I’m raw and drowsy by the time I reach my driveway. I stumble across the gravel like a zombie. I’ve rehearsed my apologies so many times my brain is overworked and useless. I imagine how good it will feel to slide under my covers and surrender to the darkness.
“Hey.”
My hand is frozen on the doorknob. I know when I turn around Lincoln will be there, waiting by the studio. Waiting for me. I don’t want him to see me like this. Wrecked. A mess. He was right: mess suits me. My room’s a mess; my life’s a mess. I’m a mess.
“Hey,” I say, just above a whisper.
“We need to talk.”
* * *
Nothing good ever follows those four words. Those are the prep words. The words that Mom used when I failed gym for the third time. The words that Dad used when he found out Cooper and I had snuck out late one night to get Voodoo Doughnuts because I was enamored with the tattooed late-night doughnut slinger. The words that Farrin used when he dumped Cooper. They mean bitter, ominous business. Brace for impact; we need to talk.
“I know,” I say, and lean against the garage door. If he’s going to use those four words, he doesn’t get to come inside. I don’t care if it’s my fault that he used them.
“So.” He clears his throat.
“I’m sorry. Can I start with that? I’m so sorry—you have to know that.”
He tips his head back against the wall, chin pointing at the sky, eyes closed.
“You don’t need to apologize to me.”
“Really?” I take his hand, but he flinches and steps away from me. I drop it.
“Why didn’t you tell him? Why would you tell me but not Wyatt?”
“I was worried.”
“Seriously? Why’s harmless.”
“I know; it’s not that I thought he would…I just liked that we could…”
“You liked what? Toying with him? I told you at the outset not to play with him like that. And now you’re saying you liked it?” He gets angrier as he goes. But he’s got it all wrong.
“Of course not! I didn’t mean to lead him on. I just wanted to fit in or something.”
“Or something,” he mocks, unconvinced.
“Sorry.” I don’t know what else to say, even though my rehearsed speech must have gone on a full ten minutes.
“Why and Brody, they’re all I’ve got right now.” Lincoln’s voice cracks. “You know that. Aside from Nan, they’re the only two people who give kind of a shit about me.”
“I give a shit about you.”
“But you lied.”
“No I didn’t! Not to you.” I start tearing up. I thought I had set the record straight with Why, when I told him I just wanted to be friends. I didn’t want my gender to matter.
“But you lied. I hate lying.”
“Is there any—” I try to reason with him, but he cuts me off.
“I don’t know if we can keep doing this. I don’t see a way we can be together after all—”
“Of course we can. Look, I’m going to talk to Why tomorrow; I’ll explain everything. I’ll apologize. It sucks right now, but we can get over it….Right?”
“Why liked me. When I first met Why, he really, really liked me. And I was flattered, but it would never—I’m not—”
“Oh no.”
“Yeah. Oh no.”
We both stand there, the static of the crickets showing me some mercy in the longest, most awkward silence of my life. Why liked both of us, and for him to have walked in on what he walked in on…I’d never forgive either of us.
“I don’t see it ending well. Do you?” Lincoln looks at me, pained. His eyes are glassy and red.
“I guess not.” I’m trying to keep it together. None of this is his fault. But I can’t help feeling sad and sorry. Sorry for what I did to him. Sorry for what I put Why through. Sorry for myself. My body betrays me, and I let out a wet hiccup.
“Don’t, please don’t,” he begs, but it only makes it worse. I can’t stop myself from sobbing—I’m too far gone.
The floodlights on the garage flicker on and shine a spotlight directly on us. Cooper pulls into the driveway. I can’t see him behind the headlights, but I know he’s still pissed. I can feel it.
“I should go,” Lincoln says, already on his way back to the street. He doesn’t wait for Cooper to get out of his car. One moment he was right there next to me, and the next he’s gone. The floodlights and headlights go dark, and, for a moment, I’m blind.
I hear Coop slam his car door. I rub my eyes, trying to get them to adjust to the light. The door slams again. He’s not alone? Squinting, I finally can make out what’s going on.
“Wyatt! Let me explain!” I rush over to him.
“Don’t,” he growls, not looking at me.
“But—”
“You’ve done enough for tonight, thank you.” Cooper cuts me off.
“I have to explain, Cooper! I didn’t mean for—”
“Save it. You waited this long. You can wait a little longer.” His voice is full of venom.
“Coop. Please,” I whimper. I feel saliva collecting in the corners of my mouth. Everything is covered in spit and tears and snot. I’ve never felt more pathetic.
“Pull yourself together. Boys don’t cry.”
* * *
I want to wallow. Just lie on the studio floor and whine and cry and feel worthless. Torture myself by replaying the moment Why walked in on us over and over. Think about how I will never kiss Lincoln again. How I’ve managed to screw up every single friendship I have. Why should Link and Why be friends with me? Cooper has every right to be as pissed as he is. I didn’t even do anything to Jen, and she dumped me too, when she got hit with my spillover online abuse. Everything the anons have ever said turned out to be right. I’m disgusting. I’m a hack. I’m nothing.
But I don’t wallow. I pull out all the bins and bags with leftover fabric and scraps. I dump them all over the floor and throw the empty containers down into the garage. I’m going to need all of it: all of the space, all of the fabric. Every last scrap. I have three days to finish my portfolio, and if I don’t, if I blow it, this entire summer will have been for nothing. And I can’t have that.
This is what it’s really about, I remind myself as I organize the fabric by color and size on the floor. The only thing that really matters is that this will be the most beautiful piece of clothing I’ve ever made. It doesn’t matter that it’s meant for Lincoln. Not at all.
It doesn’t matter if he sees it and forgets just how badly I screwed up. It doesn’t matter if he lays it out on a table and tells stories and runs games and remembers when everything was fun and good and easy. And when he wraps it around his shoulders, it won’t matter if he falls in love with it and me again at the same time. None of that matters.
Those are just the details.
Lincoln’s cloak will double as a map. It will be floor-length, with elaborate closures that hide what he’s wearing underneath. He has to be so many characters during the game, there’s no point in trying to nail them all down. The cloak is all-encompassing.
I gather up the remaining fabric from all of the costumes I’ve finished. The blue satin, the crushed velvet, Wizzy’s frayed black scraps. I’ll sew all of it into the cloak. We’re all woven into Lincoln’s story. I rearrange the pieces again. Not by size this time, but by shape. I join the scraps with pins when they look like they belong together.
Pools of blue fabric come together first. Puddles turn into lakes, then oceans and seas that split apart landmasses and islands. I thread up the sewing machine and start stitching waves into each scrap. Little silver crests rise and fall as the collage of fabric twists in the light. One patch of cerulean corduroy gets a hand-embroidered serpent that takes two hours and punctures two of my fingers.
I sew through the night. I
sew mountains while the sky fades to predawn light. I sew deserts and farmlands while the sun rises, casting bright orange rays through the skylight. I sew a compass rose into the corner while the scrub jays screech and the neighbor’s chickens lay their daily eggs. Sewing and stitching. Threading and beading. Mending.
I don’t remember hearing Cooper’s car leave last night. Which means there’s a chance Why is still in our house. Maybe he stayed over and slept it off. He might be willing to hear me out over some of Dad’s famous pancakes and a mug of coffee. Coffee.
I stare at Coop’s car. Trying to determine if it moved an inch or two from last night, but there’s really no telling. The cloak is just about finished; the last thing is to line it with gridded fabric. Just like the mat we use on the table when we play D&D. One side is the elaborate map, and the other side you can actually play the game on. It takes another hour to sew every last bead and button in place before I finally make my way to the house.
* * *
“Is there any coffee left?” I croak, voice raw from crying and dry from a silent night in the studio. Mom smiles and pours me a mugful. I dump in sugar and cream; the first sip is bliss. Warm and comforting.
“You sure look like you could use it,” Cooper snipes.
“Is Why here?” I ask, looking right through him.
“No. So you can stop dressing like Raggedy friggin’ Andy.”
“Shut up,” I snip.
“No, you shut up,” he snaps.
“Be nice.” Mom mediates without looking up from her book. “Are you ready for the big day on Friday?”
“Almost. Can you drive me?” I don’t want to ask her, but there’s no way I’m asking Cooper.
“All the way into Portland? Cooper, can’t you—”
“No. Nope. I’m busy.”
“All day?” Mom finally looks up at him.
“All year,” he hisses back.
“Cameron, oh no. What are we going to do? I can’t take you either. It’s orientation week at the college, and you know what a mess that is.”
“What about Dad?” I ask, starting to panic.
“He’s helping me at work,” she shoots back.
“What am I going to do? Walk?!” Coffee splashes out of my mug and onto the counter.
“Learn how to drive yourself,” Cooper scowls.
“Oh! You can take the train! I’ll buy you a ticket.” Mom puts down her book and opens her laptop. “All is not lost. You’ll get there, I promise.”
“I guess.”
“It’s fine. It’ll be nice; you can relax before all the interviews.” Mom tries to flip the bad situation into a fun adventure. I still feel like crap. But I really do like riding the train. I refill my mug on my way to get changed. “Hey, missy!” Mom stops me. “You have to start answering my calls. I need to know I can reach you if I need you.”
“Oh. I, um…I can’t find my phone.”
“Find it.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay, I’m outta here. Bye, Mommy.” Cooper kisses Mom on the forehead. “Later, bro.” He flips me off, and I return the gesture. If my own brother wants to be pissed at me, let him. It’s not like he knows the full extent of my story anyway. He hasn’t been in my inbox or blog; he doesn’t have a clue about the crap that’s kept me in these oversized jeans so long.
“I’ll find my phone. I’ll take the train. Don’t worry about it, Mom.” And I don’t know if it’s a reaction to Cooper’s antagonizing or the fact that I’m more proud of my collection than anything I’ve made in my life, but I feel fired up. I take my coffee straight up to my bedroom to put on my doughnut dress. If I can handle randos on the Internet calling me a whore day in and day out, I can handle Cooper and his shitty attitude. I can handle anything. I crack open my laptop and post a picture of me in my boy outfit.
Can everyone take a break from the death threats for a hot second? Cuz I’m only gonna post this once. That up there. That was me. Before I decided enough is enough with all of your comments and threats and phone calls. For weeks I decided I would be better off dressing like a guy, and living like one of you so I could fit in. So I could catch a break. I was the fakest geek-guy on the planet.
But I was lying every damn day to people I like. People I love. And for what? To try and hide who I really am? To hide from people I know in real life who I assumed were like you? Shitty, right?
Totally. Because you guys don’t even know me. You like to pretend you do because you’ve seen my photos, and you’ve called my phone. But none of you pathetic babies actually know one real thing about me. Which is probably why you feel like it’s okay to call me a cunt on my voice mail. Or send your deformed dick pics to my inbox. So let me introduce myself.
My name is Cameron Birch. I’m a level 17 Chaotic Good human being. I’m not going to stop making cosplay or sewing and designing costumes no matter how loud you yell. No matter what you call me. My veins are red thread, my heart a bobbin. Every stitch sustains me, so bring it on.
Wish I could say it’s nice to meet you.
—Cam
I take a picture of the collection I created for my portfolio with the webcam on my laptop. Each costume displayed hanging from a beam. I upload the picture underneath the post and click publish. I fluff up my doughnut dress; I curl my hair; I slip on my gold ballet flats. It’s time for everyone in Eugene to see me this way. Gently, I fold up Lincoln’s cloak and tuck it under my arm. Let the apology tour begin.
There is no sweeter sound in the world than the jingle of the bell at Kozy Corner. I scan the shop for Lincoln, but he’s not here. Dotty looks fabulous, intently hooking away at an afghan. I don’t even think she heard me come in. Her violet hair is tucked neatly under a turban adorned with a brooch that looks like a bird’s nest.
“Hey, Dots.” I greet her and place the cloak on the counter. “Is Lincoln around?”
“ ’Fraid not. He isn’t feeling too well today. I told him to stay home, but he insisted on going to class.”
“Oh.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” she asks as she loops a length of white yarn through her fingers and around the crochet hook. She doesn’t need to look at her hands as she works; she knows every stitch by feel.
“I…”
“It’s all right. It’ll work out.”
“I’m not so sure.” I swallow. “But I did want to show him this.” I hand her the folded-up mosaic.
“You did this?” Dotty unfolds the cloak and lays it across her lap with a flourish. She switches her thick tortoiseshell glasses for the rectangular ones that hang around her neck and studies my work. “My word.” She inhales.
“Thanks.”
“It needs lining!” she declares, flipping it over. “And we should iron all those seams flat, don’t you think?”
“I know, I know.”
Dotty hops off her stool and wraps the cloak around my shoulders. She cracks her knuckles and pulls me into the display room. Her hands are so soft and cold.
“Now, it should be something sturdy, but it needs to move well.” Dotty taps her finger to the corner of her mouth.
“I want something with a grid pattern. Do you have anything like that?”
“Oh, sure. How big should the squares be? One inch? Two?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Come, come.” She pulls me again, moving quickly past the wool and the chiffon. “I have these four—what do you think?” She starts reaching, pulling bolts of fabric down off a high shelf.
“Let me help—”
“I’ve got it.” She slaps me away and grabs the last bolt. She must have a sixth sense when it comes to sewing. The four choices are each perfect in their own way. The first is an olive-color cotton with very fine white lines. The grid is tight; I
’m not sure the squares are the right size. But the feel of the fabric itself is supple and delicate. It would make an excellent lining.
There are two dark brown options. One is more red, less machine-made. The grid looks as if it was hand-brushed on: the lines aren’t perfectly straight, but they’re striking. The other is the color of wet earth with even darker grid lines. They’re very subtle, and slightly camouflaged.
The last is off-white; the horizontal lines are green, and the vertical lines are red. Where they overlap they make even smaller brown squares. It reminds me too much of Christmas, so I cross that one off first.
“Green and brown, my Link’s favorite colors,” Dotty coos. I’m sure Lincoln told her what happened. Or at least the highlights.
“This one is the winner.” I point to the reddish brown bolt. I think the hand-painted look really fits with the way Lincoln weaves stories.
“Come on, let’s get the iron.”
Dotty flips the sign on the door to CLOSED and locks it. I follow her through the shop again, all the way to the back. She unlocks another door with a single key on a keychain that says I LOVE MY NANA on it. The door opens to a skinny staircase, just wide enough for one person. Dotty flicks on the lights with her green glittery fingernail and heads upstairs.
“You live up here? It’s amazing!” I blurt at the sight of her apartment. It’s not what I had pictured at all. Each wall is painted a different color. A pink one butts up against a deep turquoise. Every inch is covered in playbills, paintings, and photographs. A feather boa is draped across a window; the lampshades are trimmed with beaded fringe. In the corner is a dress form with a large floppy hat and velvet gown. I can’t help but run my fingers along its silky surface.
“That’s Gertie.”
“Nice to meet you.” I shake the air where her hand might be if she had one. Dotty pulls down a flap on the wall and reveals a built-in ironing board. I walk around the living room, taking it all in. A tiny canary whistles as I walk by its cage.
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