Evan and Lucy reconvened with Katie and Ben, who had found himself a copy of Exile on Main St. Lucy wrapped her arm around Ben’s as they passed the two boys on the way out. Evan was proud of her, though he wasn’t sure what his dad would say, or what the rules actually were in that kind of scenario. Aww, to hell with it, Evan thought.
“Lucy is cool,” Ben whispered to Miss Katie.
“I know,” Miss Katie said. “She’s my best friend, for crying out loud.” Evan knew what she was feeling. He was looking at Lucy a little differently himself.
NOWHERE MAN
Lucy and Evan arrived at Marshall’s basement Thursday afternoon for the first annual Christmas Eve Extravaganza, which promised vomit-inducing saccharine Christmas cheer. Standing in the basement doorway before them was Tim, his hand in a bloodied bandage, his arm stained red.
“What’s wrong with your hand?” Lucy asked.
“Oh, nothing, I just thought it would be, like, a cool re-introduction for us,” he said. “Do you like it? No?”
“It’s pretty damn cool,” Lucy agreed. “I wish I’d had warning. I’d have come in theme.”
Marshall’s basement was like the North Pole for homosexuals. A giant Christmas tree lounged in the corner, relaxing its limbs as far as they’d reach, spilling out on the floor. One of the walls was brick and held large Gap posters of shirtless men. Lights spread along the walls like rainbows, pink and purple and blue and red.
“We were kind of hoping you guys were Christmas carolers,” Marshall said. “But, you know, you’ll do.”
Marshall and Tim were wearing matching snowflake sweaters. “Do you love our sweaters?” Tim asked Lucy and Evan. “They’re going to double for our bad-sweater party. You guys should totally come.”
“I wish I could,” Lucy said, laughing. “If we could combine that with bloody appendages, it’s like my dream party.”
“Oh, you have to meet Fern!” Tim said. “He’ll be so excited. There are never any women around here.”
Fern was Marshall’s guinea pig, and, sure enough, he couldn’t have been more excited to see Lucy. Marshall took him out of his cage and he did backflip after backflip. “He’s trying to impress you,” Marshall said.
After Fern’s performance, they went upstairs for the baking portion of the day. The plan was to make red-and-green cupcakes, wreath cookies, and hot chocolate to wash it all down. Evan imagined that by the end of the evening they’d be running up the walls and jabbing themselves with insulin.
Marshall gave Lucy the full story of how he had met Evan.He told her about Art Studio 3, the class they had shared.They had bonded over comic books and talked all class about Marvel superheroes. They had collaborated at the end of junior year on a series of fine paintings of Spider-Man in the styles of artists like Lichtenstein, Monet, and Picasso.
Evan told her about the movie Tim and Marshall had been plotting for as long as Evan had known them, the movie with no script or real scenes or characters or ideas. It was just about ready to shoot, Tim told her. This much was known: It was a horror movie. There would be a pantsless Santa. Tim wanted gore. Marshall was more keen on psychological horror. Evan was playing Santa.
Lucy wanted in. “You have to do it before I leave! I want to be in this more than anything!” Lucy groveled. This was the most active Evan had seen her since she’d arrived; she was almost like an entirely new person. Or an entirely old person, as her personality now felt more like Old Lucy than he’d seen in a while. They settled on finally filming this cinematic masterpiece next week, before Lucy went back home. Talk of Lucy’s leaving made Evan’s stomach drop like an anchor, but he knew there was still plenty to do before then. They’d have a horror short filmed, for one thing, and then she’d always be just a DVD away.
Evan, Lucy, Tim, and Marshall munched on cookies and cupcakes in the basement as the Christmas classics marathon began.
“You’re going to love this,” Tim told Lucy, searching the DVD rack. “It’s about a little boy, and he’s bald and no one likes him, but you’re going to want to take him into your home.” Tim continued to talk up Charlie Brown as if no one had ever heard of him, and Lucy cracked up and joined the fun.
“Is his dog boring?” she asked.
“Oh, heavens no,” Tim said. “Charlie’s dog can turn into all kinds of different characters, and he can make his doghouse fly. He’s going to change your whole life.” Evan and Lucy and Tim and Marshall talked and laughed all through Charlie Brown’s anxiety-ridden holiday.
“Now this guy,” Tim said, changing the DVD after Snoopy won his Best in Competition prize. “This guy is a bad kid and he has ADD and he’s no Charlie Brown, but I think you’ll love him all the same. And don’t be frightened, but he’s a talking chipmunk.”
Marshall’s dad came downstairs after the cartoons had ended. He was short and portly, had curly receding hair, and wore glasses. His eyebrows curved in a way that gave his face a constant look of worry, despite his large smile. Marshall and Tim had warned Lucy he might drop in. Mel was what Marshall and Tim called a weeper, and he did not disappoint.
“Hey, guys, is it cool if I drop in or am I ruining the party?”
“Hi, Mr. Catalano,” Tim said.
He raised his eyebrows and paused before saying, “Tim, you can call me Mel.”
“Sorry, Mel,” Tim said, blushing.
“Hi, Mel,” Evan said, standing to shake his hand. “This is Lucy.”
“Hi, Evan, hi, Lucy, nice to meet you,” Mel said with a big, nervous smile, shaking their hands with both of his. Mel stood up straight, holding an already half-eaten cookie. He took a big, deep breath and looked around at the Gay North Pole. He took another bite of his cookie. His cheeks were rosy and the smile never left his face. He surveyed the scene as if it were a Polaroid, already some nostalgic memory.
“Seems like just yesterday I was baking you cookies, Marshall,” Mel said. “And you were just a little boy.”
Tim and Marshall shared an embarrassed look. Evan enjoyed Mel, though; he thought he was a sweet guy.
“Now you’re all grown up,” Mel continued. “You’ve got your own friends, your own life, your own parties, and your own cookies.” Mel was laughing. “Aww, look at me, I am ruining your party.”
“It’s all right,” Tim said. “You’re not ruining anything.”
“No, no, you guys have your fun. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas.”
“Love you, Dad,” Marshall said, waiting for him to go back upstairs.
Marshall exhaled after his dad took the last step up the stairs and went down the hall. It was like a tornado had run through the party, and now it was time for recovery efforts. “Sorry about that,” Marshall said. “He’s really sensitive.”
“That’s fine,” Evan said. “He could have stayed and watched movies with us.”
“Please, he breaks down crying watching The Simpsons,” Marshall said. Lucy told him about her dad and his inability to move on with his life since her mom had left him. Marshall responded that he didn’t know what his dad was going to do when he went off to college in the fall. He’d be living in New York, and the thought of Mel just wandering the house alone broke his heart.
“At first I was sad because my dad was, but now I’m just sad in general. I need to stop growing, like, now,” Marshall said.
“Me too,” Lucy said, her shoulders slumped.
“Let’s just all stop growing,” Tim contributed. Suddenly, Evan felt he was on the outs here. He liked growing up. He was looking forward to college and life after. He figured he’d see his parents and Gram often enough and they’d keep busy. Last Sunday had proved he didn’t need to be physically present to be a part of family conversation. He leaned back into the couch and listened.
“You’ve changed the most,” Marshall said to Tim. “You weren’t even gay until last year.”
“I know, I was so straight, right?” Tim said. “I got to have my big moment, and call all the people I hadn’t talked to in forever
to let them know. I told my parents, and my friends. I thought everyone was going to hate me, but apparently they all knew already. But I didn’t even know!”
“They stole your moment!” Lucy said, commiserating.
“I had no such issues,” Marshall said, crossing his legs. “I was born a gayby.”
“Aww, you were a gayby?” Lucy gushed.
“I seriously was,” Marshall said. “I was allergic to breast milk.”
Everyone laughed. Evan was glad Lucy was getting along with his friends. He wished they had more time, that she could come along on their Anything-Goes Fridays or have lunch outside with them in the fall and spring. She’d fit right in.
“Still,” Marshall said, uncrossing his legs and remembering he was depressed, “I’m way too mature now. Being a gay kid is basically being an alone kid, and sitting in my room, sullen and mopey and expressing it through Goth clothing and eye makeup and whatever. It was really pretty awesome. I miss it.”
“Again,” Evan said, looking at Marshall and Lucy, “it’s like you have the same life. Lucy, are you a gay boy?”
“I think I am,” Lucy said, and laughed.
Marshall sighed. “It’s like I’m adapting to society, or society is adapting to me. It’s so boring!” Marshall stuck out his tongue in distaste.
“We’re all changing,” Evan said, sinking into the couch and putting a foot up on his knee. “I have issues, too. I’m scared to death to even apply to a college because I feel like it’s declaring my entire future in such a small step.” Evan backtracked on the complaint. “It’ll be good. It’s just… it’s such a big change for such a tiny action.”
“I didn’t know you were having doubts,” Lucy said, looking at Evan.
“It’s not like it’s just me or anything,” Evan said. “I wish there was more time. I really don’t know what to do.” He was surprised to hear himself say that. He’d been moving along without missing a beat. Mostly following a path, though; his mom and dad picked out most of his activities, suggested schools. All of that was like a flashlight in the dark. He could see the light where they shined it, but outside that circle was darkness, and he didn’t have a damn clue what was in it.
“Okay,” Marshall said, leaning forward and clasping his hands. “It’s ten years from now. Where do you see yourself?”
Evan thought of the darkness outside his spotlight. “I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer, try again!”
Evan thought harder. “I guess I’d like a family,” he said, and he could see his mother smiling. The light grew a little. “A house. I don’t know. A kid? A dog?”
“All right,” Tim said, barely accepting this, but encouraging more.
Evan thought of his dad. “I’d like to be financially secure. I’d like to be successful at something, respected in my field.”
“So you want family,” Marshall said matter-of-factly. “A high-paying job, respect, yada yada yada. That about it?” Marshall sounded tired just reading off the list.
“Basically,” Evan said, and laughed. “That’s normal, come on.”
“All right, just say you’ll be doing some kind of art, at least, okay?” Marshall pleaded. The flashlight jerked to the left. “I live to express myself. My dream in life is to do a one-man show, and I live out my entire being through monologue and song and dance and I scream and cry and by the end of the show I run into the audience and beat the hell out of every person there.”
“I love you so much, Marshall,” Lucy said. “You can beat the hell out of me anytime.”
“Aww,” Marshall said. “I love you, too. You’d totally get a pass.”
“I don’t have that much to express,” Evan said. The flashlight was turned off. “I’m generally pretty content.”
“Your demons are just hidden well,” Marshall said. “We’ll pull them out of you. We can do an exorcism.” Tim and Marshall and Lucy all looked at Evan like he was ready to explode and take out everyone.
“Stop it,” Evan said, laughing. He was pretty sure he was demonless. In this group, feeling content was a bad thing, and dysfunction was a badge of honor. Evan wouldn’t want a chipper, straight Marshall, though, or a sports-playing, straight-As Tim. He wouldn’t want Lucy to be any less spirited and independent. He’d even grown to appreciate her appearance. The nose ring was kinda cute. Evan wondered what they found appealing in him. Where was his quirky dysfunction?
“You just need to come to NYU with us,” Marshall said, “and the creativity will fall right out of you and you won’t be able to stop it. You’ll have a diarrhea of art.”
“Ew,” Evan said, and frowned.
“People go to New York to find themselves,” Marshall said. “The city is full of people chasing their dreams and finding other people chasing their own dreams, and chasing them together.”
“Will you guys go out with me?” Lucy asked them, starry-eyed. “You’re like my perfect two gay boyfriends.” Evan retracted from the conversation and wondered what dream he’d chase in New York City. It was abstract. Art, love, life, they were big shapeless ideas, and that made them scary.
They all sat on the couch together and watched Black Christmas, the 1977 version, and then Bad Santa. Evan felt scared for a while. And then he stopped thinking of colleges and cities and dark open spaces. Then he had a sugar crash and fell asleep on Marshall’s couch, and woke up covered in tinsel.
IN MY LIFE
Evan woke up around seven, as he did every Christmas morning. He walked downstairs with his hair a mess and sleep in his eyes. His parents and Gram were already awake, waiting for him in their pajamas. The living room was dark, though the blinds on the windows were open and light bounced off the snow from outside and onto the ceiling. The tree was lit in the corner of the room and hid a spread of presents, which Dad and Mom handed Evan with smiles as he sat on the floor between them. Mom held a large garbage bag to take all the wrapping paper as Evan went through his gifts.
Evan got: a netbook, for college; a microwave, for college; a thesaurus. All Dad gifts. Sweaters, pants, shirts (for college), new socks and underwear, two new hats, and a pair of gloves. Mom gifts. A couple of books, several pads of the expensive paper he liked to use, gift cards to iTunes and Amazon.com; thanks, Gram. And luggage, for coming home from college (Dad). Christmas was always big for the Owenses. Even years when money was tighter, his parents managed to go all out for Christmas. They’d say things like For working so hard this past year as they handed him gifts.
Evan got a cappuccino maker for his parents, which he’d been planning for months and which he also considered a gift for himself. He drew a comic strip for his grandmother, which he was sure would be framed and viewable for the next twelve months.
Everyone hugged and Evan had his hair ruffled.
By ten, visitors had begun to fill out the house. Children ran around with their 3-D video-game pets and dolls that had larger wardrobes than the kids had themselves. Evan’s hair was combed nicely by then. He wore a blue sweater over a light button-down shirt. He sat on the end of the couch in the living room, reading one of the books he’d gotten, Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. The Walt Disney parade was on TV, and a teenager with piles of hair and frozen red cheeks was singing love songs to a dark gray Muppet with long blond hair.
There was food everywhere: pigs in blankets, shrimp, deviled eggs, tortillas and salsa. Evan’s cousin’s dog was running back and forth from the living room to the kitchen, where all the adults were, his nose raised high, waiting for the food that would inevitably fall to the floor. Evan got down on the ground and wrestled him into submission, rubbing his belly until he was in dog heaven.
Evan went into the kitchen to wash his hands. His parents and grandmother were there, as well as an aunt and uncle and a few of his cousins. His grandmother was telling them all a story from back in the summer, when she’d been out shopping with Mom and they’d come across a heavily tattooed young woman. His grandma had always been fascinated by ta
ttoos, so she asked the woman about them, and eventually asked to see the large tattoo design that took over her back, prompting the woman, glad to be asked, to lift up the back of her shirt for Gram to see it fully. Gram was a ham at these parties. She loved her family and she loved telling stories.
“I always wanted George to get a tattoo for me and he never would,” she said of Evan’s late grandfather. “For Christmas, he’d say, every time. And every Christmas I thought, This will be the year, but it never was. Now I’ll never get my tattoo.”
This could have been a morose scene, but the family knew that Gram had long come to terms with his passing, which was peaceful and natural and all you could ask of such things, so Evan knew this was all said in good spirits.
“What I really wanted was my name tattooed on his arm—that’d really let me know how much he loved me. But oh, well.”
“I’ll do it, Gram,” Evan said, joining in the conversation.
“Oh, Evan,” she said. “I’d be absolutely touched if you did.”
Evan hadn’t expected that answer, and neither had anyone else, as they all laughed.
“Now you have to do it!” his cousin said. “Didn’t think of that, did ya?”
Evan walked back into the living room to find Lucy there, standing uncomfortably by the door.
“Hey, I didn’t hear you come in,” Evan said. “Merry Christmas.”
“You look nice,” Lucy said, and touched his hair, as if to see if a gentle poke would send it right back to its usual mess. They stood for a moment, and then hugged, unsure if you were supposed to hug after spending the last few days together. Evan smelled alcohol on Lucy’s breath as he got in close.
“Have you been drinking?” he asked her quietly.
“I don’t know,” Lucy said. “Jesus. Merry Christmas to you, too.”
Winter Town Page 9
