“People are just jealous of me, pumpkin. They want what we have. We’re going to come out on top, though. Don’t worry,” my dad told me a little while later when he came up to my room. It was probably one in the morning by then. It all sounded suspiciously like the words of a guilty person. When I asked him about Stanford he said we’d “figure something out.” I’m pretty sure it was his way of just pushing off the inevitable difficult conversation.
I want to believe he’s innocent. I mean, he’s my dad. But it wouldn’t surprise me if he did something wrong. He’s never played by the rules, even with us. When my brother was spending too much time on the bench in basketball, Dad took his coach out for dinner, and after that, Jordan never warmed the bench again. He once paid three times the fee for some stupid horse camp that was full so I could get in. Another girl was probably yanked out to make room for me, and I don’t even like horses. Dad always gets what he wants, one way or another. And Jordan and I have learned to do the same.
I curse Max again for making me wait. I don’t want time alone today. I don’t want to have to be thinking, ruminating, worrying. I want to keep moving. I call Max again. Surprise, surprise. Voice mail. Screw it. I’m going to the mall with Stokely. She won’t blow me off.
t’s fourth period and I am standing in the dressing room of Forever 21, surrounded by piles of discarded clothes. I had to flee the festivities at Freiburg. It’s insufferable enough on a normal day, but the last day of school is truly beyond. Seniors were marching around singing the Freiburg anthem, like brainwashed North Korean soldiers. The library had been strafed with toilet paper, and everyone was wearing green and blue. Gag me. Maybe if Kylie had shown up for school today I could have handled it with aplomb and a dollop of snark, but on my own, it was just too much. Which brings me to the burning question: where the hell is Kylie on the last day of school?
I hold a formfitting, black spandex mini-thing up to my body, the sixth outfit I’ve considered. I can’t help but wonder if I’m making any progress. The question is, would Kylie rock this outfit the way I could? It would have been enormously helpful to have her here with me as I try to find her the perfect graduation dress. But we can’t always get what we want. How well I know that old adage. It should be my theme song.
I’m on a mission, with or without Kylie’s blessing.
I’m surprised Kylie didn’t show up for first period, or second or third, for that matter. I can’t remember the last time my little chica missed school. She’s really anal about attendance. Hopefully, she’s not sequestered in her bedroom, rewriting her speech for the thirtieth time. She’s been working that thing like it’s the inaugural address. I keep telling her that it wouldn’t be so bad if she riffed a little bit at graduation. Maybe everyone else would realize what I already know: girlfriend rocks the house with her brains and beauty. She could talk her ass off without ever preparing a thing, if she’d only trust her instincts. But Kylie’s not into doing anything on the fly. Her life is all about planning and über preparation. I’m just worried that if she reads the speech straight off the page, it’s going to be missing soul. Kylie is full of soul and I want everyone to know it.
Predictably, she hasn’t responded to any of my fifty texts to meet at Forever 21. She is relentless in her quest to look sexless. But I am going to pack her smoking-hot bod into a fabulously sexy frock for the ceremony, or die trying. I like playing Kylie’s own personal stylist. It gives my life purpose and shape—at least for the next hour—something that is sorely lacking from most of my day. The ennui and the existential angst will set in again when I leave the mall. But for now, I’m dancing to the party in my mind and having a swell time.
I stare at myself in the mirror and realize that Kylie will never go for this black number. It’s too tight, too sexy, too too. Maybe I should buy it for myself. It would definitely be a game changer. This look is even more outré than usual. As a rule, I don’t do dresses alone. We all have our limits. I usually try to tone things down with jeans, combat boots, a blazer, or a necktie. Something masculine. Something feminine. Something borrowed (from my sisters). Something blue (usually my mood). It’s my own secret homosexual recipe.
I’d love to wear this dress simply for the sheer impact of the visual at graduation. It’s not that I like women’s clothes so much—it’s more that I like shaking up the status quo in our traditional little town. But I’m not sure I can do it to Mom and Dad. They’ve finally stopped badgering me about my clothes, but do they really need their son wearing a black spandex mini to his high school graduation? Seems like cruel and unusual punishment.
Mom and Dad have come a long way since they sent me to Dr. Chan in ninth grade, after I renounced my heterosexuality and officially proclaimed myself as gay as the Roaring Twenties. I’ve known forever. I kind of figured they must have figured it out somewhere along the way. I just thought it was high time to get it all out in the open.
While they weren’t particularly surprised, they were both disappointed to have it articulated so clearly. They were hoping I’d have a change of heart.
Enter Dr. Chan. Handsome in a professorial way. He was my first real crush. Dad insisted I could talk through “my issues” with him. I insisted I didn’t have “issues,” just “preferences.”
“Same thing. It’s all semantics,” Mom said.
Hmmm. Methinks, not so much. Dad thought I was “confused.” Mom called it “conflicted.” They both chalked it up to adolescence, not nature. It was kind of soul crushing to realize my parents couldn’t accept me for who I was. I mean, I was fine with it, why couldn’t they be? So, like it or not, off I went to yak it up with Chan, who was, fortunately, easy on the eyes, thus making the hour a lot less painful than it otherwise would have been. The good doctor and I spent weeks trying to work out why I “thought” I was gay. He urged me to try and date women before coming to any rash conclusions. He talked in this very slow, calm way that often lulled me to sleep during the session. He’d wake me by nudging me with his foot.
It soon became clear to both of us that I yam what I yam: a devout and dedicated homosexual. Chan threw in the towel and we quickly changed course. We spent our time discussing the best online shopping (Chan was a bit of a metrosexual), new music, and my rage and resentment at my parents.
I’ve never been so mad at them. They didn’t like who I was. It was insulting, offensive, hurtful. I expected more from them (or at least from my mother). At one point, I stopped speaking to both of them for sixty-two days, which for me was quite the feat. I’m a champion chatterer. I literally had to bite my tongue at times to stop myself from talking to Mom.
Before Chan, Mom and I were the best of girlfriends. We could hang together without getting all shrill on each other, like she does with my sisters. I listened endlessly to her litany of complaints, unlike either of my sisters, both of whom are way too self-consumed to ever bother with someone else’s issues.
During the “Silent Talks,” as I fondly refer to those sixty-two days, I would e-mail or text in emergencies. Otherwise, my lips were sealed. It broke my mother’s heart. She went into therapy herself. Eventually, Chan told my parents that I was fine. Not the least bit “confused or conflicted.” And the sessions ended. I’m here, I’m queer, get used to it. And they have, mostly.
I knew Mom would come around, but Dad surprised me. He’s a little bit to the right of Attila the Hun. It’s a minor miracle how well we’re getting on these days, considering who and what he is—a Republican to the core. I think he came out of the womb in khakis and a blue blazer. His great-great-great-great-grandparents came over on the Mayflower. He was in an eating club at Princeton. He is so white, they’ve named a shade of Benjamin Moore paint after him (Bright, Uptight White #7). He runs a private equity firm that specializes in crushing the spirit of middle management. He buys companies, strips them of all their employees, and then sells off their assets, leaving people unemployed, hapless, and helpless, all in the name of making money. Lots of it. It’s kind
of unconscionable. And yet, I blithely live off the proceeds, which kind of makes me hate myself at times. But the alternative, not living off it, is a nonstarter.
Despite it all, Dad and I have come to terms with the fact that we are inextricably father and son. We’re loving each other the best we can. It’s not always a perfect scenario, but what is?
I’m coming up empty-handed on the Kylie front, and starting to feel frustrated, when a red dress calls to me from the hanger. I hold it up to my body and immediately feel I’ve found a friend. It’s a T-shirt style and surprisingly demure, despite the fact that it’s screaming red sequins. It’s not too plunging, not too short. It would show off Kylie’s curves without strangling them. I love it immediately. It’s the perfect podium look. It says, “I’m smart, chic, and sassy. Call me.”
The problem is, Kylie’s not really a red sequins kind of girl. Or a dress girl. Kylie’s not really an anything kind of girl. She is an extremely fluid concept. For once, I’m happy she’s not here, negative nabobing in my ear. I’m inclined to buy one for her and one for me. We should show up to graduation in matching red sequins. It would sure give Freiburg something to remember.
I throw on a black chain necklace, very eighties. And spiky black patent heels.
Ding ding ding. We. Have. Got. A. Winner. People.
I exit the dressing room to admire the look I’ve just curated, ignoring the tweaky stares I’m getting from tweens and their moms. I stand in front of the three-way, staring at myself from every angle, which is when it hits me. I’m actually kind of over the whole cross-dressing thing. At first it was fun—lots of shock and awe, which was a kick. But lately it’s been less satisfying as people have become slowly inured to my look.
Girls’ clothes feel different on the body. They cling, they hug, and they drape. It’s sexy and pleasurable to have a different relationship to fabric, but I’m kind of starting to miss the fit and feel of a finely tailored men’s suit. Nothing like a European-cut Tom Ford to make you feel dapper. The honest truth is, I like stylish men’s clothes as much as the next guy. Maybe even more than I like women’s clothes. Maybe it’s time for a change. Maybe I don’t have to shove my gayness down everyone’s throat. Maybe I should consider the possibility of a suit at graduation. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. The kid needs to give this one a good think.
The one thing I do know is that Kylie absolutely must wear this dress. It rocks.
“Will Bixby, what the hell are you doing?”
I turn around to see Lily Wentworth staring at me. She is wearing the exact same dress. Stokely Eagleton hovers behind her like some kind of military helicopter, ready to whisk her away in case of emergency.
Lily Wentworth? What is she doing slumming at Forever 21? She’s such a label whore.
“What’s wrong with you? You look totally gay,” Lily says.
“I am totally gay, Lily,” I remind her. “I’m buying it for Kylie.”
“I don’t think so. I’m buying this for graduation, so you might as well just put yours back,” Lily insists, like she’s the boss of me or something.
Stokely nods in solemn affirmation, as though the word of God has just been handed down.
I am suddenly back to wanting to shove my gayness right up Lily’s ass, along with the stick that’s been in there for a while now. So much for the suit.
“Kylie will be wearing it to graduation. Deal with it.” I flash Lily a toothy grin just because I know it will drive the knife even deeper. “If I were you, I’d find something a little more…forgiving. Maybe try the plus sizes or something.”
Lily doesn’t say anything. She just glares at me. I turn and sashay back into the dressing room like I’m working the runway.
“Does this make me look fat, Stokes?” I can hear Lily asking. Mess with me, beyatch, and I will mess you up.
“Not at all. You’re a size two. It looks great on you. He’s just jealous. He knows you’ll totally show up Kylie if you wear the same dress. I mean, Kylie Flores? Please,” Stokely says.
“You’re right. Besides, who cares what weird Will Bixby thinks, anyway?”
“Totally,” Stokely echoes.
Man, I hate Lily Wentworth. I can’t believe we were best friends in kindergarten. What was I thinking? I walk out of the dressing room, firmly clutching my red dress, and march over to Lily, getting all up in her grille. I am so over being called a loser.
“Hey, Lily, shouldn’t you be at Dolce or Prada?” Lily noticeably flinches. I’ve hit a nerve. “I mean, wearing a dress from Forever 21? Everything all right at home?”
Mom and Ms. Wentworth are friends from The Casino, a hideous tennis, golf, and swim club that I haven’t dared to set foot in since sixth grade. They play doubles together every week. There was a juicy tidbit of gossip that Mom let slip to Dad over dinner last week. It seems the Wentworths haven’t paid their club bill in months. Looks like someone’s family is having financial troubles. Oh, the horror.
“Go to hell, Will,” Lily says. And it’s bingo, baby. Something is definitely up over at the Wentworths’. Has Daddy gone bust?
I wave and smile as I strut off.
Mission accomplished.
e are going to die. For a fraction of a second, the four of us stare at each other. I’m sure the two guys are trying to figure out what the hell we were doing in the truck. Max and I share a quick look, both scrambling for a Plan B. We have no idea where we are or what we’re doing. There’s no one around. And we have absolutely no time to think, so it’s not much of a plan—more of an instinctive desire not to die—when we simultaneously turn and dart back up the street, running for our lives. The two guys take off after us. We don’t stand much of a chance. Max catches my eye, and for the briefest instant we are connected. I know it’s utterly inappropriate and odd, and yet I can’t help but think that it’s the first time I’ve connected to someone from Freiburg other than Will. My mind is a strange place. Even stranger when faced with imminent death.
When my computer was snatched, I had a moment to consider whether going after it was a good idea. The same could be said when I crawled into the back of the truck; I could have walked away. That’s not the case now. This is it. The end. I look back at the men—they’re closing in on us. And then I remember something. The keys are still in the truck. The keys are still in the truck. Oh my God. No way! A minor miracle. I don’t usually have the best luck, nor do I believe in fate or God watching over me. But I may have to rethink my position on all that, because there, on the dash, is a gift from…someone. I sprint toward the truck.
For the second time today someone has left keys in their vehicle and I am carjacking. I don’t have time to figure out the larger implication of this. Maybe it just means people are idiots. Or I have a bright future in car theft.
Max isn’t reacting. It’s like someone turned off his radar and he’s not picking up signals. I grab his arm and pull him toward the truck. He’s moving as if by rote, following me as a last resort. My being in charge must be pretty cold comfort to him.
I’m terrified. Nonetheless, my synapses are firing on all cylinders. I know exactly what to do. Even though I’ve never been in this situation, something about it feels familiar. I’ve been training for this moment most of my life. Obsessively watching and writing action movies just might save my life today. And Max’s.
I jump into the truck and start it up. Max hops in shotgun. As soon as I turn on the engine, the guys charge us like a hurricane. We slam the doors shut. I jerk the gearshift into reverse. We buck backward. Shit! How do you drive this thing? My budding confidence starts to ebb.
The short guy grabs on to Max’s door and tries to pry it open. He’s screaming in Spanish. Max presses down the lock and pulls the door toward him for good measure.
“Forward. Go forward,” Max yells, as if I don’t know that.
“I’m trying!” I scream.
Shit! The gear is stuck. As I wrestle with the gearshift, the tall guy reaches through the open window and tries
to pull my hand off the wheel. I let out a kind of animalistic, guttural screech. It doesn’t even sound like it’s coming from my mouth. And then, without thinking, I smash my fist into the guy’s face. It’s right out of a Jet Li movie. It’s like I’ve been body-snatched. The guy falls back, grabbing his face. His nose is bleeding. I’ve just bought us a few crucial seconds.
Max thrusts his hand on top of mine and throws the gear into drive. I hit the gas. We plow forward, crunching the bumper off the car in front of us and nearly swiping several parked cars. I have never, in my life, punched someone. Sure, I’ve screamed at people during one of my angry spells. But nothing like this. I slammed this guy with a fury and force I had no idea I possessed. I’m equal parts scared and excited by my newfound powers. I’d almost believe I’m part superhero if my hand weren’t pulsing with pain.
Out of my peripheral vision I see Max gaping at me, as stunned as I am. We are both silent. This is no time to talk.
I keep the pedal to the metal as we career down the street. In the rearview mirror I see the two guys chasing after us. They’re receding into the distance. They’ll never make it on foot. Miraculously, we have survived. Against absolutely the worst odds imaginable.
We are moving at a pretty fast clip when I suddenly realize that the street is about to end. I nearly crash into an old man selling food from a metal cart. I jerk the wheel hard to the right. We hug the corner. The truck lurches dangerously to the left, threatening to overturn. Max slides into me. I slow down a little and the truck rights itself.
“Just keep driving,” Max tells me.
“What did you think I was going to do? Stop for an enchilada?”
“Who knows? You’re pretty unpredictable.” A smile creeps up the side of Max’s face.
Max isn’t so bad. As it turns out, neither am I. I just saved our lives, by the way.
From What I Remember Page 8