“That’s because she ‘axed’ to come in. Doesn’t mean she can tell me what to do.”
“I don’t know. I thought it was hilarious,” Jamey says.
“Yeah, it’ll be hilarious when our house is on fire,” Matt says.
Jamey laughs lusciously, then sighs, and doesn’t say anything more. He does this a lot lately.
Matt looks at him like: What the fuck is going on with you?
It’s strange how much they resemble each other, these two men. But Matt—with his pale skin, dark hair, dark eyes, prominent pointed chin, fine clothes, practiced stances—should be handsome like Jamey. And he’s not. There’s a sense of moral failing here, the idea that Matt himself is to blame for not being handsome, which somehow makes him uglier.
* * *
—
Robbie is white and short, and studies airplane mechanics at South Central Community College, and waits tables at Red Lobster. His bowl cut and cornflower-blue eyes are gnome-ish.
With him tonight is a tubby black giant who stoops under the ceiling light.
“What’s up, Leesey,” Robbie says, chagrined at having yet another guy over.
Sitting cross-legged on the couch, Elise pulls back her sweatshirt hood. “Hey,” she says, giving the new guy a once-over.
“Hello there,” the guy says in a gracious, Darth Vader–deep voice.
The pair ambles, blushing, into the bedroom, like boys about to play G.I. Joes or Matchbox cars, and Robbie shuts the door softly.
They put on Depeche Mode. Each time a side ends, there’s a rustle as someone reaches across the bed to turn the tape over and press Play.
She makes coffee, pages through the newspaper, biting her lip.
Elise grew up listening to her mom have sex in the next room—Denise growling and muttering naughty words—or her cousin giving head in the bed where Elise was sleeping. Hearing other people is arousing and aggravating, the way getting tickled is a mishmash of laughter and the possibility of throwing up.
She puts her hand in her jeans.
* * *
—
That evening, Robbie and Elise smoke on the roof, squinting at New Haven’s squat and dumpy skyline dusted with stars.
The bedroom window next door lights up.
“Oh shit, that’s him,” she whispers, awestruck.
“The one with the dimple?”
“I’m getting sorta obsessed,” Elise says. “His name is Jamey.”
Robbie smiles uncomfortably. “They’re rich kids. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know.”
Robbie flicks ash into the abyss between houses, and the coal is fired up by its twirling descent for a second or two. “You like him though?”
Now Elise is shy. “He seems different.”
They toss cigarettes over the ledge, pull coats tight, and take the steps down into the building.
“I guess you never know, honey,” Robbie says over his shoulder. “Right?”
“Right?” she answers.
Elise trusts Robbie on a gut level. She gets being bisexual, and thinks everyone is attracted to anyone, but gay boys have it rough, they learn fast and cruel. This one kid who worked at a check-cashing place in her old neighborhood was famous for being queer. He was all buttoned up, saving money, determined to get out of that town, always wearing neckties and cardigans, polite in the Plexiglas booth, but he wouldn’t hide his wrists or pursed mouth. She walked in there once with her Burger King check, and he was swollen, one eye bandaged, one ear burned. Necktie in place—green polyester with diagonal maroon stripes. She was fascinated by him—nearly destroyed for love, over and over, and refusing to lie.
She survived years of school fights herself, fights that came from real and imagined sexual and social conflicts. She knew what it was like to be forced to take the squatting posture against another girl in the parking lot, hair in her face and mouth, a tribe watching, a random extra girl coming into the fight once in a while to kick or punch, the creepy silence broken with huffing and a whimper. No matter how bad Elise got hurt, she never regretted standing up for herself. She was glad when that stage—fighting every week—was over. Although you have to be on guard forever.
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