“Donny? When?”
“Last week.”
Brian sighs. They’re quiet, looking at each other. Everyone who gets it dies. As I start to leave, Annie calls after me.
“Jess, you’re just as adorable as Brian said you were. Come here,” she says.
The beanbag chair shudders as I draw my knees up to my chest. I try not to stare at Annie. Upside down, Diana Ross sings. I can’t look at my brother either. He didn’t do anything wrong. Guilt expands in my throat. When I find myself gazing again at Annie, she smiles.
“Brian told me you’re crazy about whales.” Annie doesn’t laugh or look at me with condescension, the way most grownups do. “That’s so fucking cool.”
Brian
July 7, 1986
Hello. Can’t sleep. Annie’s snoring on the couch, but I’m not complaining—it’s a nice sound. She won’t take the upstairs bedroom my mother offered her—she wants to stay close to me. I think she wants my parents to see you can’t get it by touching. She’s always grabbing me, hugging me, kissing my face. It’s been a long time since anyone has held me so close. She’s irate my parents won’t tell anyone. She’s irate about a lot of things.
It’s been refreshing to have someone around to talk politics. Someone to rage against Reagan, or Bowers v. Hardwick—a homophobic sodomy law upheld by the Supreme Court that barely made the news here. Annie fumed, It’s about criminalizing gays, taking away our rights. She says my parents’ silence toward me comes from the same place—fear and maybe even hatred. God, I’ve missed her.
With Annie here, I don’t feel as alone. We stay up late, talking about the city, looking at pictures and reminiscing about Shawn and our friends. When that hurts too much, we swerve back to politics. Annie says something will change—it’s starting to feel different now in the city, all the queers on edge. Maybe all the sadness will build into a tsunami of rage.
Annie and my grandmother have hit it off splendidly, just like I figured they would. This afternoon we sat on the porch sweating in the disgusting humidity because Mamaw does not have central air, and bald Betty Russell came over to get a closer look at Annie—her punk hair and bangles and low-cut shirts turn heads around here. Betty studied Annie’s glittery fingernail polish. Lord, ain’t that something, she said, and Annie busted up. Jess also couldn’t stop laughing. For weeks now, Jess has been avoiding me, but now that Annie is here, she follows us around like a little stray cat, ears perked.
My parents don’t know what to make of Annie. Tonight she offered to cook dinner because she’s horrified by my mother’s meals—Hamburger Helper, chipped beef on toast. Annie’s no cook, let me tell you (sorry, hon), but she can throw a few basics together. I knew it killed my mother to give up control of her kitchen, but she was polite enough about it. Annie cooked a macrobiotic meal of grains and greens. My father said he wasn’t hungry. My grandmother kept saying, Isn’t this interesting? Jess pretended to like it, just to impress Annie. Dinner conversation started and stopped. Me eating off my special plates. Annie shooting me looks. I was nervous she’d say something.
When my mother asked her how she slept, Annie said not very well. It’s the quiet, she says. I’m a city girl. I need sirens, horns, people arguing. Then she says, It’s loud here in a different way. What’s all that noise at night?
This cracked Jess up. You mean crickets?
Annie doesn’t know much about kids or about the way this family operates. She says too much around Jess—about gays, or guys who are sick. Ignoring the looks I give her. She talks about her girlfriends—she has a new one, a butch artist, a redhead named Patty—but Jess thinks she’s using the word girlfriend the way straight ladies do.
Jess doesn’t know I’m gay, I keep reminding Annie. Or, that I have HIV.
Well, she should know, she says. It’s fucked up, your parents not telling her.
I don’t know why I defend them, but I do. They’re scared, I say. It’s complicated.
Annie keeps asking me about my plan. She’s worried about the monster waking back up. I keep telling her I feel fine. It’s a lie, and she knows it. Last night a blinding headache shook me awake, and the sight of food this morning made my stomach turn. I have moments where I forget. Until my body reminds me—and, like an eclipse, everything darkens.
Annie wants me to go to the doctor. I told her there is nowhere to go. She picked up the Boone County phone book, started making calls. She talked to every doctor’s office in Madison. Not one will see me. Annie slammed down the receiver, almost in tears. Fuck this place, she said, just fuck it.
July 8, 1986
It’s late, but I can’t sleep, as usual. This is my comfort, talking to you, whoever you are. Even with Annie here, I need this—the click of the tape in the camera, the red light. I mean, look, I know I’m probably saying too much—about my family, about private stuff. But I can’t stop. Maybe, one day, Annie will edit these for me. Though I can’t imagine she’ll do much censoring.
Anyway, today was a bad day.
It started off okay. Annie and Jess and I decided to go to Madison. I’ve already shown Annie just about all there is of Chester. It’s seriously like the 1950s here, she said.
We were planning to see Labyrinth, the new movie that stars David Bowie and a bunch of puppets. I also wanted to introduce Annie to Andrew, that gay salesman at Sears. I thought she’d get a kick out of his puffy hair and fake silk, but it was more than that—maybe I wanted to see him again.
After that day my grandmother and I went shopping, I couldn’t stop thinking about Andrew, and I went back a few days later. A chubby girl with dimples told me he had the day off, and I wrote down my parents’ number on a piece of register tape for her to give to him. He called the next day, said of course he remembered me. We’ve talked a few times on the phone. He keeps asking to meet up, but I always make an excuse.
So there we were, at the shopping mall. I’d been feeling a little queasy, but I thought I’d be okay. As soon as we sat down to eat, I knew I’d made a mistake.
I need to go to the bathroom, I said, trying not to yell. I’m sure I was yelling, I’m sure others noticed.
Annie stayed calm. Okay, honey, she said, and led me to the men’s room. I pushed past her. I locked the stall door and sat on the toilet and sobbed as the shit came out of me.
It wouldn’t stop.
What if it never stopped?
But it did. It eventually stopped.
After, I couldn’t even look at my little sister.
We left the mall. We didn’t see Andrew, didn’t see Bowie on the big screen, didn’t do a lick of shopping. On the way home, I rode in the back, windows rolled down and hot air blowing my clammy skin. Whatever Annie and Jess were talking about in the front, I couldn’t hear them. My stomach clenched and flipped, but I made it home without any accidents.
Later, Annie told me not to be embarrassed.
You know shit doesn’t bother me, she says. I mean, literally.
Her face was so serious that I cracked up, and then both of us were laughing and crying.
July 9, 1986
Today, Annie took me to the hospital in Madison, and she said we weren’t leaving until we saw a doctor. The receptionist’s face went green.
She goes, We can’t treat that here.
Annie explained I needed something for my nausea. You can treat him, she says.
She asked—demanded—for a doctor who specialized in infectious diseases, and the woman kept trying to put us off but Annie wouldn’t take no for an answer. We waited for three hours in the ER. I wanted to be angry, but I was embarrassed—the way the nurse looked at me, like I was filthy, like she didn’t care if I took my last breath right there in the waiting room.
Finally, another nurse called me in. She was covered up head to toe, latex gloves and a mask. She didn’t even take my temperature. She asked me what was wrong, and scribbled down a few things and left me there on the cold table. I waited another hour.
Finally, a sma
ll, brusque man came in, also suited up in a gown, gloves, and mask. Irritated, he said they only had one infectious disease specialist, who wasn’t on duty today. He obviously didn’t want to be in the room with me. I told him about my diarrhea, about my past battle with PCP. He checked my heart rate, gave my glands a quick pat. Then he wrote out prescriptions for Bactrim, sleep aids, anti-nausea meds. He didn’t care about my CD4 count or medical history. I had AIDS, that’s all he needed to know.
He begrudgingly told me the name of the infectious disease doctor. Dr. Patel. I said his name aloud, so I wouldn’t forget.
There’s nothing he can do for you either, the jerk says. You should contact hospice.
The disease can come for you in so many ways. Cancer, blindness, dementia, pneumonia, wasting. It’s never pretty, never easy. How much time do I have?
Once, Annie and I talked about it—how many pills would a person need? Could she put a plastic bag over my head? We didn’t make specific plans, but I told her, Do not let me suffer.
July 10, 1986
Remember me talking about Josh Clay?
Well, today, I was sitting on the front porch when a tan Corolla pulled up. I didn’t know who the hell it was. Nobody ever comes to visit.
A man got out. Thick neck, bulky arms, athletic legs, thin waist, the build of a dude who works out a lot. Spiked hair, an Izod shirt, boat shoes. A square. Yep. Fucking Josh Clay. He waved and bounded up the porch steps, smiling, eyes bright.
Hey, Brian. How are you?
He stood there, arms crossed, smiling, looking down at me. Smug, superior. I can’t believe he’s going to be a guidance counselor. Who would turn to him for guidance? He said he was just driving by, saw me sitting here, thought maybe I’d want to talk.
I patted the space next to me on the porch swing in a flirty way, and told him to take a seat. He smiled politely, stayed standing.
He asked how I liked being back in Chester.
When I told him it was fine, he looked disappointed with my answer. I lobbed the question back. What about you? I asked. Why’d you come back?
He seemed surprised—maybe nobody had ever asked him that—and for a moment, I saw him as he’d been as a boy, flushed cheeks, a wide open face. He told me he and his wife had liked Cleveland, but he was having trouble finding a job. It just kinda worked out. My dad told me the high school here was looking for a guidance counselor, he said. What I really I want is to be a minister.
I told him he’d make a good one.
Josh smiled, showing off his nice teeth. He said his father was old-fashioned and wouldn’t listen to his ideas for building up the church—for TVs, a rock band. I was surprised by how open he was being, how talkative. He didn’t want to be in Chester either. He had his own dreams. But the more he talked, the more preacher-like he sounded, and I was getting tired of it.
He took a step closer to me. He dropped his voice, like we were swapping secrets. Brian, can you tell me the truth? he says.
About what? I asked.
He says, There are rumors going around.
A whoosh of heat passed between my ears. I went deaf. Then, as quickly as it arrived, the hot wind disappeared. I heard a cardinal calling, and the squeak of the swing. Josh watching me. I just sat there swinging back and forth, back and forth.
About what? I repeated. I tried to appear bored, but my mind was racing—he knows, he knows, he knows. I shouldn’t be surprised. I told Gus, and Gus told his wife, who is best friends with Josh’s wife. Or maybe Gus himself told Josh. People were talking, speculating.
Is it true? he asked.
But he couldn’t say the word, nobody can. Fuck it, I thought. I wanted to make him squirm, and I checked him out the way I might cruise a guy at a club, even though he’s totally not my type. He blushed—it was getting to him.
Then he goes, I’m here to help you.
Help me?
He was wound up, his tan healthy face shining in the sun, giving me a look like he was waiting for me to confess. He says, God loves you. No matter what. If you repent, you can be saved. But, you have to come clean. It’s not right, you not telling people. People have a right to know.
That’s when Annie came out of the house. She called out to me, Honey, you want a milkshake? She was wearing very short cutoff jeans, a black T-shirt. No bra.
I introduced them. I said, This is Josh Clay, the minister’s son.
Annie got my tone right away. She sat next to me on the swing, and put a protective hand on my knee, eyebrows raised, daring Josh.
He looked deflated. I remember him walking in to the locker room, Hey, guys, he’d call out, all cheery and hopeful, and the team would just ignore him or tell him to shut up, preacher boy. He had that same look of disappointment now. But he recovered quickly.
Come back to church, he said, flashing a snake-oil preacher smile. You’re welcome too, Annie.
No thanks, she says. Church isn’t my thing.
We watched him drive away, and then Annie asked what the hell was that about. Is he trying to save you? she asked.
Maybe, I said. Maybe he is.
Jess
Annie drives Brian and me around in the car she got from the friend who died, and she’s right, she is an awful driver—she takes curves too fast, drifts too close to the center, and soars over hills. She plays tapes of punk bands with loud guitars and drums, and screaming vocals. Brian says she has an amazing voice, but Annie won’t sing for me—it’s the only time she’s shy.
Outside of Colby, she pulls into the Dairy Freeze. “Look at this adorable place,” she says. Annie is a city girl, and everything here is cute or hilarious or terrifying.
We walk up, and the girl behind the counter stares at Annie, who’s wearing rainbow stripes of eye shadow. Then she sees Brian’s video camera and puts her hand up in front of her face.
“What do you want, Jess?” Annie asks.
“Uh, nothing.” My stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten anything today.
“Come on, you have to get something. You’re too young for this diet bullshit.”
She orders each of us a sundae—hot fudge for me, strawberry for Brian, and caramel for her.
“What happened to macrobiotics?” Brian asks.
“Dessert doesn’t count.”
Annie and Brian dip their spoons into each other’s plastic bowls. I know you can’t get it like that, but it still doesn’t seem like a good idea.
“Shawn would have turned this place on its head,” Annie says. “He’d be talking to everyone, queening it up.”
Brian cuts eyes at her. “Anyway,” he says, trying to change the subject. “We should get back. Mamaw wants us to come over.”
Whenever Annie mentions Shawn, he gives her a look. They don’t know I know about him. Or about Brian. Nobody does—except Josh Clay. I’ve been nervous that he’ll tell Brian. Every time the phone rings I feel sick to my stomach. What would Annie think of me if she knew I told him? I can’t ever go back to youth group. Not now. Not ever. If my parents make me go to church, I’ll avoid Josh. I’ll pretend to know nothing.
The sweetness of the sundae shoots through me, stopping the hunger pains. We climb into the car, Brian riding shotgun. Cassettes are scattered all over the backseat and the floor. My mouth tastes sweet, my lips are sticky. Annie blasts Bowie and we scream the words into the wind. There’s a starman waiting in the sky. My hair blows across my face. I scoot as close as I can to the front seat, leaning in between Annie and my brother. I don’t want her to ever leave.
The downstairs has been transformed by Annie’s skirts and tank tops and cut-up T-shirts thrown over the recliner and sofa, and exploding from her open suitcase like confetti. Everything Annie touches—even our dark, sad house—jolts to life.
“I have an idea,” she says.
She goes down the hall to Brian’s bathroom and comes back with her giant makeup bag, pink and gray leopard print, as big as a football.
“Let me do your face.”
“
No,” I say, shy. “I don’t—”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Annie rummages through the bag and lines up several pencils and wands and square eye shadow cases. She holds my chin in one hand and tells me to look up. I hear her breathing as she brings her face closer to mine. She draws under my eyes with a pencil, and sweeps a brush lightly along my cheekbones. It tickles.
“Now for the best part.” She turns the bottom of the silver tube of lipstick and the waxy stick rises, a little red flag. “Relax your mouth.”
I try not to flinch, but it feels funny, her face so close to mine. Her eyes narrow with concentration. I look past the swirls of green and blue eye shadow, and teal-colored mascara, to her dark brown eyes with specks of green and two black watermelon seeds in the centers.
“Okay, go like this,” she says, smacking her lips.
When I do, she laughs. “You look fabulous.”
Brian says, “You’re a rock star.”
They tell me to check myself out in the mirror, and after a moment of hesitation, I go down the hallway. This is the first time I’ve been in Brian’s bathroom. I don’t touch anything except the light switch. Annie’s skimpy underwear and a lacy blue bra, with saucer-size cups, hang from the shower rod, and I stare, then look away, embarrassed.
Stuff is scattered all over the sink. Annie’s hair products and jewelry, Brian’s hair products and jewelry. I stare at my reflection. Not me, but someone else: a girl with electric-blue eyelashes, rouged cheeks, and full, red, glistening lips. I look strange and new, and even pretty. For a few seconds, I don’t recognize myself. Then, the moment passes, and I see myself underneath the makeup. You can disappear and never disappear. Heavy in your skin, but not here at all.
Tomorrow, Annie goes back to New York. She’s changed the way things feel in this house, made them louder and happier. And, she’s made my brother laugh.
“I guess it’s supposed to look like the ocean in here, right?” Annie asks.
“I don’t know,” I lie, seeing how babyish my room must look to her. My mother helped me design it when I was eight years old, choosing just the right shade of aqua blue for the walls and a sandy-brown carpet.
The Prettiest Star Page 13
