by Corrie Wang
The average (generous) life-span of a roof is twenty years. Strange are the times a house on Grand Island doesn’t have weather damage. But this building doesn’t solely suffer a few leaks. The three-story foyer has twisting stalactites of ice stretching from the ceilings almost to the floor. Drips of water, like a perpetual frigid spring rain, have turned the lobby floor into a skating rink. Which might explain why the male picked to guard this place is in such a glacial mood. He stubs out his cigarette on the handlebar of Sway’s motorcycle.
“Uncalled for, Wreckage,” Sway protests.
“File a complaint.” Wreckage sticks the butt behind his ear. “Pat-down time, mates.”
Sway’s eyes immediately flick to my groin. I purse my lips. He blushes.
But he’s right. This can’t happen.
Sway laughs. “Not necessary, Wreckage. We’re not here to party. We’re just dropping off payment for the Influencer.”
“That’s nice,” Wreckage grunts. “But since Matricula Rhodes is losing kids no one knew existed and sending assassins to retrieve them? Everyone gets a pat-down. Don’t tell me you’re suddenly shy.”
Spinning Sway around like he weighs no more than his good intentions, Wreckage runs his hands up and down his legs, like, right into his penis parts, then roughly along his rib cage, chest, arms. As discreetly as possible, my fingers slide over Slim. If this male is the “impenetrable” that stands between me and finding my brother? There’s no way I’m not getting past him.
Stab? I mouth to Sway.
He frantically shakes his head.
“Geez, Wreckage, if you wanted to go to third base, you coulda at least got me flowers.”
Wreckage grunts. “It takes more than a Tater Tot to get me hungry, Sway.”
Sway’s eyes flick to me.
“Harsh,” he mutters.
This is that “innuendo” that Comma said males like so much.
“Next,” Wreckage says.
Remembering Comma’s advice about embracing my glittering God-light, I take off my helmet and smile.
“Helloooo, handsome,” Wreckage says.
“Hello to you. If it’s big potatoes you’re looking for, I have two of them and, um, a very large carrot you might like.”
“Good to know.” Wreckage laughs but reaches for me all the same. “I’ll call you next time I want to make a stew. Arms out.”
“By potatoes,” I quickly say as he spins me around, trying not to cry out as he unintentionally grabs my bullet wound, “I meant testicles, and by carrot I meant penis.”
Sway begins furiously coughing, but Wreckage laughs again. Considers me anew. He crosses his arms. Which means, his hands are not patting me down right now.
“Is that so?” he asks, his eyes alight with play.
I nod, pretend seriously. “It is.”
“You know now that you mention it, I might have some meat to put in that stew.”
“Oh, but I’m vegetarian,” I say before remembering what we’re actually talking about.
Sway coughs again and pulls me away.
“Wait,” Wreckage calls after us. “What’s your name? You’re hysterical.”
“It’s Busy,” Sway shouts back. “His name is Incredibly Busy. Valet my bike, would you?”
As Sway leads me to a nonworking escalator that is entirely covered in ice, I wave goodbye to Wreckage. His face lights up. He waves back. Then Sway and I start to climb, both hands clutching the slippery handrail. My white boots have zero traction. Apparently, neither do Sway’s bright blue sneakers. One second, he is standing on the step above me. Next, he is kneeling on the step below me. From the foyer, Wreckage laughs.
“Bump me,” Sway says, righting himself, then angrily whispers, “What was all the vegetable nonsense about?”
“Oh! I was fitting in. Comma said males are extremely fond of penis innuendo.”
“Yes. Innuendo. Not straight-up anatomy class. That was ridiculous. And gross.”
“It got us past Wreckage, didn’t it?” I ask as my feet do a quick crisscross on the ice beneath me. “You know, I don’t agree with the way you criticize. Criticism is supposed to be helpful and constructive. You’re supposed to say something nice, followed by something to correct. Followed by one last nice thing. And for the record? It’s all gross. Do you realize how absurd it is? The need to constantly reference your genitalia? Look! I have a vagina. Still have a vagina over here.” Sway hums loudly to drown out my words. “Maybe if your penis is so gross, stop drawing attention to it.”
When we finally get to the top of the escalator, a male is waiting for us in a pre-Night suit that is impossibly clean and pressed. His thick black hair is short, neatly combed back from his face, and held in place with some kind of gloss. He smiles with perfect gleaming white teeth.
I’m so surprised, I gasp and then brandish Mama Bear.
Sway pivots on his heels, clears his throat, and says, “Glori, you smell nice today. Please stop gasping every time you see something new. It’s like you were raised in a barn. Oh, wait! You probably were. Also, you have nice wrists. There. How’s that for criticism?”
“You think I have nice wrists?”
Sway’s face turns bright red. “It was a theoretical example.”
Before I can further reply, the male says, “Hi, my name is Eugene. Welcome to the Main Place Mall. May I assist you in your shopping needs today?”
“Bump off, Eugene,” Sway shouts, then walks right through him.
Downstairs, Wreckage hollers, “Bump off, Eugene, you bumping mother bumper.”
“All right,” the hologram says cheerfully. “Thank you for your input. Have a great day.”
Sways eyes flick to me. I let out a “Huh” of laughter. One corner of Sway’s mouth lifts up higher than the other in a grin. Just like that, our argument about penises and vaginas and constructive criticism is forgotten. Su and I would have been wrapped up in that sucker for days, and I don’t know if this is a difference between Sway and Su or between male and fee.
From the level above us, a thumping emanates through the floor like a heart beating in an otherwise dead body. We ascend another escalator. Darkness replacing the ice. At the top, young males stand in front of a store called Applebee’s. The only letter that’s lit up on the sign is the first E. All the windows are intact but painted black so it’s impossible to see inside, yet music pours out as thick as a hot breeze.
“Maybe I should wait out here.”
Putting a hand on the back of my neck, Sway presses his forehead to mine. It’s exactly how Su does, only much harder so that it makes a clonking sound. It’s also different because Su is fee and Sway very much isn’t. And while I can’t help noticing how warm Sway’s breath is and how tingly his fingertip skin makes my neck skin feel, what I’m mainly thinking is…
“I can’t tell if you’re being nice or aggressive right now.”
“Sorry.” Sway lets go. “I saw you and Su do it. I thought that’s how you conveyed a meaningful message. Listen, forget what Comma told you. Being male doesn’t mean using gross innuendos or being a super flirt. It means being yourself. It’s not like it was before. Not here, at least. Nowadays, everything is considered male. Besides, you’re not that fly, little swan. I know at least a dozen boys that give off more heat than you. Nobody’ll even notice you’re here.”
Then to let me know he’s teasing, he presses a finger to my nose. “Boop.”
A water droplet splashes on my shoulder, and I half expect it to sizzle. Then we’re through the door and Sway is knocking fists with a gigantic male standing right inside who’s wearing a headdress made entirely out of tiny silver spoons and hardly anything else on his body below that.
“I think this is a huge mistake,” I shout at Sway.
He nods his head along with the music as he takes in the room.
“’Course it is. This is Euphoria. Everything that happens here is a huge mistake.”
Liyan told me that after Nuclear Night, even wit
h everyone sick, they heard news that some places in the world nonstop partied. Cities in countries I’ll never see. Mexico. Greece. South Africa. Brazil. This is what that must have been like. Everywhere there are males. Dancing, drinking, and singing along to music that is loud, fast, and a lot more enjoyable than I expected.
“K-pop,” Sway shouts as my shoulders twitch to the beat.
“No thanks. We poured all our pop out years ago. Grand says it rots your teeth, causes cancer.”
“Ha!”
An oval bar sits in the center of the dark club. It’s strung with colorful blinking lights that illuminate canning jars filled with murky liquids the males are lined up two rows deep to get at. High-backed booths ring the outside and teem with males playing with cards and dice and—in the black corners, where the bar lights don’t reach—kissing.
“Staring,” Sway calls out.
A norm in a pink frilly bralette and skimpy bathing suit bottoms presses up against me.
“That’s a heat hairstyle,” he shouts, then pats my rear end and moves on.
As we squeeze through the crowded dance floor, Sway slaps hands and bumps chests with half the males we encounter. A male in a plain gray T-shirt and jeans puts a cup in my hand. Before I can so much as sniff it, Sway says, “Nope,” and hands it off to someone else.
On Grand Island, when I lived in the neighborhood, I went to talent shows, concerts, and crafting classes. Boot camp, yoga, and sparring tournaments. We had a few bands and bonfires and dancing at sleepovers and lots of hours of productive relaxation, but there was nothing as chaotic and vibrant, careless and carefree, as this.
A petite male, plainly dressed but with yellow color over his eyes, loops his arm through mine.
“Well, Sway Me Off My Feet,” he purrs to Sway. “When did your preference switch to swans and how come I wasn’t notified?”
“Brontë, you’re always my preference.”
After doing a fancy hand slap, the males talk about a team sport they’re both on—something called Frisbee golf—and that’s when I notice two figures dancing on either end of the bar. Males are gathered around, looking up appreciatively.
“Holy crow,” I murmur.
I wedge my way through the crowd to get closer. Although they’re wearing elaborate eye masks with pale blue feathers and silvery sequins, they aren’t wearing much else. Which means those dancers? Undoubtedly fees.
They can’t be here of their own free will. The one nearer to me has silky straight black hair and a placid smile that no sensible fee could maintain in this environment. It’s only as I push aside a male twice my size and stand right in front of her that I realize my mistake. One moment she’s dancing with her arms above her head, then she shimmers and restarts her dance with her hands on her hips.
Yet another hologram.
In the few hours I’ve been here, I’ve seen more undressed fees than I had in my entire childhood on Grand Island. I mean, no. That is a gross overstatement. We are not shy, especially in the hot months, and I spend a lot of time in gym locker rooms. Yet the amount of bare fee flesh here is astonishing. I can practically hear Comma telling me it is purely out of aesthetic appreciation, but then where are all the naked males? Are their bodies not equally beautiful?
This isn’t desensitization. It is one-sided hyper-sexualization. I know Grand will never allow it, but if ever fees and males did reacquaint, how could the males ever see us without seeing that scantily clad, breasts-out fee at the same time?
Suddenly, my hips are grabbed from behind. A male with slicked-back hair and a dozen safety pins through his ears dances me side to side with his groin pressed right up against my rear end. This isn’t acceptable fee behavior. But I don’t know if it’s normal here or not. My eyes scan the crowd for Sway.
“I’m here with someone,” I shout as the entire club belts out the chorus of a song.
Only males would create a social environment where it’s impossible to hear one another. And then Safety Pins pulls down my ostrich-feathered hood and runs his tongue from my collarbone up my neck. I can feel the slimy trail his spit leaves even when he’s done. I don’t know what a swan would do right now. But I know perfectly well what a Glori has been trained do. I turn and shove him off.
“Feisty!” He grabs my wrists. “I like that.”
“As much as you like broken noses?”
“Huh?” He leans his ear toward me.
“If you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to break your nose with my forehead,” I shout.
In response, he throws his head back and howls. Then he darts at me again. I keep my promise and next second, he’s slumped in my arms with blood pouring out of his face. And then Sway is there.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I shout exactly as Sway shouts, “What did Brando do now?”
“He licked me.”
Turning his snapback cap around, Sway takes Brando from me and hands him off to a big male in a bright red sweat suit.
“Here. Happy Hanukkah, Mozart. I always said you’d get what you deserve, Brando.”
“You’ll pay for this,” Brando mumbles, coming to.
“You know where to find me,” Sway says.
Gone is any trace of the overactive, slightly clumsy male I’m used to. Standing there with his fists and muscles tensed, Sway actually looks kind of dangerous. As dangerous as a one-hundred-and-forty-five-pound anything can look. I get that squishy belly feeling again, and suddenly, I don’t want to be here anymore. I desperately wish Su had come. I miss her, and Liyan, and my grand, and just home. I miss being told what to do and when to eat and the absolute certainty both instructions would be safe. I miss fees and our form of affection, which does not involve rubbing your genitals on someone unasked. I miss our sagacity. Our simplicity of dressing and our complexity of speaking. I miss how we respect one another’s me space.
I miss all those things desperately. Like I’d miss water on a long run in the heat months.
Except I miss Two Five more.
The crowd now moves in some kind of synchronized dance, yet magically opens before us as Sway pulls me to the back of the club. He pounds on the door of an antique phone booth. Two males exit, giggling. Sway holds the door for me, and when I hesitate, he barks, “Geez, it’s safe. When will you stop suspecting I’m trying to kill you?”
The booth is lit with a single red lightbulb. The walls are covered in crushed black velvet.
The beasts’ city is everything our teachers warned us it was. The violence, the sex. And yet the chorus of that song spins in my head with a male and a fee singing. No eres tú, no eres tú, no eres tú, soy yo. No te quiero hacer sufrir. And I wonder if Comma knows how to do that synchronized hip-swaying dance that went with it. I feel frightened and disgusted, but also for the first time in a long time, I feel noticeably alive.
As soon as Sway closes the door behind us, another red light blinks on: OCCUPIED.
“You okay?” he asks tightly.
“Nothing a good scrub with a pumice stone won’t fix. Are you mad at me?”
“Bump no. I’ve wanted to do that to Brando since we took shop class together in the sixth grade. But I turned around and didn’t see you and… you can’t go wandering off like that. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and he takes a deep breath. “Won’t people get suspicious if we’re in here too long?”
“Nah, that’s kinda the whole point.”
Sway feels along the bottom of the phone-booth panel until his fingers find a latch. He lifts up and the back wall of the booth springs open. It leads into a narrow hallway that ends with a silver door. Furious barking greets our approach. It’s as if every remaining dog in the world is beyond that door and none of them slept well.
“So, hey,” Sway says. “Remember when I said the mayor’s official headquarters were in that big building in Niagara Square? Well, these are kind of like his unofficial headquarters.”
“You mean the mayor who is offering the sixty-thousand-dollar reward for me
and the thirty-dollar reward for you?”
“Technically, your reward is only thirty thousand dollars. Sixty is for both of you.”
“And you thought it was a good idea to bring me here?”
The barking has now reached a fever pitch.
From the inside of my pack comes a pathetic puppy whine.
“Don’t worry.” Sway’s talking even faster now. “Chia has offices all over town. With everything going on, there’s no way he’s here. But the Influencer is. He barely ever leaves, which is part of the problem. Narrow worldview. But that’s why you’re here. To convince him of one very crucial point.”
“What’s that?”
“That he should stop hating fees.” Sway gives me a once-over, and telling from the crinkle of his nose, he doesn’t have high hopes. “Now remember what I told you in the tunnel before you went and took on the mob?”
“Be quiet. Keep my head down.”
Sway nods. “This is exactly the opposite. The more you talk, the less they’ll see you.”
“What kind of strange beasts ignore you the more you speak?”
With a grimness that I’ve only seen equaled by Su at exams, Sway utters one little word. “Adults.”
And then the door swings open.
Adults.
Adult males. Who have seen fees before. Who have lived with us. Adult males who won’t be fooled by a haircut and some fake bravado. Adult males who work for the mayor and are tasked with actively searching for me.
“My babies!” Sway throws his arms wide as a pack of whining mutts immediately swarms us, each vying to be the first to lick his face.
As I try to keep them from planting their noses in my crotch, I quickly survey the room. This isn’t a few adults. It’s a minor battalion.
“Gang’s all here,” Sway says through bared teeth.
I count thirteen males right off the bat, and I’m sure I’m missing a few that are sitting down. These are the beasts I’ve been expecting. All brawny and in good health. Roughly Liyan and Majesty’s age. With guns harnessed across their backs or at their waistbands. It’s a room of beards and radiation-burn-induced keloid scars and musky sweat. And every single male looks at us when we enter.
