Choir Boy

by Unknown Author

  “No problem,” Berry said. “It wasn’t your fault. I’ve got a lot of stuff to crunch. I need to know about work.” “Work sucks. Why do you think I became a consultant instead of getting a real job? But doing what you love for money is aces,” Gray Redman seemed to recite rote phrases. “Uh huh.”

  “Most people work. A few lucky ones practice active dreaming. But you’re young. It’s never too late to start finding that dream job, unless it’s ballet dancer. But it could be too early in your case. Most kids your age have no clue. I’ve talked to enough classrooms full of kids who think they’ll be doctors when they’ll really be Amway reps. So what’s the rush?”

  “You offered to help. And I have deadlines.”

  “Deadlines are for dead people. Finish your work early and hit the beach. Or do more work, if it’s your dream job.” “I already have my dream.” Berry told Gray Redman about the choir and his pills. “If I became a woman, what would I do?”

  “Get a mammogram every year after forty. Oh, you meant career wise. I don’t know. Much the same as if you stayed a guy. So right now you have this awesome gig with Gloria and Hallelujah and Kyrie and pass the collection plate.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Religion is big business. Ten billion last year.” Berry didn’t ask ten billion of what, and Gray Redman didn’t say. “So you’re a child star, sort of. What you need is a mentor.” “I have a ton of mentors,” Berry said. This started to look like a waste of time. “They all say different things.”

  “Mentors are like that. Okay, kid. I need to do some leg-work. What you need is someone who has the kind of job you’d like to have. Then he or she can tell you how to get there.” Berry started to protest that he didn’t know what job he wanted, but Gray Redman waved a hand. “We’ll try a few things, huh? Opera singers, torch singers, wedding singers. Whatever. We’ll have a mini career day for you, introduce you to some people. Check back on Monday.” Berry thanked Gray Redman with as much happy as he could force-feed his voice. He’d let himself think the consultant would have some magic solution. Instead, it sounded like they’d fumble in the dark until Gray’s guilt stopped fucking him.

  Berry wandered the city for an hour or two. He didn’t feel like calling Maura, and Lisa was still at school. He wandered into a magazine stand and looked at Sixteen and a Half and Teeneurosis, the magazines Lisa had shown him. The articles on makeovers and boyfriends in Sixteen and a Half bewildered Berry and the magazine seemed too old for him. Teeneurosis looked a little easier to figure out. It had makeup stuff that made sense, Berry could see himself using eye shadow and eyeliner to draw attention to his dark eyes. He mentally twirled in one of the magazine’s fall dresses, a gray number with pink trim. Berry found an advice column called “Girlfriend, You Better Deal” by Gwen Indoubt.

  Gwen seemed to handle mostly boyfriend problems. He won’t kiss me, he wants to go all the way, he treats me weird around his friends. But she also answered questions about other stuff: I’m too fat, I’m a tomboy, I don’t like boys, I’m too nerdy. Gwen gave every question the same cheery tone. She didn’t scorn the fat protodykes any more than the girls who wanted to be seen with the popular boys but not touch them. Her answer to everybody was the same; do what shakes your tree the most. She seemed way nicer than the sarcastic columnist in Sixteen and a Half, Greta Clue. Greta dissed everybody.

  The saleswaif at the magazine store seemed not to care if Berry read a whole magazine twice without paying. Berry noticed that the masthead said Teeneurosis had offices downtown, not too far from Gray Redman’s. Berry used a toothpick to scratch the address into the back of his left hand, where it soon faded.

  Berry tossed the slightly dog-eared Teeneurosis back on the rack and ran to the street, where he struggled to recall the address. It took him a while to find one slanty glass building among a dozen, and then longer to figure out that Advantage Point Publishing meant Teeneurosis. He ran up the stairs to the third floor and arrived at the carpet-walled suite still gasping.

  “Pm—huh—looking for Gwen Indoubt,” Berry panted. The woman at reception stared at him through cat glasses. Her jet black hair squirmed in a bun. She looked nothing like the Teeneurosis girls. “My name’s Berry. I’m thirteen years old and I need advice.”

  The woman reached under her desk and handed Berry a list of resources for teens in the area, including GLBT rap groups and services for the homeless and drug-ragged. “This is what there is.”

  “I just wanted to ask Gwen. I won’t bug her.”

  “There is no Gwen. It’s a pen name. Whoever leaves the most dishes in the office sink writes the column each month. But feel free to send a letter and—”

  “Berry! It’s Berry, right?” A blond head with red streaks poked through the office door behind the desk. It took Berry a second to recognize Anna Conventional in a suit. She’d almost have blended in with the people on the street, except for the dye job and sun-and-moon earrings. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for Gwen Indoubt, who doesn’t exist. What are you doing here?”

  “I work here. Actually, I write most of Gwen’s material. I’m a slob in the office kitchen.”

  “I thought you were an accountant or something.” “Managing editor and staffer.”

  “Jane, do you know this kid?” the receptionist said. “Berry’s the cutest choirboy this side of Vienna. So what did you want to ask Gwen about?”

  Anna Conventional held open the inner door for Berry to follow her into a maze of fuzzy walls you could see over if you stood on tiptoe. A woman in tartan threw a pencil at Berry when he craned over her wall. The walls curved around tiny ledges holding computers and phones, and chairs nestled inside the nooks. In some of them, people talked and typed.

  Berry didn’t trust anyone whose name changed so often. (Anna, Gwen, or Jane?) But he let the woman lead him into her small windowless office and plunk him on a stool with a view of the grilly back of her computer monitor and her poster of the city at night. “I can’t believe you write dating advice,” Berry said. “I’ve seen you and your boyfriend.” “Ex-boyfriend.” Anna Conventional laughed. “It’s easier to give advice than to live it. Did you have fun at the Wasteness?” Berry shrugged. “Everybody liked you, especially Bishop Bacchus. You’re pretty connected in the alternative scene for a choirboy.”

  “I don’t know if I’m still a choirboy.” Berry started to cry from who knows where. He hadn’t cried in years, and hadn’t expected to. Once he started he couldn’t stop. His face soaked. He wondered if the girl pills had turned him rawer inside. Anna/Jane gasped, grabbed a box of tissues, and thrust it at Berry. He took one. She threshed his hair with a few fingers.

  “Hey,” Anna/Jane said. “Hey.”

  “Sorry,” Berry sniffed. “I never do this.”

  “’Sokay. You should see the freelancers when I kill their stories. So what’s the sitch?”

  For the umpteenth time, Berry told his story. Anna seemed fascinated, especially by the “gossip” about Maura. “I always knew that girl was a freak recruiter,” she said.

  When Berry was done, Anna Conventional threw her hands up. “Shit, kid. Clueless equals me. If you wrote all that in a letter, I’d wash my dishes on time for a whole month. Look, as far as I’m concerned you ought to be able to have everything you want while you’re young, because the world shrinks when you get older. Be a choirboy. Be a diva. Be a football star. Whatever. I get so sick of hearing from kids who think they have to pick one clique or self-image.”

  Anna Conventional didn’t sound as peppy as Gwen. Berry must have looked disappointed, because she tried to cheer him. “So Maura wants to pretty you up and take you out. Well, I know she can be kind of intense one-on-one, and I have a lot of free evenings since Robbie took off on his underwater tantric vision quest. Hang on, I’ll see what she’s doing.” Anna Conventional had Maura on speed dial. “Hey. It’s me. I got your boy here. How many boys you got? Berry. Duh. No, he’s not a girl. Not yet, anyway. Dude. Dude. Lis
ten to me. Dude. You’re in bed with who? Whatever. Listen, what are you doing tonight? Cancel. We’ll meet you at the Metro K. You and Berry. I’m playing buffer. Yeah. Yeah. See ya.”

  Berry protested, but Jane—acting more and more like Anna Conventional every moment—shushed him. “What’s your parents’ number?” Berry told it. She dialed. “Hi. Is this Berry’s mom? Great. Great. This is Jane Willbury, managing editor of Teeneurosis Magazine. That’s right. Yes. I’m a friend of Berry’s. He didn’t? I’m sure he has lots of friends. Yes. I know all about that. That’s why I’m calling. I’m giving Berry some pointers. No, he won’t be in the magazine. He probably won’t be back tonight. I have a pull-out bed. Don’t worry. Really. I’m a trained advice columnist. No. No hard drugs. No human sacrifice. I promise. Right. You’ll see him tomorrow, a happier and better-adjusted Berry. Fine. Okay. Buh.”

  After she hung up, Anna Conventional turned to Berry. “They’re fine. Oh, and I want some before-and-afters of the makeover. No biggie. You won’t have to sign a model release, they’re just for my stash.” Berry blinked. “So what’s this about Maura being in bed with a minister?”

  Anna Conventional got off work early and donned a fake leopard skin coat and pink fuzzy hat over her business drag. Maura wore a black tube dress that started below her armpits and went to mid-thigh, plus a shiny belt. Berry couldn’t tell what held the strapless dress up. Maura’s hair flowed up in a big swoosh around her rhinestone bow, Anna Conventional and Maura bought Berry dinner at the Metro K, a yuppie-ish after-work joint with sandwiches and salads on its menu, named after famous actors or old noodle-stretching tycoons. Berry had a burger and fries. “You’re lucky,” Maura told Berry. “You can eat anything at your age and it doesn’t live on your ass.” Both Maura and Anna Conventional ate salads.

  The entire dinner conversation consisted of Berry’s makeover. “I’d say some gel for her hair,” Anna said. They both used the female pronoun for Berry after a while. “Maybe some red highlights, they’ll wash out. Luckily there’s almost no body hair.”

  The two women could go for ten minutes saying nothing but names of beauty products.

  “Colorbust by Lavienne!” Anna exclaimed.

  “Lustrelash by Cosmetique!” Maura shouted back.

  Berry just ate his burger and fries and let the product litany go by. Maura turned to him and said: “Hon, your eyelashes are going to be longer and thicker than your intestines. That’s a promise.”

  “Eating,” Berry mumbled.

  Dinner was over too soon. They sped him back to Anna Conventional’s apartment, a converted warehouse loft. Anna’s apartment was bigger than Berry’s parents’ but he saw no sign she shared it with anyone. The front room had a sofabed, where Berry would crash. It had a nice glass coffee table with glossy mags, mostly Anna’s, on them. Every wall and some of the ceiling showed off paintings by artists Anna Conventional knew, including one huge painting by Bishop Bacchus of a warrior clown impaling a sacred prostitute on the spike of a condom-shaped umbrella. Anna Conventional and Maura hustled him to the bathroom.

  “What’s first?” Maura said.

  “First she bathes. Kid’s gotta smell nice and have soft skin. Berry, I want you to take a long bubble bath and use every single one of the oils and gels on my shower caddy. Okay? Don’t skip any. In the meantime, where’d I put my bong?”

  Berry did what Anna Conventional said. As the bathtub filled, Berry felt in his joints the fact that the choir was rehearsing without him. What had Mr. Allen told the choir? That Berry was sick? That he had a schedule clash? Or that he was mid-change into a freak of science?

  Berry poured a finger each out of a dozen bottles into the tub, including shampoos and exfoliants. He sank in up to his hair. The smell reminded him of the incense-and-booze-doused Twelve Step room during the coed sleepover a few weeks ago. A bottle spun in Berry’s mind, not stopping for anyone, spinning forever until the people around it blurred, boys and girls, into an unkissable mystery.

  “Well, I’ll be fucked to bleeding. She fell asleep. Kid, did you fall asleep?” Anna Conventional sounded less alert than earlier.

  “Not asleep,” Berry said. “Just thinking.”

  “Can you think and wash your hair at the same time? Moisturizing shampoo, then a little conditioner.” Anna Conventional didn’t seem too interested in Berry’s nakedness under all the foam. She picked over several shelves of beauty stuff while Berry showered, rinsed, and conditioned.

  “You’re lucky I’m here,” Anna Conventional told Berry as she did his hair with gel, a hot curling iron, and a blow dryer. Berry’s hair had never looked so big. His head had exploded. “If it was just Maura giving you a makeover, she’d go overboard with the cosmetics. Don’t tell her I said that. She thinks if one layer is good, ten must be better.”

  “I heard that,” Maura said.

  Berry dried off and wrapped himself in a fluffy bathrobe. Maura didn’t see Berry naked, not that it probably mattered. For the next hour or so—it felt like fifteen million sermons—Maura and Anna Conventional worked on Berry’s face with brushes, pads, and fuzzy pipe cleaners. Berry’s job was to look straight ahead, or up, or to one side, to open his mouth, or close it, as they directed.

  “You know,” Maura said. “Canon Moosehead is a great guy. I found him sensitive and caring, and a hell of a kisser.” “You kissed Canon Moosehead?” Berry jerked forward. Anna Conventional restrained him with one hand while brushing with the other.

  “No moving,” Anna Conventional said.

  “Fie was very upset,” Maura said. “We talked it over. He’s a wronged individual, I gotta tell you. So I comforted him.” “How . . . how much comfort did you end up giving him?” Berry smudged his lipstick.

  “Oh, a fair amount. You gotta save something for the second date, ya know.”

  “Second! You mean—”

  “Sunday night. He gets so strung out after services.” “Does he know . . . that you’re . . . about your ...”

  “Ya know, not sure. You think it matters?”

  Anna Conventional puffed flour in Berry’s face. He sneezed. “Hey, watch that. No olfactory responses until your face is in place.” Berry tried to hold his breath. “So isn’t this Canon guy some kind of pew-kisser? So he should be Reverend Tolerance, right?”

  “Uh,” Berry said. “Before he started busting stiffies, Canon Moosehead was pretty uptight.”

  “Maybe he’s mellowed out. Trouble broadens the mind. I gotta say, Maur, your life thing is really trippy, it’s like the ultimate life as art trip, or maybe art as life. I dunno,” said Anna Conventional.

  “Speaking of art,” Maura said, “you think she’s about done?”

  “Give me a few more minutes,” Anna said, concentrating. “God, I wish I could put this in the magazine. We’d win a Pulitzer for makeover-related journalism.”

  “They have a Pulitzer for makeovers?” Maura said.

  “Or maybe it’s just a Nobel Prize. I forget.”

  Berry just resigned himself to being putty and letting the two of them work on him. He didn’t go back to sleep, but he did drift into a space where nothing mattered. Makeovers seemed to be haircuts times ten.

  Finally, Anna Conventional nodded to Maura, who grabbed a mirror and plunked it in front of Berry. The image looked unlike anything Berry had seen in the mirror before. It was like that moment, a year after Berry joined the choir, when he’d first figured out the tiny face he saw was his own, and that he was a separate person like the other people he saw everywhere, and not some disembodied vantage point. Except, this time, he saw an alien supermodel instead of himself.

  “Oh my God,” Berry breathed.

  The person facing him had fascinating dark eyes and proud cheekbones, a pouty but not bratty mouth, and feathery black hair. As a boy, Berry could never approach a girl like the one he saw. The hormones had furnished the raw material for this candy face, not just tits but also softer features.

  “Nice,” Maura said. “Definite
Pulitzer material.”

  “I went for subtle,” Anna Conventional said.

  “Hey, my third or fourth middle name is subtle.”

  “Now it’s just a matter of clothes,” Anna Conventional said. “We want something that shows off that bust and those hips, without necessarily making too much of a big deal out of his doohickey.”

  “I don’t suppose we could tuck it,” Maura said. Berry wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded hideous. He and Anna both shot Maura dirty looks. She tossed up her hands. “Fine, fine.”

  They made Berry try on a few trillion of Anna Conventional’s dresses and blouse/skirt combos. He got twitchy by the time they settled on a purply-blue stretchy dress with a low-cut front, leading to stretchy lycra over the tummy and then a foofy gathered skirt made of some kind of tulle. “Yes,” Anna said. “Yes, yes, yes, definitely yes. I haven’t worn this since Bush the first. You gotta be skinny to pull this baby off.”

  Berry stared at the debutante in the mirror in the frilly low-cut dress and bare feet. She looked glamorous and untouchable, but also vulnerable. Shy and anxious for someone to shield her from the world. A soft minx whom some man could, should, come and possess. Berry felt inadequate to take care of the girl in the mirror. She needed a powerful man, not the boy who blinked at her loveliness. Where had Maura and Anna found the lushness they’d grafted onto Berry’s skin?

  “Wow,” Berry said. “I can’t believe this is me. I mean, wow. Gotta admit, I’m impressed. Blown away, even.” Anna Conventional took a bow. “So can I take it all off now?”

  “Are you insane?” Anna Conventional laughed, scandalized. “We must take you out on the town. You had your snow tires fitted, now you gotta be road tested.”

  “She’s just nervous,” Maura said* stroking the back of Berry’s neck. “God, I’ve waited ages for this. It’s Okay, Berry. It’ll be fine.”

  “Nerves have nothing to do with it,” Berry twirled in front of the mirror despite his reservations. He practiced tossing his head with a smile. “If someone from school or choir sees me like this, I’m fucking dead.” The girl in the mirror pouted. Berry wanted to kiss her.