Harmonious Hearts 2019--Stories from the Young Author Challenge

by Ryan Almroth

  However I’m not done with my skin yet; I haven’t even contoured! So I apply a tawny reddish powder to my cheekbones to make them appear sharper than they are. I go from average to sculpted by Michelangelo. People can say whatever they want, but the key to beauty is bone structure. And if you’re cursed with a broad nose like me, you’ll want to draw dark lines on either side to make it look thinner. Then of course you have to put a dot of highlighter on your nose, so I do just that to give myself an adorable look. Once I finish my nose, I proceed to highlight my chin, just above and underneath my cheekbones, my brow bones, and that little strip of indented skin that connects your nose and mouth.

  I’m glowing and ravishing. I appear glistening again, not yet tarnished by the world’s hatred. It’s throwing off the balance of time and space—I’m pushing through life, yet falling backward into youth, but I possess a mind of the future. The throbbing gray organ behind the castle walls of my skull sees all people as equal. We’ve all been ostracized enough.

  At last it’s time for eye makeup! I fill my lids with an off-white shade like my idol Christina Aguilera does—no, my idol isn’t Tom Brady like my parents think. There’s a lot they don’t know. I start to make a brownish cut crease, swishing my Morphe brush underneath my brows. Since they have been covered in glue and foundation, I’ll be able to draw them on later, but I still have to finish my eyes.

  I pull out my gel eyeliner and dip the brush in. Makeup is art, and I am the Renoir of drag. I stroke a line across my eye and put a wing on the end of it. I fill it in and highlight the corners so my eyes pop like glittering orbs. At last it’s time for the pièce de résistance, the fake eyelashes. Two fluttering black butterflies perch on my eyelids. They pollinate my eye look and bring it together like the majestic creatures they are. Soft and delicate yet powerful.

  Now that the adrenaline is flowing, I pick up my brow pencil. Two brown cats arch their backs across my face, and I fill in their fur. Then I reach in and pull out a pink lip liner and line it just outside my lips so they feel bigger. All of a sudden, a pink flood gushes down from the heavens and my lips are plump and beautiful. But I’m not complete, not yet. Slowly I turn my head to my mirror lined with pictures of my girlfriend Brandi, Sports Illustrated models, and football stars. Little do they know it’s not the Sports Illustrated models I’m interested in.

  My face is glowing; I am the essence of beauty. Big doe eyes, flawless tanned skin, a soft nose, plump lips. I am Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly, Mae West, and Brigitte Bardot all mixed into one beautiful, torn-up tapestry of society’s femininity. I am perfect… almost.

  I tuck the thing that pulls me into the void of a messed-up all-American patriarchy. And once it’s gone, I can be free. The thing I’m born with that holds me back the most is taped down and away, and I can complete my transformation as I slip on my hip and bust pads.

  The doors of heaven open up when, from underneath my bed, I pull out a chest that contains all my old football uniforms. I sift through them, and hiding at the bottom, I find a shining silver dress and slip it on. It falls over every feminine curve. A shining goddess is almost complete. I reach in again and snatch out red Louboutins, I slip them over the sharp arches of my feet, and I become so tall I can touch the clouds. Finally I select a flowing blond wig with a delicate dahlia, and place it on my head like a crown. It traces the curves of my gown. I am voluptuous. I am beautiful. I am officially The Blond Dahlia.

  Then bam! The door swings open. My heart drops into my stomach, and my head throbs with the pain of one thousand and one knives. Dalton is standing in the doorway. No. No. No. No. No! This is it, everything’s over, my life is ruined. The sky shatters into millions of pieces and falls on me as I scream, “What the hell are you doing here!”

  He looks at me with sad blue eyes as I angrily throw my wig onto the smooth floor. Furiously I shove my hand into the box of makeup wipes, but then I feel a hand wrap around my wrist.

  “My class was canceled.”

  “You can’t barge in here unannounced!” Forcefully I shove his hand off me and start rubbing the wipe on my face vigorously.

  “Stop. You’re going to give yourself a rash.”

  I look in the mirror. My face is red and raw. I’m not beautiful anymore; I’m just a sad little boy. I plop onto the bed miserably and start to scream. Everything’s ruined, everyone’s going to find out, and I’ll be disgraced. I feel a warm body curl up around me, and I look at Dalton, confused.

  “Why don’t you just run away? I’m a freak!”

  “You’re not a freak. It’s horrible that once someone in this town starts to be unique, they’re thought of as a carnival freak. Last night my dad caught me with that redheaded boy from calculus, Dean Gallagher. That was a complete shitshow. My dad kicked me out, but he does it at least once a week. He’ll get drunk and forget it happened, and I’ll be back in the house in no time.”

  My jaw drops to the floor. “You’re gay?”

  He laughs. I start to shrink and pull away from him, but he grabs me back.

  “Nah, I like chicks, but I like dudes too. I’m not gonna tell nobody about this. It’s your choice when to come out, and I won’t take that away from you. But you got to break up with Brandi. She doesn’t deserve to be led on like this.”

  Then it hits me. I freaking dragged Brandi into this mess. I start to cry again. I want to speak up, but I just can’t.

  “Don’t stress now… have you ever kissed a dude?”

  There goes my heart beating again. I shake my head. “Do you want to?” I nod, and then I feel Dalton’s warm hand on my cheek. He turns my head one hundred eighty degrees to meet his ocean eyes. Slowly I cock my head to the side and start to lean in. My makeup-stained hand falls into his black hair, and as our lips meet, my eyes close. My worries melt away like fleeting snow on a March morning, and for a second I forget all my problems. For a second I’m liberated.

  JORDAN ORI is from NYC where she is a drama major at Professional Performing Arts High School. “Blond Dahlia” is her first story to be published, and she couldn’t be more thrilled. Jordan has been writing since the age of four when she illustrated her first book, based on Kay Thompson’s Eloise, in which she had her mom dictate her thoughts.

  Jordan loves hanging out with diverse people and being creative. Along with acting and writing, she loves to sing and has a particular talent for science. She has appeared off-Broadway with Keen Teens originating two roles in the world premiere of Citizens United by Kate Cortesi, a satire based on the Supreme Court decision of the same name. Jordan began her activist career at age five writing to Sarah Palin to stop hunting wolves from helicopters. Since then she has attended the women’s marches, the NYC pride parades, rallies to close the camps on the southern border, and helped organize an anti-gun walkout at her former school. Jordan loves to travel and has been to Spain, Italy, France, Japan, Colombia, and Mexico. Her favorite TV shows are RuPaul’s Drag Race, Glee, and American Horror Story.

  His Laugh Was Like a Melody

  By M.k. Elford

  On the outside, football star Jason Jackson Jones is the most perfect person in his rural Alabama high school. To the boy who falls in love with him, he’s the most beautiful person in the world. But Jackson is sad in a way his boyfriend might not be able to fix. Can he save Jackson from himself?

  LOVE DOESN’T save everyone.

  The movies and romance novels told you wrong. Love doesn’t fix people. It doesn’t make them whole again. Love can’t teach a person to love themselves. But you can love them anyway.

  It was tenth grade when I met him. He was the popular jock with the perfect hair and the perfect smile. The blond-haired, brown-eyed boy. He was good at sports and science and art. If there was something for him to do, he was good at it. Before he came into my life, everyone avoided me. I was the gay kid from upstate New York. The weird one.

  But then he came up to me in the hallway one day. He congratulated me for a science fair award and gave me that ste
reotypical jock pat on the back. I never knew I needed one of those until that moment.

  That blond-haired, brown-eyed boy greeted me in the hallway every day after that.

  Like every other typical romance novel, the relationship grew from a class project. We met at the library and talked for hours. Not about the project, mind you, but about everything from our favorite books to our hardest classes. We’d sit in the small corner with the bean bags and make funny noises by scooting around on the Styrofoam beans. When he laughed, his perfect blond-haired, brown-eyed face would light up with happiness. His laughter was a song.

  The blond-haired, brown-eyed boy had a name. A really silly name. Jason Jackson Jones. I teased him and called him Jimmy John Jones. He laughed so hard his eyes watered. It was then that I realized he laughed a lot. He laughed when I made fun of his name, and he laughed at his own jokes. He laughed until he cried. Sometimes sad people have to laugh to remember what it feels like.

  It was the first game of the season. Jason Jackson was the wide receiver. Whatever that meant. His jersey was embroidered with a bright white sixty-two, and I watched as he ran the field. In the last minute of the game, he caught the winning throw. He ran his team to victory against our rivals, the Gophers.

  He texted me to meet him back behind the bleachers. I stood in the dimly lit area as people cheered and chattered about what to do after the game. Jason Jackson bounded up toward me, swept my up in his arms, and kissed me on the lips. And then he kissed the solid black line of face paint that decorated my left cheek.

  After that we only became closer. I made out with him in the back parking lot. In the janitor’s closet. In an empty classroom. I kissed him when no one was looking in the hallways and on the bus home.

  I took him to a bowling alley, and he took me to an arcade. He was really bad at bowling but so good at gaming. Which seemed strange, because he was the jock, and I was definitely not. I told him so, and he told me that I ought to teach him how to bowl before expecting him to be good at it. So I did. It gave me the chance to put my hips right up against his and gave me the excuse to rub up against his back as I taught him how to step and swing. We weren’t ever welcomed back to that bowling alley, but it was so worth it.

  The first time he ever took me to his house, he told me to ignore everything I heard and everything I saw. When we walked in, his parents were screaming. His father clung to a bottle of Jack, and his mother was wailing about something indecipherable. They quieted down when they realized there was someone else in the house. I did my absolute best to ignore everything I heard and everything I saw. He trusted me to be here, in his life. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

  But love doesn’t save everyone.

  We were lying on his bed when he asked me that question. He was tossing his favorite baseball in the air over and over again, and I found solace in watching as he did. He loved that baseball. I’d asked him why he didn’t play baseball. Jason Jackson mumbled back that his father was a football player, and expected him to be one too. He tossed the ball up in the air again. He drew a red heart with our names on it with red ink.

  “Are we dating?” Jason Jackson asked as he rolled onto his side. His blond hair and brown eyes wild with the anxiety of asking me. That blond-haired, brown-eyed boy never stopped looking at me like I was the center of his world.

  “Do you want to date me?” There was a nervous tickle in my own voice now. A quiver I was unaware of before then. Being around Jason Jackson was easy. He was soothing and caring and never made me feel uncomfortable with myself.

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation. Just “Yes.” Yes, yes, yes. He wanted to date me. And I wanted to date him. Yes was all I heard.

  “Then we’re dating.”

  For his birthday, I surprised him. I took him to a baseball game. Nothing expensive, just a college game. Jason Jackson loved the Alabama State Hornets. This was his dream come true, and he told me so. And he kissed me his thank-yous over and over again. Apparently, no one had ever done this for him before. Not even his parents.

  But love doesn’t save everyone.

  He asked me to model for one of his paintings. That was the longest three hours I had ever endured. Even when he said I could move and stretch out, he wouldn’t let me see my painting yet. Jason Jackson was anything but a stereotypical jock. Whether it came to sports or math or science or art, he was perfect at everything. Everything except bowling, that is.

  He talked about the future a lot. He talked about getting out of this town. Out of this life. He wanted to go to college on a football scholarship, and he hoped I would follow. I would. I would follow anywhere he took us. He talked about what he wanted to do after football and after college. I think he talked about the future so much because he was afraid he wouldn’t have one.

  A week later Jason Jackson had finished the painting of me. It was beautiful. Beautiful like the blond-haired, brown-eyed boy standing in front of me. There was love in that painting. Neither of us had said it yet, though.

  “I love it.” Tears blurred my vision as I hugged him, painting still in hand. “And I love you.”

  “Love you back.”

  But love doesn’t save everyone.

  I hung the portrait in my room. It didn’t fit with the rest of my posters of rock bands and movies, but maybe one day Jason Jackson would fill my walls with paintings. I hoped he would anyway. To thank him formally, my mom suggested that I take him to a waterpark. I thought it would be okay to take him to another baseball game, but mom scolded me about doing the same thing too many times.

  “A special thing needs to stay a special thing. You can’t take him to the same thing every time,” she told me. Her Filipino accent slipped into her words as she patted me on the head. Spring break was soon. It was warm enough in southern Alabama for a good day out at a waterpark.

  I asked him a week before spring break if he wanted to go. Jason Jackson had never looked happier than in that moment.

  It was finally spring break, and we were ready for a day at the waterpark. There wasn’t one in our small town, but a half-hour trip up the highway brought us to a big waterpark complete with tall slides and a wave pool. Jason Jackson set his stuff down on a lawn chair and watched grimly as I took off my beach shirt to go into the lazy river with my raft. He didn’t take his shirt off.

  “Do you want to swim with it on?” I was closer to him now. My hand rested on his chest and I looked up at that funny looking straw hat he insisted on wearing. It covered his blond hair and shaded his brown eyes.

  “Yes.” He sounded weak. And a little scared. The expression on his face told me he was afraid of what I thought. Of what I’d say. I’d never seen him with his shirt off, ever. He only let me touch above his shirt, and I never pushed. Maybe I should push a little now.

  “Would you let me see later?” I put my own shirt back on. Jason Jackson nodded silently. If he spoke, I was afraid that in that moment he would cry. I hugged him tight.

  “If anyone asks, we’re on a field trip from a school of kids who are allergic to the sun,” I joked. He laughed. He laughed so loud it rang in my ears even when he stopped. That laugh rang out like a song. I loved that laugh. I loved that song.

  After the waterpark Jason Jackson agreed to show me his stomach. We were in his room when I first saw those sharp, frantic lines carved deep into his skin. Some were fresh, others were scarred over. I ran my hand along the ones that jutted out from the scarring. I couldn’t help as my breath caught in my throat. I was choking on pain. But I told him, through his tears and through my tears, that his scars were beautiful. That he was beautiful. That I loved his scars. That I loved him.

  But love doesn’t save everyone.

  Early spring turned to late summer, and late summer into early autumn. The leaves twirled down toward the ground like helicopters, and the forests were bright and teeming with dying life. Jason Jackson loved the fall. He especially loved the smell. He said it smelled like leaves and earth. Like cider and apples.
Like damp and crisp. We laughed because damp and crisp weren’t smells but made sense anyway.

  It was the beginning of our senior year. I got a job at the diner on the corner of Twelfth street and Fourteenth Avenue. It was the only restaurant in the whole town. Every Friday night Jason Jackson would come in with his football team, and I would take their orders. His eyes would linger just a little longer on me than the rest, and I’d give him that secret knowing smile. That smile that said I loved him.

  But love doesn’t save everyone.

  His football team would slowly filter out, and like every Friday, Jason Jackson would be the last to leave. He’d wait outside while I closed up, and then he would walk me home. Jason Jackson would make fun of how many pens I managed to fit in my apron as we walked down my street. I used a different color for every table. When he made it up to my doorstep, he would take a pink or a red pen and draw little hearts on my hand or on my notebook. And once, even on my wallet. I would laugh and would mockingly smack his letterman’s jacket as if to scold him, and then he would laugh too. That laugh was a song.

  “Your birthday is tomorrow,” Jason Jackson hinted as he bumped my shoulder with his. We were walking home from school. We were seniors now, and the bus just wouldn’t do.

  “Yeah?” I mocked. I wanted nothing more than to hold his hand. But southern Alabama wasn’t a good place for that, so a playful nudge with my shoulder was the better choice. His cheeks burned red as he turned toward me.

  “Your mom made me promise to keep what we’re doing a secret,” Jason Jackson teased with a bashful smile on that beautiful face. That blond-haired, brown-eyed boy. I couldn’t dare look away.

  The surprise was simply that Jason Jackson baked me a cake all on his own. Apparently it took six tries and serious guidance from my mom, but he did it. He was so proud as he set the chocolate monstrosity down in front of me. I did my best to eat as much of it as I could. It was actually not too bad.