by Nicola Haken
“It’s just Ben and Kyle being dicks. They’re takin’ the mick, that’s all,” he said. Maybe I’d have believed him if he’d made eye contact with me instead of staring at the button on his blazer as he fiddled with it.
“You know, I was your age when I realised I’d always felt different to my friends. I tried to hide it, though looking back it was pointless.” A small chuckle leaked from my throat. “For some of us it’s just obvious.”
“What are you tryin’ to say?” Ty’s back stiffened, and what appeared to be anger heated his cheeks. “Just ‘cause you’re a bender doesn’t mean I am too!”
“Don’t call me that. Please, don’t ever call me that.” It wasn’t so much the word, more the way he said it that offended me. Like queer, a lot of words that had been created to be derogatory had been reclaimed by some members of our community. It wasn’t uncommon for Rhys and I to toss around words like bender or homo during our conversations, but they were laced with playfulness and pride. When spat like venom, coated with disgust, as Tyler just did however, the words took on an entirely different meaning. When used in that way, they were meant to cause hurt and shame.
“Dammit, Tyler. I might not have been the best parent to you but I’ve raised you better than to spout homophobic crap like that.”
Sighing, he ran a hand over his face. “I…I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Look, I’ve got a girlfriend. Leanne. I’ll bring her ‘round for tea if you don’t believe me.”
Getting up from the chair, I joined Ty on the couch and bumped his shoulder with mine. “You don’t have to prove your sexuality to me, Ty. Just know you can talk to me about anything. I don’t like you keeping stuff from me.”
“You keep stuff from me,” he countered, and I knew instantly where this was going. “I’m not stupid. I know you weren’t with Rhys on Sunday.”
Here goes nothing. “No, I wasn’t. I had a date. His name’s Seb.”
Ty angled his head to the side, giving me a sly smile. “About time. I was starting to think you were training for the priesthood.”
Tipping my head back, I laughed out loud. “I’ve heard some crap leave that mouth of yours, but I think that wins them all. So…you don’t mind?”
“Why would I mind? Maybe if you got laid once in a while it’d stop you being so grumpy.”
“Tyler!” I smacked his shoulder. “You shouldn’t even know what laid means at fourteen,” I said, which was bollocks, but I preferred to pretend he was still the innocent little boy I used to read bedtime stories about farting bears to.
He cocked an eyebrow at me. “I’m fifteen in four weeks,” he reminded me, as if I’d forget something so important.
“I’m aware. And for the record, it’s the fact you have a stinking attitude and don’t tidy up after yourself that makes me so grumpy.”
He smiled, but didn’t make any promises to change. “Is that why you’ve never had a boyfriend?” he asked. “Because of me?”
“No.” My answer wasn’t a lie. I’d made the decision to dedicate my time to Tyler, to press pause on my life. “My priorities changed when Mum died. You needed me, and I chose to be there for you as much as I possibly could. You’re still my first priority, Ty. You always will be.”
“I always thought it was just ‘cause you’re a bit, you know, weird.”
“Weird?” I repeated, jerking my head back.
“You know, the make-up and stuff. I just thought you couldn’t get a boyfriend.”
I smiled at his honesty. “It’s part of who I am. Some guys like it, some don’t.”
“But in general, people must look at you funny. Doesn’t that bother you? Don’t you ever just, I dunno, want to fit in? I don’t mean that to sound like I’m judging you. I just-”
“No, I get it,” I interrupted. He’d never asked me anything like this before, and honestly his candidness winded me a little. But I reminded myself that this was a good thing. We were talking, being open with each other. I sensed a deeper meaning to his question and I had to get this right. This was an opportunity to teach him, guide him, pass on my experiences of the world. “Honestly? Sometimes, yeah, because it’s easier. But I fight it.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re wrong. People who judge me are wrong. There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s nothing wrong with being gay, or how I dress, or how I choose to express myself. I’m not hurting anyone, but they’re hurting me. If I change to fit in with their misguided opinions then I’m just reinforcing them. On top of that, their lives wouldn’t alter. They don’t know me. They have an issue with gay people in general, not me personally. So, if I changed who I was to fit in with what they deem an acceptable society, it wouldn’t affect them, but it would affect me. I’d be living a lie. I’d be miserable, and they wouldn’t even know about it. They’d find another gay person to disapprove of. So why do that? Why change for people who don’t even know who I am?”
This all seemed like wonderful advice, and I felt a little ashamed of myself for not always following it. The truth was I did try to blend in sometimes, because what Tyler didn’t know is that the world offered far scarier things than funny looks. It once gave me a five-minute beating, three cracked ribs and a broken cheekbone, while two men chanted ‘dirty fucking tranny’ at me by a bus stop on my way home from work eight years ago. He was only six at the time, so it was easy enough to convince him that I’d fallen at the salon after picking him up from Mrs Henderson’s house when I returned from the hospital.
“Because you wouldn’t have to feel embarrassed or stupid,” Tyler said, his voice low, almost nervous.
“Anyone who makes you feel like that isn’t important. Life’s so short, Ty, and I know that’s hard to see when you’re only fourteen but it really is. Trust me, when you’re old and wrinkly and lying on your deathbed, you won’t be thinking of the passers-by or the people who gave you strange glances. You’ll be thinking of those you loved, those who made you happy. Live for them. Live for you. No one else.”
“Yeah,” he agreed with a sigh. “Maybe.”
“Your tea’s in the microwave,” I said, patting his back when I figured he wasn’t going to say anything else. “Then maybe you can tell me all about Leanne?”
Jumping from the couch, he nodded enthusiastically. “Sure,” he said. “She’s great. Well fit, too. Ben’s proper jealous. Reckons he’s not but he is.” His eyes widened as he spoke about her, which was adorable but also left me feeling a tad confused. I’d half-convinced myself my little brother was gay. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
* * *
It’d been a strange week. Dare I say happier? There’d been a shift in Ty’s attitude since our chat on Tuesday night and it was amazing how big an effect that had on the rest of my life. I felt calmer. More relaxed. I felt like I’d done something right. He was hardly the king of conversation, and he still did jack all to help around the house, but he’d started asking me about my day. On Thursday he told me my top looked nice, “If you’re into that kinda thing,” and last night he made beans on crumpets for our tea.
Little things, that made a huge difference.
I hadn’t seen Seb since we had dinner in his lorry but we texted and called each other every day, and each ping of my phone never failed to make my stomach react like a giddy twelve-year-old with their first crush. If it didn’t feel so good, I might’ve been embarrassed.
“Don’t forget your phone charger.”
Tyler pulled it out of his backpack to show me before putting it back inside. He was staying over at his friend Evan’s house tonight, which meant I didn’t have to rush home after my Miss Tique set, the first set I would be performing in front of Seb. I felt as nervous as I did excited about that.
“Call me if you need anything, and remember to be polite.”
He stopped stuffing the T-shirt into his bag to give me an I-don’t-need-a-speech look. “Don’t be a dickhead. Got it.”
He did that on purpose.
“Don’t swe
ar in front of his parents. Can you at least give the illusion that we’re a respectable family?”
Tyler snorted and shook his head as he pulled the zip closed on his bag. “Well Evan’s dad’s on a tag for glassing some guy in a pub fight, so compared to that we’ve nowt to worry about.”
Jesus Christ! “And you’re going to stay at his house?”
“Nah, it’s all right. Evan hasn’t seen him since he was a kid. He used to knock his mum around. His mum’s sorted init.”
Init. Ugh. That lazy shortening of ‘isn’t it’, which didn’t even make sense in most of the contexts he, and half the British youth of today, used it in.
“His house is mint. Proper big. His mum’s a dentist.”
Reassured, I nodded.
“Right, I’m off,” he announced, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Tomoz, fam.”
Tomoz? Fam? Rolling my eyes, I gripped the back of his neck and planted a kiss on the side of his head, mainly to piss him off, which it did.
Rubbing the kiss away with his hand, as if the whole world would be able to see it, he grumbled and jogged out of his bedroom, calling, “Laters!” as he ran down the stairs.
With having a rare day off from the salon, I had more time than usual to prepare for my show tonight. So, after hearing the slam of the front door, I headed straight for the bathroom where I planned to wax, pluck, and prune my body to absolute perfection before soaking in a lavender-scented bubble bath until my fingers and toes withered into prunes.
* * *
Later that night, I was in the dressing room at Glitter with Rhys, applying his make-up while discussing his non-existent love life. “I heard Chad has a thing for older guys,” I whispered, offering an inconspicuous nod towards Chad Bryson, the cute young bartender who was putting up a poster on the back of the door at the other side of the room.
“Bitch, please. I’m not saying he’s a slut, but the guy’s had more balls in his mouth than The Hungry Hungry Hippos. I might be pushin’ forty, but I’ve still got standards.”
I had to stop applying his eyeliner mid-stroke, my hand vibrating from the laughter. “Do you want to look like you’ve been punched in the face?”
“Sorry,” he said, steeling his expression. “Carry on.”
“What about Daryl?” I side-eyed Daryl Taylor – AKA Bryony Silverbush, as he fixed his bra into place a couple of dressing tables away. Daryl was a total bitch, but I’d heard he had a dick so big he had to check it as excess baggage at the airport.
Rhys wrinkled his nose like he’d just stepped in a pile of steaming manure. “I’d rather lick piss off a stinging nettle than get into bed with that.”
If they awarded Oscars to the general public for dramatic performances, Rhys would win outright every single time. “Honestly, I don’t think-”
“Hey, Olli,” Chad called, interrupting me. “There’s someone here to see you about your grandma. Said it’s important.”
My grandma? Holding the eyeliner mid-air, I turned to Chad, pursing my eyebrows. “I don’t…” My words fell away when I saw Seb, complete with that mischievous grin of his, appear behind Chad.
He strolled up to me before bending down and pecking my cheek with a gentle, barely-there kiss that set my nerves on fire.
“My grandma’s dead,” I told him, feigning a scolding expression.
“Condolences. I couldn’t think of another excuse to get me back here.”
Shaking my head, I just…stared at him. I’d missed him. I’d missed how his presence made me feel. Lighter, somehow. Almost like, not only had I hit pause on my life ten years ago, but I’d unconsciously held my breath, too.
And now I could breathe again.
Rhys made a very exaggerated point of clearing his throat, reminding me of his existence and pulling me from the trance I’d unwittingly slipped into.
“Hey. I’m Seb,” Seb introduced himself, proffering his hand.
Ignoring the gesture, Rhys offered up his cheek instead, tapping it with the tip of his ruby-red false nail. It didn’t surprise me that Seb obliged, lowering his head and smacking an audible kiss on the side of Rhys’ face. Seb was a confident man, far more confident than me, which was ironic really, considering I would be heading out on stage, dragged up to the heavens to perform in front of a crowd of strangers in just over an hour.
But that wasn’t me. That was Miss Tique.
“You’re not supposed to be back here,” I said, giving Seb my best stern look. “It’ll ruin the illusion.”
“I don’t know anyone out there. I looked like a creep sitting there on my own.”
“In fairness, sweetness, you kinda look like a creep back here, too,” Rhys teased when he caught Seb eyeing up his breast plate.
Seb didn’t seem to care that he’d been busted because he continued to ogle Rhys’ boobs. “Sorry, but they’re pretty fascinating.” He reached out, hovering his hand over one of the fake nipples. “Can I touch ‘em?”
“Sure.” Rhys arched his back, pushing his chest out. “Give ‘em a good ol’ fondle.”
Seb stroked and squeezed at the rubber, nodding in approval, while I just watched with an amused grin on my face.
“Ah, that’s it, baby,” Rhys moaned. “Right there.”
“You two finished?” I cut in. Somehow, I thought these guys could be great friends, and I couldn’t decide if that was a good, or very annoying thing. “Gimme your face,” I said to Rhys, hoping to finish his make-up before Christmas rolled around.
Seb pulled up a stool and sat down next to me, and even though my concentration was fixed on Rhys’ eyes, I could feel him studying my every move. It made me oddly nervous, and I had to pay much more attention to every swipe of my pencil than I usually would.
“You’ve got really steady hands,” Seb noted, his voice curious, maybe even impressed.
Placing the pencil down on the table, I picked up a small brush and swirled it around in the little pot of charcoal eye-shadow, tapped it against the back of my hand, and then swept it across Rhys’ eyelid. “I’ve been playing with make-up since I was four,” I told him. “I’ve had lots of practice.”
Even as a young child I saw what a difference make-up made to my mum. It changed her. It made her smile, gave her confidence, made her feel pretty and good about herself. I used to wonder if it had magic inside, if maybe that’s why it glittered and shimmered against her skin. If mums could paint their faces with magic, why couldn’t I? I wanted to feel pretty too. She soon learned that her make-up bag wasn’t safe from my small, inquisitive hands, and when I was five she got me my very own. She filled it with all her old stuff – her broken lipsticks and clumpy mascaras - and I’d spend hours up in my room making myself look beautiful. On reflection, I looked like Ronald McDonald with alcohol poisoning, but Mum always told me I looked perfect.
“Right,” I said to Rhys, pushing back on my wheeled stool. “You’re on your own now, babe. I’ve gotta get ready myself. Which means you…” Turning to Seb, I jabbed him in the chest with my finger. “Need to leave.”
Pouting, he huffed through his nose.
“I get enough-” I cut myself off, choking on the sudden lump in my throat when I realised I’d almost said I got enough of that attitude at home. “Go on. Shoo,” I said, waving my hands, hoping he didn’t notice the flush of panic in my cheeks.
“This act of yours better be worth it,” he teased, dragging himself to his feet before making his way to the door.
“Mine is, sweet cheeks!” Rhys called over his shoulder. “Get a seat up front. I’ll be on in fifteen to give you the show of your life!”
Seb’s eyes widened in what looked like a little fear. It made me chuckle.
“Am I going to regret meeting him before the show?” he whispered.
I considered reassuring him, but that was no fun. “Probably.”
As soon as Seb was out of sight, I pulled my vest up and over my head and tossed it onto the velvet couch next to the clothes rail. Rhys hogged the mirror
and dressing table nearest the wall so I sat down on the one next to him and plucked a cleansing wipe from the pack in the drawer, scrubbing it over my face.
“I like him,” Rhys said. “He’s cute.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, my tone pathetically dreamy. “I like him too. God, I’m nervous though. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to sing.”
Wiggling his auburn wig into place, his gaze fixed on the tall mirror in front of him, Rhys laughed. “Wait until you’ve got your slap on, girl. Miss Tique won’t let you down.”
“Yeah.” I sucked in a long breath, filled with determination. “You’re right.”
The music out front died down, replaced with Tim’s voice booming through the microphone, announcing the first act of the night.
“That’s me,” Rhys sang before blowing himself a kiss in the mirror. Fixing a hand on his hip, he brought Violet Gold to life with a click of his fingers and sauntered away to take up her spot on the stage, while I turned back to my table and started the process of covering the fading bruises on my wrist with camouflage make-up.
I didn’t normally leave myself so little time to get ready for a show, but I’d wasted three hours gluing diamantés to my knee-high boots this afternoon because I wanted every part of my outfit tonight to look extra spectacular for my new audience member. He was also the reason that I completed my transformation by staining my lips a rich purple, before coating them with a glittered plum gloss.
Once Miss Tique was ready, I stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror for a minute or so, wondering what Seb would think when he saw her. He’d seen me in make-up before, but nothing like this. My make-up was subtle and enhancing. The point of a drag queen, however, was to take the beautiful parts of a woman and ramp them up to full speed. Exaggerate. Amplify. Go bigger. Go bolder. Miss Tique’s make-up was daring and in your face. She had eyelashes you could hang shopping bags from.
