offers, but I’m mortified. “I’m glad it was, though.” I peek at him through my fingers.
“You must think I’m so weird. Like, who even does something like this? It’s straight-up banana-pants behavior.”
“Who says weird is a bad thing? Plus, I think I know you better than that. So…out with it.” He hops up onto the counter and hangs his legs over the edge. I don’t know how to explain myself. There’s nothing I can say to fix this. No matter what, Lincoln will forever know me as the girl who pretended to be a boy because she was too scared to be herself. And that’s not who I really am. Or at least, it’s not who I want to be.
“But you don’t know me,” I sigh.
“Of course I know you. I see you every week. I walked you home last night. I know you.” He pats the counter, an invitation to sit next to him. I’m too nervous to take him up on it, but I do pick myself up off the floor.
“I want you to know me. But you don’t. Not yet,” I explain. Everything he is saying is kind and understanding and just right. But if he really knew the kind of coward I am, he’d stop acting so forgiving.
“What are you hiding from?” His fingers curl around the lip of the counter. I can tell he’s getting anxious. I realize that the only way Lincoln will ever get to know me is if I let him. I start pacing back and forth in front of him.
“I couldn’t shop there,” I start. “At Atomix. I know that every time I go there as myself, Brody will be there. With nothing better to do than follow me around and question my presence in the store. Quizzing me, making all these patronizing comments. But I need to be able to buy comics, and I thought it might be easier, you know, if I were a guy.”
“So dressing in drag, changing your voice, pretending to be a whole different person, that’s easier?” I didn’t expect him to fully understand. But explaining my perspective is proving difficult.
“When you’ve been making cosplay for the past eight years, yes. And I wasn’t a whole different person. Just me, with a wang. A pretend wang?” I try to break the tension, but Lincoln remains skeptical. “It was never supposed to go on this long. I wanted to win Brody over. Then I would do this grand reveal. You know—” I hop up on the counter, stand triumphantly, and point down at Lincoln. “Ha! You’ve been friends with a girl! We’re not monsters! Cut us some slaaaack!” I yell toward the sky, arms held over my head.
Lincoln finally breaks, laughing from his spot on the counter. The sound of it is such a relief I can’t help but join in. My first unguarded burst of girlish laughter since we met, and it feels so good I barely hear my phone beeping. Someone’s left me a voice mail. No one ever leaves me voice mail.
“Hang on a sec?” I ask Lincoln, and he nods. I type in my passcode and wait.
“I hope you fucking die, cunt,” a voice growls into my ear and down deep into my stomach. I hang up before I hear anything else.
“Everything okay? Cooper okay?” Lincoln hops off the counter and offers me his hand. I don’t take it. I don’t want him to know mine are shaking. I’m dizzy; the room is spinning. “You’re white as a sheet—come down.” I slowly crouch and slide my feet off the edge of the counter. “What happened?”
“I keep getting these calls. I don’t understand.” I frantically open my inbox to find that there are more messages than ever before.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask no one in particular. My eyes sting as I scroll through filthy subject lines for pages; finally I make it back to the last time I posted. Everything is in response to that, the one time I spoke up to defend myself.
SJWHunter0 left a comment on your post:
JESUS CHRIST. Cosplayers are so stuck up their own asses! Get another fucking hobby. They’re all so OBSESSED. This “girl” should pack it in and give it up already. Trying to come off like some “rare breed” like she’s conquered stereotypes or some bullshit. Maybe like, ten years ago guys would be worshipping her or whatever. But now it’s fucking pathetic. Just look through her posts, she’s gotten so many details wrong on a shitton of costumes. Not that any of them are doing her any favors with that busted-ass face of hers. Honestly she’d look better with my dick in her mouth.
Yo, if you’re tired of this shit, call this fake bitch and tell her and her fucking #pussyposse to kill themselves already:
503-555-0219
I’m going to be sick. The room is spinning, and the dusty smell I used to love overwhelms me. My stomach feels like a well-used pincushion. It’s hard to breathe. I want to get up, to run home and hide in my bedroom. Throw my phone into the toilet and flush. But I can’t because I’m frozen stiff. It feels like if I move one inch, I’ll throw up all over Lincoln, and there’s not enough Windex in the world to wipe that image from his mind.
“C’mon.” He takes my hand and helps me off the counter. “Let’s get out of here. You can explain as long as you’d like.” Slowly he leads me to the front of the shop and takes a wad of keys out of his bag. He flicks off each row of lights, and as the store gets darker, I feel my grip on the situation loosen. Panic sets in. Everything in my body is screaming RUN. Go home and get safe.
“Don’t,” I tell him before he has a chance to lock up the store. “You shouldn’t.”
“But—”
“I have to go. Please don’t, don’t tell any—”
“I won’t. I promise.” He makes an X across his whole chest with his finger. He doesn’t want me to leave, but he didn’t have to hear what I just did. I can’t look at him with that anonymous voice repeating in my ear. I can’t have the sweet expression on his face and those foul words stitched together in my memory of this moment. The bell jingles, and I don’t look back. I just focus on putting one foot in front of the other, staring straight ahead, the whole way home.
Did Gillian Grayson ever go through this? I try to picture her as a teen, sewing in her bedroom without blogs or feeds or anons, and I envy her. I try to forget the Internet exists. I stack my laptop and phone on the worktable. After a moment of thought, I unplug the router and add it to the pile.
I curse Liv for writing that post. All it did was egg on the randos, and they came at me with a vengeance. Lincoln wonders why dressing as a guy is easier than existing as a girl. Being boy-Cam is easy, a cakewalk compared to the comments section. There’s no way he’ll ever see that. Weeping, I change out of yesterday’s boy clothes and put on my hand-sewn trapeze dress. I want to feel like myself, top to bottom, inside and out.
I stare down at the table cluttered with tech. I know all the things I probably should do: switch my phone number, delete my blog, make a new email address. But the dead electronics will make good fabric weights, and the only thing that will really make me feel better is creating in the wake of all their destruction.
It’s time for Clover and his—no, her—costume. I’ve decided. Wizzy, the secret mage, has to hide his identity, and Clover has to do the same. Maybe halflings have it tough in general. Clover is a girl. A girl who, to flee the trappings of the fairer sex, had to become a boy. She wanted a life of adventure, and she stole it for herself.
The design comes so easily, like I’ve been planning it forever. She wears a multitude of layers, hiding secret pockets and compartments. Each one is stuffed with coins and gems and trinkets from her travels. She’s got a deep purple robe that she wraps over everything when she needs to vanish into the shadows. And of course, her crown of clovers.
I get all my fabric ready; I clear off the dress form; I have Dad crank his Motown from the boom box in the garden. I’m going to finish another costume today if it kills me. This is it; this is all there is. This is the only thing that matters.
* * *
Mom was thrilled when I took my dinner up to the loft. I’m so close to actually finishing. If I were on Project Runway, I’d be killing it. One: I have two weeks left to finish the greatest portfolio Gillian Grayson’s ever seen. Two: every assface on the Internet wants me dead for the stupidest reason imaginable. Three: I’m lying to my new friends about my gender. Oh, and four: I ran out on the boy I like. That’s the challenge I’ve been handed, and it’s time to make it work.
Chaotic Good Page 12