by Tanya Boteju
“I’ll try.”
“Good. Try hard. That girl is sublime.”
“She is, isn’t she?”
“She is.”
“What about you, Deidre? Did you meet anyone special last night?”
“Well, of course, girl—I met you!” She chuckled.
I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Deidre downed the rest of her coffee, stood up, and stretched. Every inch of her looked strong as hell. Placing her cup on the railing, she said, “I’m taking a break from romance, sugar. Abstaining from drama, if you will.”
I contemplated her words. What I’d give for the need to abstain from romantic drama. If I had any less of either romance or drama in my life, I’d be an absurdist comedy. Maybe I already was.
She dug around in her purse for a moment, wisps of her wig poking out of it, and then pulled out a silver card. “Here’s all my info, sweetheart. I wanna see you. Soon.”
I read the card. DEE DEE LA BOUCHE, ROYALTY’S BEST FRIEND. The subhead stated: MAKEOVERS AND MAGIC FOR KINGS AND QUEENS OF ALL SHAPES, SIZES, & PERSUASIONS. I smiled. “I’d love to see you again too, Deidre.”
“You’re damn right you would.”
“Can I walk you somewhere? Or maybe my dad can give you a ride?”
“Oh no, I’m just going to mosey on back to the fairgrounds and pick up my van. That was my B plan—to sleep in my car. But luckily, I ran into your sweet little self instead.” She took my face in her hands and gave me two wet kisses on either cheek. She looked right into my eyes and said, “You, my friend, are a gem.” And then she strutted away, magically managing to slip her heels on without breaking stride.
Over the next couple of days, I went back to the festival a few more times, hoping to re-experience some of the magic from the first night, but the drag show tent had switched over to a very strange, one-man Rocky Horror Picture Show. I left during the intermission. It wasn’t terrible, but it was no punk poetry performance or George Michael, that’s for sure.
Charles talked me into lingering around the square on Friday and Saturday nights, trying to spot Tessa. The closest we got was on Saturday as we sat on the grass next to the barbecue hut, devouring ribs. I’d warned Charles that ribs were a dangerous choice in case Tessa did show up, but he ignored me at his peril, and then there she was, failing miserably to hide her mild revulsion at Charles’s face, which was, of course, smeared with a generous amount of barbecue sauce.
Tessa paused hesitantly as Charles just stared at her. Then, in slow motion, Charles’s tongue extended from his mouth as he tried to casually lick the sauce off his left cheek, then above his mouth, then his right cheek, and finally, below his mouth in a perfect, disgusting circle. Tessa and I just watched him, mesmerized and repelled all at once. I finally snapped into action to hand him a napkin, but it was too late. Tessa did this half-wave thing, giggled uneasily, and then practically tripped over herself in her haste to get away.
We sat still until she disappeared around the corner of a stall. Then Charles flopped backward onto the ground and let out a sound that I imagined walruses expressed when they’d had a bad day.
“Sorry, pal,” I offered.
He lay there for a few seconds, then replied, “I guess you and I are just destined to live forever in the land of the love forlorn.”
“Poetic.” I hadn’t yet told him all the details about Winnow and my jelly legs or the almost-kiss. I wasn’t sure what Charles would think about this new, shimmering world I’d discovered. He wasn’t exactly one for sparkles—but neither was I until two days ago. I still wasn’t sure I possessed the kind of shine required to fit in, and telling him would make it all too real.
I hadn’t even tried to call or text Winnow yet. I really, really wanted to, but that too would shift the shimmering into the concrete, making failure even more tangible. Besides, I knew enough about dating rules (from TV) to know I was supposed to wait at least a few days. Didn’t want to look too eager. Didn’t want her to think I was new at this or anything. Ha.
“As poetic as your punk poetry?” Charles was now sitting up, staring at me.
“Huh?”
“Am I as poetic as that punk poetry thing you saw?” He drew his glasses from his face and cleaned the lenses with his shirt, his eyes on me the whole time.
What is this about? “Uh, sure. I guess?”
Placing his glasses back over his eyes, he remarked, as though not really interested, “You think you’ll see that girl again?”
Dang. What do I do? Lie? Fake ignorance? “The poetry girl, you mean?”
“Yeah. Sounds like she was pretty cool, right?”
Right, but . . . “Yeah, I guess. That’d be cool. She was cool. I mean . . . she seemed cool.” Good grief.
Now he was just sitting there, staring at me. Through his nice, shiny glasses. Deliberately lying wasn’t exactly my forte.
“Uh, well, actually—I did see her again.” His eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “Yeah. After I walked you home Thursday night, I ended up going back to the festival. I guess I got a second wind or something.” Half lie.
“Really.”
I couldn’t read his voice. But the stiffness of his features told me enough.
“And you met the girl?” he asked.
“Yeah, after this other show.”
“What kind of show?”
“Um, like, a drag show . . .”
He picked something out of his teeth with his forefinger, computing the information. “Huh. So . . . she was, like, at the show?”
“Yeah. I mean . . . she was in the show. As a drag king.”
“King?”
“I know. I’d never heard of it either. But apparently, it’s a thing.”
“Okay, so, you just randomly met her after the show?” he asked, breaking off some cornbread and shoving it into his mouth.
I sighed. There was no turning back now. “No. I met this drag queen named Deidre before the show, and she helped me meet Winnow after the show at this drag after-party thing.”
“Winnow’s the poetry girl.”
“Yeah.”
“And?” he asked, still munching his cornbread.
“And . . . she was really . . .”
“Seductive?” A hint of something like a challenge gleamed in his eyes now. My fears that he might not be open to sparkle and shimmer crept up again.
“Well, yes, that too, but I was actually going to say mesmerizing. Anyway, Winnow and I got to chatting after the show. . . .” Charles’s eyebrow peaked expectantly. Was he waiting for me to say I liked her? I decided that would be a bad idea. “And she was just really cool to talk to is all.”
He pushed his glasses up and started inspecting his cornbread—for what, I don’t know. It was obvious that I had slipped into tricky territory with him.
“Anyway, you probably would have thought the whole thing was ludicrous. But, like, in an awesome way. It was like they’re from a whole other world. I’m sure you’d love it.” Not. Sure. At. All.
“Where is this whole other world they live in?”
“Oh, ha-ha—the other world of North Gate. Otherworldly compared to Bridgeton, I guess.” I kept tittering like an ass. “Hopefully we can all get together sometime?”
“Yeah, sounds fun.” As fun as a hernia, apparently.
Both of us stared at his cornbread. Then, without looking up, he said, “Will Ginny be invited as well?”
There it is.
Not knowing how to respond to this clearly snarky question, I searched for something to say that would get us out of this spiraling disaster of a conversation. “Oh my gosh! I didn’t tell you the weirdest part of all. Gordon Grant was there!”
He looked up from his crumbles. “What? Where?”
“At the drag show! I couldn’t believe it. I looked over at the start and there he was, standing off to the side, looking like he could throw up at any moment.”
“Hmm. That is really weird.” He brushed the remaining
crumbs off his hands. “Did he see you?”
He seemed genuinely interested, which was encouraging. “I think so. He was gone by the time I looked over after the show, though.”
“What was he doing there?”
“I have no idea.” I was glad to get off the subject of Winnow and Deidre. Charles seemed happy to as well, and I could tell I’d have to tread carefully in that area after all. He didn’t seem ready for the shimmer, and I didn’t think I could handle his rejection of it at the moment. I decided not to bring it up anymore until it was absolutely necessary. And by absolutely necessary, I meant when drag queens flew through Bridgeton on unicorns.
Sunday was the last day of Summer Lovin’, but, out of steam, I decided to lie low. I tried to work up the courage to text Winnow, but by seven o’clock, I still hadn’t. Charles’s hesitancy about the whole thing hadn’t helped either, so instead I rode my bike to the Two Suns Café and procrastinated with dessert.
Having consumed my weight in raspberry pie and vanilla ice cream, I came out to the square to get my bike and immediately felt nauseous when I saw Gordon leaning against the bike rack, smoking a cigarette. I hadn’t seen him since the drag show, and I didn’t know what approach to take. Each of my recent run-ins with him had been confusing and somewhat unsettling.
His smoke floated directly above my bike, forcing me to wave my arm back and forth in front of my face like a windshield wiper as I approached.
He gave me some side-eye. “Get a grip, Clark. It’s not even coming near you.”
“It is, and it stinks. Aren’t you worried about your lungs, dude?”
He blew a slow stream of smoke toward me.
Nice.
“No, but you seem awfully worried about my lungs. I’m flattered . . . dude.” He grinned through the haze.
I shook my head at him and crouched down to unlock my bike, but the back of my neck prickled. I could feel him looking at me.
After a moment, he asked, “What’s with you and Charles?”
I looked up at him. He was staring at his shoes, and his profile was all tension and ridges. “What do you mean, what’s with me and Charles?”
He looked up for a moment and exhaled into the air, but something in his stiff posture suggested he was trying to look more laid-back than he actually felt. “I mean, what’s with you guys? Are you secret lovers? Buddies with benefits? Friends who—”
“What? No!” Did he actually think Charles and I were more than friends, or was he fishing for something? “But you knew that.” Everyone at school knew that.
He shrugged. “Just checking if the rumors are true.” He smirked.
Rumors? “What rumors?”
“I’m just trying to figure out why a chick like you doesn’t hang out with more chicks like you, is all.”
“Chick like me?”
“Yeah, man. Why do you spend all your time with that guy if you’re not into guys?”
I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with Gordon Grant right now. And I didn’t want to have this conversation with him. I twisted the key back and forth, but the lock wouldn’t pop out. Of course. I was frustrated and hot—enough to blurt out, “It’s called friendship, Gordon. What about you? What were you doing at the drag show the other night?”
He swallowed and flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette. Coughing like he didn’t really need to cough, he muttered, “I was only there for a second. I thought it was gonna be something else.”
It was a flimsy excuse, and he knew it. “Whatever you say,” I said, wiggling my key a bit more to avoid looking at him in his obvious discomfort.
He coughed again. “What was that, anyway? Why were you there?” Tentative curiosity diluted with fake indifference.
The lock banged against my bike frame as I let it go. I plopped down cross-legged and leaned back on my hands. Peering up at him past the seat, I contemplated how much to tell him. Would he just throw it back in my face at some point? Davis’s homophobic crap popped into my brain, and I didn’t know what to make of Gordon’s presence at the show, or his questions now.
With equal tentativeness diluted with fake confidence, I replied, “It was really cool. There were lots of different kinds of people there. You might have liked it if you stayed.”
“Did you? Like it?” Still not looking at me.
A little surprised that he was even remotely interested in what I liked, I answered with complete honesty. “I loved it.”
“So, you’re . . . what?”
“What?”
“You’re like, into that shit or whatever?” More side-eye.
Partly in wonder at Gordon’s interest, and partly out of the excitement that rose up as I thought about the show, my words spilled out. “I thought it was awesome, if that’s what you’re asking. And the people there were really friendly. So real. And hilarious. And kind. Too bad you didn’t get to see the whole show. Maybe next time.”
A small puff of laughter. “Next time my ass. I told you, it was just a mistake.”
Something—the briefest hint of disappointment? frustration?—touched his mouth, his eyes. “Okay. Sure.” I watched the ashy end of the cigarette glow as he sucked in.
After blowing out the smoke, he caught me off guard a third time by asking, “Need help?” He nodded toward my lock.
“Uh . . . yeah, sure.”
He dropped his cigarette to the ground and pressed the toe of his boot into it. As he knelt to fiddle with the key, I stole a few quick looks at him. His brow had its usual furrow, but some of the tension in his jaw seemed to ease. After a few moments, he managed to pop the lock open, which was both relieving and annoying.
“Thanks,” I said, getting up and brushing my jeans off.
“Sure.” His eyes still averted, he pulled out his cigarette case from his back pocket, like he wasn’t sure what else to do. Then he opened the box and held it out to me, a smirk on his face. “Want one?”
I rolled my eyes and pulled my bike out of the rack without replying.
“No? Your loss. Peace out, asshole.” He drew out a cigarette and flicked me a peace sign as he turned to go. As I watched him amble off, I noticed he placed the cigarette between his lips but just let it dangle there, unlit.
The following week I officially started my summer job with Jill—I did odd jobs and she paid me under the table. It was the perfect setup: I only had to work two or three days a week, I got to spend some quality time with Jill (mainly consisting of her bossing me around and grunting amicably when I did something well), I made a little extra cash, and I learned a few things about gardening, clay work, building, etc.
On Monday, I ended up dropping off plants and gnomes that people hadn’t wanted to carry home from the festival. Since I didn’t have my driver’s license (it just seemed like so much hassle), I, awesomely, had to pull a wagon around town, gnomes and plants wobbling around like some sort of forest gnome dance party.
I made a loop, and as I progressed back toward Jill’s place with one lone gnome left to deliver, I saw Gordon’s truck behind the pub. Gordon wasn’t in it, though—instead, his dad leaned up against the driver’s-side door, smoking a cigarette, dressed in muddy running shoes and dusty jeans. His pale arms hung off him. Everything about him drooped. I couldn’t help but think of cheese fondue.
When he caught me looking at him, my rickety wagon trailing behind me, he snapped, “What’re you lookin’ at?” He’d definitely had a few drinks.
He and Gordon had the same way of pushing out their chins when they were agitated. A twinge of sympathy rose in my chest for Gordon as I thought about what Jill had said. Then another thought arose: If Gordon’s crappy attitude comes from his dad, where does this guy get his issues?
Trying to remain calm, I said, “Just passing by, Mr. Grant.”
“Yeah, yeah.” As I continued on, he trudged over and scowled at the superhero gnome inside. “Those things—Jill Walker’s crap.” Cigarette smoke puffed out of his mouth.
; I really did not want to get into a conversation with this guy. I wasn’t used to having adults speak to me this way—jerky teenage boys for sure, but not grown men. Whatever his issues, this didn’t seem to be the right time to get into them. Instead I said lamely, “I gotta go. I’m late.”
“Liar,” he sneered. “Just like that Walker woman. You a dyke too?” he yelled after me as I quickened my pace.
I kept run-walking until I reached Jill’s shop. My anxiety that he would follow me kept my brain from working the whole two blocks, but as I shut Jill’s gate behind me and found myself in the relative safety of her front yard, my heart and breath finally began to slow.
In my stillness, his words came back to me—“liar” and “dyke” in particular. That was the second time I’d heard “dyke” over the past few days, both times in reference to me, both times making my heart stagger. Only I wasn’t sure whether my heart faltered because he was calling me one, as it had the last time, or because he was calling Jill one too.
I wasn’t shocked at the idea that Jill might not be straight, but details of her love life had always remained somewhat mysterious. Though we were close in many ways, she wasn’t really the type to share personal information. Sure, she’d been married, but I wasn’t too small-town to know that being married to the opposite gender didn’t necessarily mean you couldn’t switch teams at some point. TV teaches you all sorts of things. I think there was an unspoken agreement among all of us—me, Dad, Charles, even Ginny—that Jill was either not interested in anyone or maybe didn’t really have a preference. As long as we’d known her, and as far as we knew, she hadn’t been in a relationship.
She was awfully handy, though. So there was that.
But that man—Gordon’s dad—calling her a dyke like it was some sort of disease really ticked me off, whether it was true or not. And why’d he call her a liar? I thought about asking Jill but wasn’t sure how she’d react. She’d seemed so reluctant to talk about him earlier. As I removed the leftover gnome from the wagon and placed it on a shelf to be delivered later, I decided that for now, I’d just tuck the information in my back pocket and save it for another day.