by J. C. Lillis
“A lot?”
“A lot.”
I tug at the wayward sequin on my jeans, trying to square Abel’s soaring love monologue with the fact that he was the actual breaker-upper.
“How did you guys come back from that?” I swallow hard, thinking back to the Chelsie thing. How I didn’t write a song for six months after things ended—and that was just a friendship. Basically.
“It took us a couple years to recover. Be friends again. It’s a miracle that it happened, but you know—Abel doesn’t give up on people lightly.”
“Right.” I wouldn’t either, if I had people I was that close with.
“And now he’s like the constant in my life…that friend who knows me better than anyone, because he’s seen my worst.” He smiles a little. “Before I came out here? We’d talk on the phone every Monday, no exceptions. We help each other with stuff. We’re honest with each other. We make each other laugh. No sex or relationship drama getting in the way.”
Yes. Yes. Helping each other. Being honest. The occasional laugh. These are all safe and acceptable things to do with fellow humans.
“We need to stay best friends. I mean, yeah, I still have feelings for him. I always will. But if I lost him—if I lost who he is to me, I…don’t know how I’d fill up that hole.” I think a silent That’s what he said. “We’ve got this perfect thing going now. It works. Why the hell would we risk messing things up?”
I nod some more, because he’s right. Some relationships serve a sacred purpose: best friendship, creative collaboration. They are like triple-tier wedding cakes adorned with eight hundred delicate sugar flowers, and Sex-and-Love is the drunken uncle who unzips his fly on the dance floor and crashes face-first into the cake table.
I free the loose sequin from my jeans. I flick the red sparkle off my knee and watch it disappear in the shadows. And I make my decision.
I will nip this Ava thing in the bud.
Right the heck now.
Chapter Seventeen
Me: Are you awake?
I text with my left hand, biting at my right hand’s beetle-green thumbnail. A plate of broken snickerdoodle hearts keeps me company at the table. Abel’s gone to bed; Brandon’s still in the shed, plucking the chorus to “The Scientist” on his guitar. To prepare for this difficult talk, I have put on my favorite PJs, the light cotton ones printed with hearts and old-fashioned mixtapes.
Ava: No. I’m sound asleep and I’m having the weirdest dream. We were finishing dessert, I told you I was a lesbian, and you hung up on me.
Me: I did not!
Ava: You pretty much did.
Me: I’m so sorry…UGH
Ava: I don’t figure you for a bigot, FARG, so I hope there’s an interesting explanation.
Me: There is. Can you find somewhere private and call me?
She pauses for about half a century.
Ava: Give me a second.
I wait. Three minutes tick by. Five. I watch time pass and crunch on snickerdoodle parts until finally, finally the phone rings.
Ava says, “What’s going on?”
The cookie turns to sand in my mouth.
“I, ah…need to tell you something…”
“Yeah?”
I swallow. This is agony. I should have prepared a speech—why didn’t I write something down? I try to summon words but they’re not on my side now, they’re flitting inside me like crazed hummingbirds and everything’s a blur and when I open my mouth my default phrase pops out: “I am a proud bisexual.”
“I’m thrilled for you,” Ava says.
“There’s more.”
“Go ahead.”
“I seem to have developed a…you know. Crush-type situation. On you.”
She clears her throat. Then she goes, “Ah.”
“It’s bad,” I tell her.
“Yeah?”
I tell her about the historical violence crushes have wrought on my creative life. “It has to stop now, or I’ll completely lose focus on my show,” I explain. “I’ll smile onstage. I’ll stop being jealous. I’ll think of nothing but your happiness.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Reject me! Please. Be as mean as you can—like, tell me my songs suck. Insult my wigs. Tell me there’s no way you’d hook up with me in a million years. Then we can go back to normal.”
She lets out a long breath. Winding up, probably. Using all her literary talents to devise fabulous, crush-ending, cabaret-saving insults.
“I can’t do that, FARG,” she says.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m having…” She pauses and then says, possibly through clenched teeth, “Similar feelings.”
“Oh,” I say. Then I’m like, “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“When did this start?” I’m smiling. Oh Lord.
She mutters something.
“I didn’t catch that.”
“It was the bat, okay?”
“The Smash Session bat?”
“The way you twirled it onstage in the video. Like, menacingly.”
“That turned you on?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean—shit, why’d you have to bring this up?” Ava groans. “Everything was fine! I was getting a huge unrequited crush on you—you know how many songs I could’ve gotten out of that?”
“This sucks for me too!” I remind her. “I can’t be jealous of you if you’re making me all—all glowy and heart-eyed.”
“I’m making you glowy?”
“Sort of.”
“Fuck. What do we do?”
“I don’t know. We can’t go back. It’s out there now.”
“Think. What are our options?”
Her businesslike tone is instantly soothing. I pull a notepad from my pajama pocket. Lists can fix anything.
“One,” I say, praying she doesn’t like this one, “we can break off all contact with each other to minimize risk.”
“No. I won’t win Pop U without you.”
I know she means it in a practical sense but my insides go bubbly when she entwines us this way.
“Two.” I gulp. “We have a clandestine meeting and indulge our feelings for, ah…a single night of unfettered passion.”
“How would that help?”
“We’d get it out of our system.”
“Or make it worse.”
“I didn’t say it was foolproof. Three: You have a mad affair with Tera.”
“What?”
“It would make me super-jealous. And it would probably make you sad. She breaks all her lovers’ hearts.”
“My God.”
“Four…” I shake my head. This is so silly. “I don’t have a four, Ava. I’m sorry.”
I crumple the list.
“I can’t believe this.” I hear her pacing, boots click-clacking on the floor. “We had the best thing going.”
“We can save it! I know we can.”
“How?”
“Maybe all we need are a few days apart.”
“Maybe.” I hear a finger-snap. “Yeah, this could be collaboration high. You know?”
“Plus the sugar high. From the s’mores.”
“It’s false intimacy.”
“Like when actors work together and they think they’re in love, but then the filming stops and it turns out they’re not? Except when they are; I mean, sometimes they get married and have adorable children with names like Rocket and Sunday, but usually—”
“Stop talking.”
“Sorry.”
“Here’s the plan,” she says. “We focus only on our shows this week. We don’t talk. We don’t text. Then we reconvene Saturday morning to see if anything’s changed. Agreed?”
“Agreed. I’ll wish you luck now, then.”
“No need. I’ll crush them all into dust.”
I pause, because this villainess talk from her is making me warm in my mix
tape pajamas.
“Say more stuff like that,” I murmur.
“What, like…I’ll crush them?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll annihilate our enemies.”
“Mmm.”
“I’ll vaporize their verses. I’ll burn their bridges.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I’ll make them wish they never heard of music.”
“Wow.”
“FARG.”
“Yes?”
“Are you getting off on this?”
“A little.”
“I’m hanging up.”
***
As soon as she disconnects I get up from the table, retire to the bathroom, and hop in the shower. (I say “hop” but what I mean is “duck beneath the curtain rod and hunch with attempted dignity under Abel’s weird square shower head.”) I turn the water up to steamy hot and masturbate vigorously, not for any particular reason but because I do it five to nine times a week on average to release sexual energy and prevent creative blockage. When that’s done, I put my PJs back on and settle on the couch with my evening’s work:
Replies to fifty-nine cabaret-related tweets
A video Smash Session with a fan in Duluth
Responses to six emails and five handwritten cards and letters I’ve received in the past week
I fan the letters on the cushion beside me. I run my fingers over the stories they entrusted to me, and I crackle with love and devotion.
These are my people. The ones who really matter.
When I was ten I wrote Tera a twelve-page illustrated fan letter and received my first treasured possession in reply: a hand-autographed photo with Sweetie, I believe in you—keep dreaming and daring! written on the back in gold pen. I can do even better. I will write each Sour Ranger a three-page letter, single spaced. I will send them all a dozen bitter-chocolate truffles wrapped in green cellophane. I will draw them each a caricature of Evil Barrie on creamy archival-quality art paper and scrawl personalized encouragements on the other side, preferably until my fingers bleed.
And I will not think of Ava Alvarez, not even a little bit.
Chapter Eighteen
“Barrie!” Don calls. “Order up!”
I book it for the kitchen ledge, where three steaming plates of Sour and Sour Chicken wait for the four-top in Section 2. I clip Table Fourteen’s order to the ticket holder.
“Two Radicchio Risottos,” I call to Don, who’s cheerful in a new green KITCHEN BOSS apron as she teaches Jayson the prep cook how to brûlée a grapefruit. “And one Sour-Grape Gazpacho.”
“Another gazpacho?” Don tugs the order free. “Whoa. Fifth one tonight.”
“Word gets around.”
“Thanks to you.”
“I can’t take credit.” I load my arms with chicken plates and shoot her a smile. “Your genius is your own.”
“Table Twelve needs sour cream.” Kira bustles past me.
“No problem.”
“And that little booger-eater at Table Ten dumped cranberry juice on the floor.”
“On it.”
“Oh, and there’s a dragon in the dumpster out back,” says Don.
“Fetch me my sword, good woman,” I call over my shoulder. “I shall slay him forthwith!”
I deliver the chicken to Table Nine, rectify the sour-cream situation, and clean up the spill with diligence. I love my job at St. C’s, especially now. It is a very rewarding position, particularly for someone who enjoys organization, details, and abstaining from fantasies about her crush. Word about Don’s new menu has spread in the weeks since the cabaret started, so the dining room’s much busier and there is always something urgent to do. I sweep up messes. I scrub away stains. I take orders and bus tables in a cute red bob that renders me unrecognizable, even to myself. And as the First Annual St. Castaways Halloween Monster Mash approaches, I plan the world’s most excellent dance playlist with Abel.
“I’m putting in ‘Mr. Vain,’” he announces, as I scour a sticky ring of Bitter Caramel Espresso off the counter, “and taking out ‘Super Freak.’”
“No! Why?”
“It’s played out.”
“It’s fun! People love it.”
“At my brother’s wedding? My aunt and uncle grinded to it.” He wrinkles his nose. “What the fuck is the past tense of grind?”
“Say no more.”
“Your playlist final yet?”
“Just trying to pick a Go-Gos song.”
“Skidmarks on My Heart,” Kira says, rushing by.
“Um, ‘Head Over Heels,’ OBVIOUSLY.” Abel drapes an orange tinsel garland around his neck and tosses it over his shoulder like a boa. “I’m off to adorn the bar. Five minutes to Pop U, babe.”
“I’m not watching tonight.”
He double-takes like I’ve sprouted antlers. “Why not?”
“No reason.”
“Don’t you need your ‘jealousy jolt’ for your show tomorrow?”
“I’m trying something different this week.”
Abel squints at me.
I squint back.
“Something big happened with you two,” he says.
“Nothing happened.”
“It totally did, and I’m going to find out—” He cuts himself off mid-finger-wag; Brandon’s at the front door. “Hang on. I got customers.”
He hurries back to the bar. This is how it’s been with them in the days since their ill-fated movie night. They avoid each other mostly, and when they can’t it’s all limp jokes and awkward pauses.
Brandon makes his way through the lobby with a guy tucked under his arm. That would be weird except this one has a skeleton face, red eyes, scraggly gray hair, and a tattered black robe.
“Who’s the gentleman?” I grin.
“We met at the Halloween store. His name is Evan.”
“Pleased to meet you.” I shake Evan’s squishy rubber hand.
“Abel said to pick up a ‘Bloody Bertha,’ but they were out of her. So I got him instead.”
“Barrie!” Abel pokes his head out of the bar. “You’ve gotta see—hey.” He looks Evan up and down. “Is that a bog reaper?”
“Floating swamp ghost,” says Brandon.
“Aren’t they known for like, gross misconduct at dances?”
“Oh, only northern floating swamp ghosts. He’s from Arizona.”
“Pretty eyes.”
“Red is the new blue.”
“He can be your date.”
“Ooh. I was gonna go stag, but—”
“Why fight fate, right?”
“Yeah.” Brandon gives Evan a dorky once-over. “I’ve always been a little swamp-ghost-curious.”
“Well, remember, if you kids hook up?” Abel says. “Make sure you do it for the right reasons.”
Oh man. Ouch.
Brandon gives Abel a look.
Abel opens his mouth like he’s going to say sorry. Then he folds his arms and flicks his hair from his eyes.
Brandon stares.
Abel stares right back.
A million invisible cartoon lovebirds swarm around their heads and try to nudge them together, but they don’t notice.
“Order uuuup!” Don sings.
“Yeah, so.” Brandon tightens his arms around Evan. “I’ll, ah…put him upstairs. I guess.”
“See ya.” Abel waves. “Be good to each other, ’kay?”
Brandon scrambles away with the swamp ghost, tossing a glance over his shoulder.
I turn to Abel. My face is pure WTF.
“Oh, what?” He scuffs the floor with his boot.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Like I’m not allowed to be an asshole?”
“That’s not you.”
“That’s everyone sometimes, doll.”
“You guys need to talk. Like right now.”
“We do not.”
“Yes! You need to go up there
, have it out, and tell him—”
“Barrie?” He rests a hand on my arm. “Drop it.”
He means business, so I nod. I have never felt more like an annoying kid sister.
Weirdly, it feels kind of nice.
“What were you going to tell me before?” I bump his shoulder with mine.
“Oh! Yeah, uhh—Tera’s wearing white tonight and you can totally see her nips. Thought you might want to gape.”
“Barrie!” Don’s waving me down. “Order up!”
“In a minute,” I tell Abel. “Promise.”
I speed-deliver risotto and gazpacho to Table Fourteen and then take my break at the bar, where Pop U flickers on the flatscreen. I won’t stay long, I tell myself. I’ll just keep Abel company and peep at Tera; I’ll leave or avert my eyes when Ava pops onscreen. Between my job and the party prep and personalized letters to fifteen Sour Rangers, I’ve managed to keep my mind relatively Ava-proof for the past five days. There’s no way I’m risking a relapse the night before my next show.
“C’mere.” Abel motions me over. “Jaz just promised a ‘big twist.’”
“Oh, I shouldn’t—”
“Sit.” He slides me a Virgin Haterade.
“Now usually,” says Jaz Prentiss, who has a purple glittery bat on her black shirt, “we save family interviews for Top 3 week, right?”
Cut to the judges, nodding. Tera’s translucent shirt has white silken spiderweb overlays and oh, it’s glorious.
“…But this season we have such interesting families in the mix that we’ve decided to let you meet them now—and surprise our Top 6 with messages from their loved ones!”
Wait. This can’t be good. The camera pans the contestants slowly. Ukulele Johnny beams and claps in his aqua hipster beanie. Nia Hudson and Julia Scott clasp hands, delighted. Medora, in a black leather jacket and fluffy white skirt, makes a big show of dabbing her eyes.
Ava looks seriously freaked.
“What’s with your girl?” says Abel.
“She’s not my girl,” I murmur, but I want to be next to her right this minute. I want to wrap my arm around her and tell her no matter what the deal is with her family—whether they’re heartless tycoons or smarmy televangelists or eccentric hotshots who are always jetting off to Bora Bora and forgetting about her—I won’t judge her, and neither will anyone else. America loves her too much.
