Heteroflexibility

by Mary Beth Daniels

  “Why is that?”

  I turned to him. “I’m not exactly attractive. Mom was clear on that from as early as I could understand words.” I held out a chunk of my crazy hair, whipped into a frenzy from the walk, the conditioner all dried out. “And I don’t exactly have the best attitude.”

  He tweaked the lock of hair. “The hair can be fixed.”

  “But the attitude goes straight to the bone.”

  He smoothed my hair against my head, a gesture so much like my father’s that I had to close my eyes a moment, willing my heart to still. Who was this man?

  He touched my nose, and I opened my eyes. “We’ll start with the hair.”

  ***

  I sat in his bathroom, a white towel pinned around my neck, and felt I had to warn him. “I’ve tried all this before, you know. Straighteners, relaxers, conditioners.”

  He forced my chin up, painting some foul-smelling product onto my hair. “Not with me.”

  I watched him in the mirror, all concentration and skill. “Did you always want to do hair? Own a salon?”

  “No. I did undergrad in chemical engineering, actually. Quit with two semesters to go.”

  “What happened?”

  “The overbearing father died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I hardly knew the man. He never married my mom, just gave me money for college with the stipulation of how I should use it.”

  “I hate that.”

  “I wanted to reject it, but mom worked hard and still didn’t have much. Even my grandmother pushed me to take it. So I did. I signed up for as little engineering as possible and racked up a bazillion frivolous electives.”

  He tilted my head. My scalp buzzed from the chemicals.

  “Did you ever finish?”

  “Yes, I was so close that I went ahead and got a quick business degree. Used it to help me set up shop while I did cosmetology. I rented a space and hired people before I could do any of the hands-on work myself. Dad left a little money that got me going.”

  “I thought my husband was going to help me until I got my business started.”

  He turned my chin toward him. “You’ll do it anyway. You’re obviously good enough. People will see that.” He combed the chemicals through. “You’re going to be straight in about fifteen minutes.”

  I ignored the obvious and skipped the joke. “You really think you’re going to take the kink out?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “I’ve always hated it.”

  “Because of mom.”

  I thought of the boots, the picture, and the moment I had broken down in Dad’s kitchen. “Yeah.”

  “Well, if changing the hair helps, then we’ll change the hair.” Our eyes met in the mirror. “But don’t let the things your mom said keep going through your head.”

  How did he know about that?

  “I heard my dad for years, how I would never be anything but an effeminate loser.”

  “You’re not effeminate at all!”

  He combed through my hair again, flattening it down. “Depends on who you ask. Time to rinse and neutralize.”

  I sat on the floor, leaning my head over the edge of the tub as he attached a nozzle to the faucet and began to rinse. His hands were practiced as he swept the warm water away from my forehead despite the awkward position.

  At last he shut it off. “Time for the finish.”

  I never even attempted blow drying my hair, and the one time with Fern had been painful and long. I stared at the pinstripe of his shirt as he worked the round brush. “You have healthy hair, you know,” he said over the noise. “It took the relaxer well.”

  He shut off the power. “And now for the cliché moment to beat all makeover clichés.”

  He moved away from where he had blocked my view of the mirror. I had to peer at myself. It was the same old face, no makeup, a bit blotchy, but transformed by the perfect hair. The color had shifted slightly with the chemicals, edging on red, smooth from my scalp to where it curved against my shoulder.

  “It’s—it’s beautiful.”

  He stood behind me, nipping a few strands with small scissors. “I agree.”

  “Thank you.” He stood above me still, assessing the ends. I tugged on his shirt, which was untucked now, as casual as I’d ever seen him. “I mean it.”

  He looked down, as if noticing me finally. I couldn’t take my eyes off his lips—always the lips!—and I could see he had focused on mine too. He bent down and I closed my eyes, so glad I was wrong, that Fern had lied, and this boy was not gay at all, just very metro, just cutting edge liberal, tolerant, and—

  Not kissing me. He held a bit of hair to his nose. “The smell will get strong again the next time you wash it, but it’ll fade quickly. We’ll get you the proper shampoo.”

  I swallowed hard. Had he seen me close my eyes? Had he known?

  I flooded with humiliation. “Right. Because goodness knows I don’t have a clue about good hair.”

  I jumped from the chair. This was not to be borne. “I really really appreciate what you did. Now I don’t have to see mom every morning when I brush my teeth.” I tugged the towel away. “You were right, you are great!”

  I hurried across the room for my camera and bag. “Big day tomorrow! Must rest!”

  He leaned against the counter, wiping the comb on a towel, amused, apparently, at my sudden restlessness. Or laughing at me, maybe, that I’d thought he would kiss me.

  “Good night!” I beelined for the door, but just as I turned the knob, someone pounded on it. I jumped away.

  “Hey half-homo! You in there? With The Brad? Doing something I wouldn’t do?”

  I flung open the door. “Hello, Nikki.”

  She took a step back. “Look at that! You’re getting hotti-fied!”

  I grasped my camera strap, preparing to push past her. “I think it would take a little more than hair straightening to achieve that.”

  “It’s all about the attitude, girl. All in the walk. But get your camera, half-homo-hottie, we’re going skinny dipping.”

  I headed out into the hall. “Oh no. I’m not photographing anybody naked. That requires copying your drivers’ license, getting a release—”

  Bella waited out in the hall with the others. “Nobody’s getting naked. But the beach fires are very pretty.”

  “Nobody wants to see Nikki naked,” Blitz grumbled.

  Jenna laughed. “That’s because everyone already has!”

  Nikki stuck her head back into Bradford’s doorway. “Penis-boy. You coming with?”

  I clutched my bag tighter. I didn’t even know what I wanted. Him to come or not to come.

  He picked up a light jacket. “Somebody has to keep you girls out of trouble.”

  Chapter 24: By the Light of Nikki’s Silvery Moon

  The girls held hands as they walked along the beach at La Jolla. Big concrete fire circles were filled with wood, the red blazes dotting the sand as far as I could see.

  I set up my tripod and let the girls drift away. I snapped shots of the dim horizon and their bodies in silhouette. The bonfires tinted the images red-gold and I set my color correction manually so it wouldn’t shift the tones back to gray. If I stayed focused on my job, like I should have been from the get-go, I would get by just fine.

  “I hope this is a good idea.” Bradford kicked at the sand with his bare feet, sending a spray across a piece of driftwood. God, he was still around. I had hoped he would walk ahead with the others to let me bury my shame in peace, but he’d stuck by my side.

  I could be friendly. I just had to work at it. “It’s making for lovely images.” I switched the camera to preview mode. “Come see.”

  He leaned in close. He smelled of salt and expensive beauty products. His hair had started to curl in the humidity. My snark melted away again. He really was so beautiful.

  “Nice. I like how they disappear into the night.”

  I pulled away, flipping the camera of
f. Keep talking, Zest, just be normal. “I’m guessing those protestors would like them to. I’ve been meaning to ask if you figured out what happened at the hotel?”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets, drawing a line in the sand with his toe. “I don’t think it was a coincidence, but the manager wouldn’t talk when I canceled the reservations. Just said they were paying guests and weren’t causing a disturbance.”

  “Missing out on six hotel rooms wasn’t a disturbance to him?”

  “He’s a sympathizer for them. Just as well we didn’t stay.” He ran his hand through his hair. He was self-conscious about the curls. I wanted to tease him, but stifled the urge. There was no wrong look for him.

  I picked up the tripod. “I’m going to follow the girls, see what else I can get.”

  “You’re earning your money,” he said. His face flickered in the firelight, strained and unhappy.

  I couldn’t help it. I cared. I set the tripod back into the sand. “You okay?”

  He snapped his head up. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m just worried about tomorrow. I steered us around a lot of protests earlier. Signs on every other block. I don’t think the girls noticed. I’m hoping to protect them, give them a happy day.”

  The wind picked up, tossing my newly straightened hair all around, and I turned to let the breeze blow it out of my face. The women were very distant now, tiny figures lined up against the shore. The occasional hyper dot of the Pomeranian zipped in and out of the water.

  I slipped the camera off the tripod and looped the strap over my shoulder. Bradford slid the three legs together and lifted it. “We should chaperone,” he said. “No telling what that Nikki will do.”

  “The others will keep her in line,” I said. “That seems to be how they work.”

  “Sometimes that girl will not be denied her exhibitionism.”

  We walked silently along the sand, the waves lapping the shore. At the next fire pit, a couple college kids passed a bottle back and forth. One of them played a guitar, plaintively singing some love song I vaguely knew.

  I stole a quick glance at Bradford. He wasn’t looking at me, but the guitar player, the orange light burnishing the boy’s young face and intense expression. My heart ached. But the singer was beautiful too, really, and I snapped a quick shot. I could see what Bradford would admire in him. The pretty people should stick together.

  A piercing shriek was followed by a splash. Bradford and I took off down the sand. I paused after a few yards to yank off my shoes, hugging them to my chest as we ran.

  Bradford, despite the tripod, pulled way ahead. I stumbled after him, trying not to think of what we might find when we got there.

  Seven of the women stood on the shore, laughing or covering their eyes, or both. A line of clothing lay in the sand, along with footprints leading into the water. I thought briefly of the old Christian “Footprints in the Sand” poem. My mom had a worn copy, curling at the edges, tucked into the corner of her bathroom mirror. I suddenly wondered what had happened to it, if my father had removed it after the funeral. And if she had found solace in it in the end.

  The wind whipped harder now, and my eyes burned. I made a quick accounting of who was on the shore and realized that Nikki was missing.

  “Do we need to go in after her?” I asked.

  “I’m not going anywhere near a naked Nikki,” Blitz said. “She can drown.”

  “Is she okay?” I asked.

  “She’s fine,” Bradford said, shielding his eyes with his hand as if that would help him see in the dark. “I just got a glimpse of her.”

  I stared out into the waves, some of them lightly white capping. I was still feeling tension about her nighttime swim when her dark head popped out of the water and she waved. Bradford turned and set the tripod back up on the beach. “You better capture this.”

  He cupped his hands around his mouth. “The cops are coming!”

  Her hands flew into the air, and she bobbed under for a moment, then resurfaced. I snapped the camera back on the tripod, realizing the shot would be nigh to impossible, but setting it up anyway. I slowed the shutter as much as I dared, turned the ISO rating to maximum and the aperture as stopped down as it would go, and waited.

  Sure enough, she surfaced once more, then dove down, her broad pale backside gleaming in the feeble sliver of moonlight, iridescent as a fish, as wide as a sail. I took the shot.

  Chapter 25: Here Come the Brides

  “I can’t believe I’m in a pink limo,” said Blitz, hanging tightly to Krieg’s hand. “Mary, you are going to pay for this.”

  Mary sat close to Jenna, the flowing fabric of their matching white silk pantsuits intermingling. “I thought it would be cute,” she said. “You know, just us girls, getting married, our childhood dream.”

  Blitz scowled out the window, shrugging as though uncomfortable in her flowing black pants and white peasant shirt. I eased the camera up slowly, so as not to attract attention, and fired six shots in rapid succession. The light clicks of the shutter were scarcely audible.

  I tilted the camera down to see the last image. Blitz stared out the darkened window, stormy as always, and Krieg’s hand lay on her shoulder, her engagement ring a dazzle of gold. Perfect.

  “At least we don’t have a U-haul behind us,” Nikki said, reaching for Bella’s hand. I snapped the shot of their entwined fingers, which lay on the beadwork of Bella’s traditional white dress. With the cuff of Nikki’s black jacket edging into the image, it could have been any wedding photograph.

  I’d had enough talk of U-hauls. “Okay, what’s up with the U-haul references?” I asked. “Is it about getting hitched?”

  The women burst out laughing, even Blitz. “It’s an old joke,” said Nikki. She nudged Bella. “You tell it.”

  Bella beamed, her round face bright and happy beneath her tiara and veil. “What does a lesbian bring on a second date?”

  “A U-haul?” I asked. “I don’t get it.”

  More laughs.

  “We tend to shack up quickly,” Mary said. “It’s a stereotype.”

  “Because it’s true!” Nikki said. “Look at us! Getting married like a bunch of heteros.”

  “What does a lesbian bring on a third date?” Bella asked.

  “I’m sure I have no idea,” I said.

  “A turkey baster!”

  “A turkey…Oh.” Heat rushed to my face. “But where do you get the—” I turned to Bradford, who was madly sewing seed pearls to the back of one of Bella’s gloves.

  “Don’t look at me!” he said. “I’m happy to let the girls be well hung.”

  “The girls?” I stopped. I had no desire to know what he meant, envisioning contraptions made of leather.

  Nikki wiggled her fingers. “Small hands. Not well hung.”

  Bella squeezed her arm. “You’re fine by me.”

  “Zest doesn’t get it,” Nikki said. “So, what do you call a lesbian with long fingernails?’

  I had no idea. I shrugged.

  “Single!” Nikki laughed as my face burned even hotter. “So, what do you call a lesbian with long fingers?”

  “Well hung,” I said.

  “She CAN be taught!” Nikki broke into solitary applause.

  The women were anxious and jittery, sitting in a line along the plush silver seat that ran down one side of the limo, curving along the back. Across from us lay a long line of cabinets and carpeted walls with built in stereo speakers. Jenna sat in the front with Butch on her lap, a white veil flowing from his gold sparkly collar. Aud and Audrey’s matching red satin dresses stood out like gems.

  Blitz grunted. “Hoebags, you might want to look at this.”

  We all leaned toward the window as the lino parked along the curb in front of the Brownstone.

  “Oh my God,” Mary said.

  “Is that the minister?” Jenna asked.

  “I think so,” Mary answered. “Oh, God.”

  I slid to the floor between our seats and lifted my camera to the wi
ndow. It wasn’t easy to shoot through the darkened glass, but no way would we roll the window down.

  A man in a black suit stood on a ladder with a megaphone. We couldn’t hear what he was shouting, but a crowd of thirty bystanders was obviously chanting with him. On their signs read messages like, “Sinners repent your homosexual ways.” And “God can save your souls.” The minister himself had a sign around his neck with symbols of a man and a woman holding hands.

  “I can’t believe it,” Mary said.

  Nikki’s face had turned scarlet. “Mary…why is there a preacher leading a Prop 8 rally at our wedding site?”

  “Who did you call?” Aud asked. “1-800-Bash-a-Queer?”

  Mary clutched her bouquet to her chest, a few white petals dropping to her lap. “I called the Episcopalian Diocese.”

  “Never trust an Episcopalian!” Nikki said.

  “I’m an Episcopalian!” Mary shouted.

  “And look what happened when we trusted you!” Nikki shot back.

  “I didn’t think the California Episcopalians would be wingnuts!”

  “Slow down,” Jenna said. “What happened when you called?”

  “They said they were pretty booked, that this was a big weekend, and I had to leave a number. I got another call last week.”

  Jenna squeezed Mary’s arm. “Did they say anything strange?”

  “Well, the minister—his name is Reverend Haverty—had an assistant. Her name was Monica.”

  “Cut to it,” Nikki said.

  Mary frowned at her. “She seemed very eager to talk to me. Asked how many ceremonies. Where we were coming from. It all seemed very normal, and she was so excited.”

  The crowd had noticed the limo and the chants grew louder as they turned and directed them at us, moving closer.

  “Nothing else?” Nikki asked.

  “When I talked to him, I did think it was strange he didn’t want to know about our vows. I just assumed he thought we’d bring them. But the Episcopalian ceremony can vary a lot.”

  “Of course he didn’t want the vows,” Blitz growled. “He never intended on letting us have them.”

  Mary pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “I should have been careful. I knew Episcopalians were divided on this. He got hold of our information somehow.”