People pushed to catch a glimpse of the new boy in the mascara and lip gloss and too-tight satin pants that now seemed gayer than gay. Students jumped and jostled and jockeyed for position. They hung from lockers and clung to poles, straining to see for themselves the homo in the pirate outfit.
A flick, a fleck, a rip, a tear . . . getting bigger, growing wider. . . .
IX.V
LET’S LISTEN
“There he is.”
“Look at that freak.”
“What is it?”
“That’s disgusting!”
“Shit, man, it’s a guy!”
“What the fuck!”
“Gross!”
“He should be shot.”
“Look, Joey, it’s your girlfriend.”
“Isn’t that the guy from Access Hollywood?”
“Holy shit!”
“Get out of the way, faggot.”
“Look at that.”
“We’re being attacked by butt pirates!”
“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”
“Don’t touch him—he probably has AIDS.”
“Faggot.”
“Homo.”
“Cocksucker.”
“Weirdo.”
“Is that MASCARA?”
“I don’t get it.”
“Why do you dress like that?”
“Where do you find an outfit like that?”
“Just ignore it—maybe it will go away.”
“What does his mother think?”
“Not from around here, I’m guessing.”
“Since when is this a school for homos?”
“Are the Queer Eyes filming here?”
“People like you make me wanna puke.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Why do you dress like that?”
“Where do you find an outfit like that?”
“That’s so tired.”
“Hey, watch this: Wanna suck my dick, faggot?”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck off.”
“Die, faggot.”
“Can I take your picture?”
“I must be tripping.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Quit looking at me.”
“What are you looking at faggot?”
“Let’s get out of here.”
X
ANOTHER HOUR, ANOTHER HUMILIATION
Next class: American lit.
Only a slight improvement.
Terror Level: Downgraded to Orange. Mild-to-moderate fag bashing expected.
The breakdown: No football players, thank God. In fact, almost no boys at all. Just the Ladies Who Lynch.
The marauding cheerleaders were here, looking like grim assassins (Are they at least cheery on the field?), as well as a sizable presence of the Muffy Mafia (DEATH WEARS DUCK BOOTS!), and a small-but-poisonous clutch of DebuTAUNTERS.
The biggest turnout, however, seemed to be of Bible Belles, those overly scrubbed Christian girls whose headbands are purposely a bit tight (“Pain is the cleanser! Pain is the cleanser!”), and who obviously picked this class for its Puritan studies. Well, of course. Hester Prynne, Cotton Mather, “Sinners at the Hands of an Angry God”—nothing like a bit of hellfire to chase away those impure thoughts. But don’t be fooled by the crosses around their necks; these girls are the coldest of all the cold-blooded killers here today. The worst of the bunch. Because when they’re being hateful, they’re being hateful for God.
That means there would be no foot-in-the-back attacks or barrage of booger balls here. Instead, this Estrogen Block intends to systematically wear me down with an aggressive campaign of withering looks, hissing whispers, and echoes of “ew.”
Ah, but I was an hour wiser now.
There would be no shrieking, double-day-Glo fag attack this time. No wild-eyed theatrical outbursts to give them ammunition. I’ve learned my lesson. Save the ra-sha-sha “Life is a banquet” crap for a more swish-indulgent crowd. . . . From now on, I keep my mouth SHUT.
I chose a quiet corner desk and tried to become one with the potted ferns. Now, if I only dress in brick-patterned clothing for the rest of the year . . .
It started almost immediately.
I could see much squirming and making of faces and pointing at me and shrieking in disgust.
“Well, it’s just so groooooooooooooooss!”
“I knoooooooooooooow!”
“Would you ever?”
“Ewwwwwwwwwww!”
“Mumble mumble . . . anal sex . . .”
ALL: “EWWWWWWWWWWWW!”
“Mumble mumble . . . poo . . .”
ALL: “GROOOOOOOOOOSSS!”
A pretty blond cheerleader, the first I’ve seen smiling, came over to me, shyly. “I’m Tiff,” she said.
“I’m Billy,” I said warily.
“We were all just wondering”—giggle, giggle—“do you eat poo?” And every girl SHRIEKED with laughter as Tiff raced back to her seat, clearly having accomplished her dare.
I was too shocked to answer, but I blushed as though I had just been caught eating some, in fact, at that very moment.
They ROARED and repeated and replayed the scenario over and over. “She asked HIM!” “She asked if he eats poo!” “He didn’t say no!” “Tiff, you are so BAD!” “You are BAD, Tiff Tarbell!” “Oh my Gaaaaaad!”
I should have told them off. I should have said something witty or wicked or clever or assertive. I should have done something. Anything. Instead, I did nothing.
I sometimes think I’m too delicate for this world.
And then just to make sure I didn’t confuse our little conversation as a genuine overture toward friendship, Tiff called me a fag as she walked to the pencil sharpener.
Sweet.
Oh, I am learning to dislike these cheerleaders (or as I think of them, Future Former Cheerleaders). I know they’re just stupid swamp girls with dirty minds and hate-filled hearts, and they aren’t worth the effort, but GODDAMN, do I dislike them.
I closed my eyes and quietly seethed.
Cheer now, Miss Perkybottom, I thought, with your pom-poms and panties on parade.
Cheer now Miss Life-of-every-party, Miss Girl-with-the-most-cake.
Because I have seen the ghost of your Christmas future, and it’s in a housedress, watching Passions with a cat named Touchdown. You are in for quite a comedown, my leggy tormenters.
For you I see:
Early marriage, early motherhood.
Lost dreams, and a lost midriff.
Boobs drooping with your spirits.
Yes, yes. It’s all saddlebags and sweat pants, for all you pretty girls.
Yes, yes, I hope all you mad cows are enjoying yourselves, because time will take my vengeance for me. . . .
XI
AND SO ON
And so on.
The rest of the day passed like molasses.
There was another class. Then another.
Each one a separate hell.
For instance: by the end of lunch, I didn’t even feel the hot, steady thud of the Tater-Tots that carpet-bombed my back. But as I got up to leave, I estimated about seventy of them on the ground. Shocking how little adult supervision there really is in high school, huh?
NOTE TO SELF: Lunch in the library tomorrow.
Each class was basically different configurations of the same rooty-tooty, rich-and-snooty kids. A few footballers, a few cheerleaders, a few beauty queens, but in less potent combinations than what I saw in biology class, so they were increasingly unfocused, and their anger was diffused.
Still, when the final bell rang, I thought to myself: Well, that didn’t go well AT ALL.
It was like Pleasantville. But not pleasant AT ALL.
Oh, and in case you were wondering? There is no Gay-Straight Alliance at the Eisenhower Academy. No surprise there. When I went to the front office to inquire, I was informed by a snooty office lady that there has never been a homosexual student in this
school, so the issue never came up.
(ROLLS EYES.)
XII
Flossie was outside waiting for me when the final bell rang.
“How did it go?” she asked when I got in the car.
“Fine,” I bluffed.
“I told you to change.” She called my bluff, and flicked a few paper wads from my hair.
Sigh. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“How bad?”
“I gave them the full Liza. The whole Minnelli. The varsity football team might never recover. Even the fat girls hate me.”
Flossie laughed, because really, when it comes right down to it, she hates me, too. Oh, yeah. Truly. Deeply. Just loathes me.
We drove in silence the rest of the way home. Never thought I would call it home, and never thought I’d be so excited to see it again.
But there you are, and there it was.
Yes, there! In the distance!
The house! The house!
My home!
A few words ought to be said about it. Yes, it’s time to tell you about the house now.
Tucked away in the tony South Summit part of town, at the end of a hidden cul-de-sac, on a little peninsula that juts out like a finger in the water. Yes, there! On the banks of the New River Canal, HOME! And its Gothic glamour never fails to surprise me.
It’s an estate, but of course we never call it that. That would be vulgar. No whimsical name for it, either. No “Riverbloom” or “Bloom’s Glory.” No, no, no. It’s always just “The House,” even though it actually consists of two houses and a gardener’s cottage. “The Compound” might be more apt, but no, that, too, would be trying too hard. Just THE HOUSE.
The first house past the gates is the spooky old guesthouse, long since abandoned. It’s built in the classic “haunted plantation” style—pillars, porticoes, gingerbread balconies, and verandas—you know: the works. It used to be the main house, back when my grandparents were alive. Back then, see, WE lived in the guesthouse, but as we continued to live there even after both grandparents died, and because we kept adding on various breakfast rooms and game rooms and Florida rooms and sundecks and so on and so forth, eventually IT became known as the main house, and the old main house was relegated to guesthouse status. Got that?
Our house, THE house, is farther down the drive, right around the bend, just up ahead. It rises forth like a mad LEGO experiment spun horribly out of control, or a giant human Habitrail. It’s a holy hodgepodge of conflicting periods and styles and colors. There’s a little bit of everything: Italian gazebos! Faux-Japanese gardens! An African tree house! There are imposing Corinthian columns up front, a couple of turrets up above, and over there, a great glassed patio.
Inside, it is a home without a center. To the first-time visitor it can seem like a mindless and frustrating maze. Rooms lead into other rooms that lead into forgotten little half-rooms, which might suddenly open up onto a hallway that goes nowhere. It’s a dizzying, disorienting place, and if you ever visit, leave bread crumbs.
There are several different “upstairs” areas. One is on the north side, where my father’s master bedroom is, as well as his gym, and the various guest rooms and other little dens and studies and blah blah blah. On the west side, there is another second floor, but that one is mostly just used for storage now, or as hiding places for visiting boogeymen. The last upstairs area is located in the south tower. That’s my bedroom.
It’s accessible only through a nondescript doorway in the back of the house, which is pretty far off the beaten track. You really have to go looking for it. Even if you do, odds are, you’ll get lost, or disoriented, or dehydrated, and miss the door altogether.
My room is my womb. A Look Factory! An International Style Laboratory, My Fortress of Attitude! It’s the secret lair where I cook up my new revolutionary styles to unleash on the world. . . .
Littered about: dozens of half-finished and forgotten experiments, loose ends, ideas that sounded good in theory but sucked out loud when stitched together.
On the bed: odds and ends and bits and bows and cuffs and capes and clogs and cocktail rings and helicopter hats and whore hose. Look—a basket of strudel-flutes. What do you suppose they are?
Costumes, my God, I’ve got your costumes right here! A quick inventory: I have a cocktail olive, a glittery green artichoke, a banana, a gay cockroach, a patent-leather mermaid, a couple of different chicken outfits, a can of Coke, as well as all the fixin’s for milkmaids, hula girls, geishas, and an eight-armed Vishnu.
Back in Connecticut, I would wear these costumes to the weekly surrealist parties my friends and I would give (where we feasted on barbecued baseballs, porcelain potato salad, and black button stew served on broken shards of glass). And—hoo doggy!—do I miss those days. Funny how a whole world can just slip down the drain, plip plop, like it never happened at all. My old friends don’t even return e-mails anymore.
(CHOKE.)
ANYWAY. Where were we? Oh yes, these costumes.
I doubt I’ll be getting much wear out of them here, but see, I’m stockpiling them for when I move to Manhattan and become an instant cult icon. I plan on wearing them all day, every day, as a matter of course. To the grocery store. The gym. The Department of Motor Vehicles. And why not? Who’s going to stop me? You?
By then, my fashion influence will be so great that it will kick-start a national craze for foam vegetable outfits. But by the time Old Navy co-opts it, with Morgan Fairchild in a beaded kumquat outfit for the commercial, I will be way beyond that, of course. I’ll be into the post-apocalyptic ragpicker look or whatever the well-dressed Martian microbes are wearing that year.
But whatever the inspiration, rest assured, I will be blazing my own fashion trail.
Skroddle ho!
XIII
Once home, I scarfed down fourteen of Flossie’s pecan scotchies and promptly fell back down the rabbit hole. I closed the shades, double-locked the door, and crawled into the cupboard beneath the sink. I stayed there for almost three days (okay, possibly an hour), drifting in and out of reality. I’ve never felt so low. I remember Flossie tossing in another pecan scotchie during a particularly bad stretch. She cares so much.
Everything is different.
Everything has changed.
I didn’t know people were like that. I just didn’t know.
I saw a whole new world today. It’s horrible. Hateful. Danger is everywhere. Everyone is out to get me.
I feel like I’m made of glass. I’m afraid you can see right through me. And if I go back, if I have to face that kind of shame again, I just might shatter into a million pieces.
Suddenly, I’m scared of everything. Everything.
THE SLIPPERY SLOPE OF DESPAIR.
I’m afraid of rednecks and hate-mongers and cheerleaders and certain doom. I worry about alligators, bad clams, and booger pudding. ALSO: malaria, cannibals, and antiheroes. I’m afraid of those eerie Oompah Loompahs—who are they really, and where did they come from?
Can I go on?
Lord help me, I’m scared of pickles and pinworms. Earwigs and earthquakes. Spinning meat. Land sharks . . . sea cucumbers . . . cooties, killer bees, and hissing cockroaches—I MEAN, MY GOD, just look around you. . . . Secret rooms, unwatched candles, Clay Aiken. . . .
Wait, wait, there’s more: I hate mutating moles, angry black nose hairs, unintentional dreadlocks. . . .
I’m terrified of most kinds of coffee (but Tanzania peaberry, in particular), ambiguous street signs, bats in my toilet. Snuggles, the fabric softener bear. . . .
Mostly, though, I’m scared of Bernie Balch and the Hitler Youth Brigade in the back row of biology. I’m scared it’s only going to escalate from here. I’m scared that by not standing up for myself today, I’ve set a precedent. And I’m scared because I’ve never been more alone.
I’m scared because I’ve never been hated by EVERYONE before. I mean, EVERYONE can’t be wrong. Can they? They must all see the same thing.
/> I think about the orphaned children who survived the great Afghani earthquake a few years ago. They were sent, of all places, to San Francisco. And after the last big earthquake there, those poor kids have become convinced that God is after them. Trying to kill them.
And who’s to say he isn’t?
Imagine: hiding from God.
I need to get out. To get away.
I want to leave Florida. Maybe go to Africa. Find me some crazy little bushman in the Kalahari Desert. Wouldn’t that be bliss? Wouldn’t that be wonderful? We’ll lead a simple life. We’ll drink the morning dew off leaves and toast to our love. We’ll frolic with the gazelles and make out under the stars.
One thing’s for sure: I’m never going back to that torture chamber again.
No way.
XIV
And now . . .
Oh, manic me!
Up and down, up and down.
The Bi-Polar Express.
BAM! Suddenly, I was tired of my mewling, tired of feeling powerless, and tired of being traumatized. I burst out of the cupboard and took my place at the makeup table. Ah! The healing power of creation.
POUND! POUND! POUND! went the beat onto my face.
SLAP AND SLATHER! Yes!
More goop! More glop!
Thicker! Harder! Darker! More!
Hide the terror! Hide the desperation! Hide the panic! Tonight’s goal? To erase Billy Bloom completely.
Freak Show Page 4