by Nina LaCour
“I didn’t think I did, either. I’ve been waiting for this night for months. And then, I just…” I shrug. I feel my eyes well up.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says. “Don’t give up. It’s still tonight. Where were you supposed to meet her?”
“At this party.”
“Okay, and is it close?”
“Yeah, just through the park and over a few blocks.”
“Has anyone tried to get in touch with you?”
I groan. “I’m afraid to look.”
“Then hand it over.” He waits. I dig my phone out of my bag and place it, screen down, into the broad palm of his hand.
“Whoa,” he says, the light of the screen illuminating his face. “Twenty-three texts from Lehna Morgan.”
“Go ahead.”
“Want me to read them all or just the highlights?”
“Just the highlights.”
He scrolls down the list.
“They’re mostly variations on ‘Where the fuck are you?’ A few ‘Are you okay?’s.’”
“Keep going.”
“One says: ‘Violet just got here.’ Is that the girl?”
I nod.
“Okay, hold on.… Oh.”
“What?”
“She left. About five minutes ago.”
“Is she coming back?”
“Lehna doesn’t say.”
I look into my drink. Mostly empty. Just some remnants of ice cubes.
“Maybe I should order another one.”
“Or we could try to find her.”
Mark’s face is open, hopeful—a perfect antidote to the despair slowly settling in me. I’m about to ask him how we’d go about finding her, but the music gets softer and a man’s voice booms out that the winner of the midnight underwear dance contest has been determined.
People cheer and I cheer with them, rooting for my new friend, Mark, who is not looking toward the bartender but is instead scanning the room, the hope on his face now mingling with concern as the bartender says, “Defeating our reigning champ, Patrick, Mark takes the crown tonight. Mark, are you still out there? Get your all-American sexy butt up here to collect your prize.”
And then the music is loud again and everyone is dancing.
“Aren’t you gonna go up there?” I ask him. “The prize could be something good. You know, penis-shaped lollipops, rainbow-patterned condoms…”
But Mark doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t move. So I turn toward where he’s looking and I finally spot Ryan, who is now across the room from us. He’s with a few cute college boys, one with thick black glasses, another in a ski cap, and another who I can only see from the back, tattoos peeking out of his shirtsleeves, one hand holding a glass of beer, the other hand settled in the curve of Ryan’s back. One song fades into the next and Tattoo Boy and his friends are feeling it. He turns, takes a few gulps of beer, sets the glass on a nearby table, and starts moving with the rhythm.
I’ve probably kept Mark to myself for too long. Here he is, out in the city on the kickoff of the year’s gayest week, winning underwear contests, the object of quite a few lustful gazes, and I’ve trapped him in a corner with my crisis.
“You should go over there,” I say, but Mark doesn’t even seem to hear me. That despair I mentioned I was feeling? It’s like it has suddenly become contagious, taken over Mark’s entire body. His shoulders are slumped; his breathing seems labored.
“What is it?” I ask him. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Ryan,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “He’s dancing.”
3
MARK
Someone is pulling me back to the bar. The bartender is giving me an envelope with fifty-seven singles in it and a gift certificate to a dry-cleaning service. Ryan isn’t even watching. Katie’s watching. Plenty of other guys are watching. But Ryan’s on the dance floor, leaning into this guy whose arms are covered in words I can’t read.
He’s not doing it to hurt me. I have to believe that. He’s doing it to make himself happy. Which just happens to hurt me.
I take my envelope and push my way back to Katie. Guys are putting their hands on my shoulder, telling me congratulations, using that as an excuse to put their hands on my shoulder, to see if I will stop and smile and maybe take things from there. I’m not stupid. I know this. I know I’m supposed to want this.
This room is so full of possibilities, I can imagine Ryan telling me.
Technically true. But the thing about possibilities: There are some you want much more than others. Or only one you want much more than everything else.
“What did you get?” Katie asks when I’m back beside her. I show her. She looks disappointed.
“Maybe you’re supposed to get the bills dry-cleaned?” she says. “Lord only knows where they’ve been.”
I notice the dry cleaner is called Pride Dry Cleaning. A few jokes pop into my head—I can imagine what stains they’re good at getting out or They specialize in rainbows—but all the jokes are in Ryan’s voice, not mine.
The dance floor is getting more crowded. I can’t see him.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Katie says, “but are you two … together? Because if you are, that’s definitely a foul.”
“No, we’re not,” I tell her. And then I think, Fuck it. “Only, sometimes we are.”
“Your poor heart,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”
I see him now. He’s dancing with all three of them. I think of molecules, and how they’re attached. I could probably join in. It’s not like they’ve paired off.
“Should I go over there?” I ask.
“I have no idea.” Katie studies the situation for a moment. “I think if I were him, I’d have to try really hard to avoid looking over here. He’s like one of those waiters who’s all attention during the meal, and then when you need the check, he’ll glance every single direction except yours. You know what I mean? And if that’s the case, then I’d say you probably shouldn’t go over there.”
A Florence song comes on. I love Florence. Ryan knows this. If he doesn’t look for me during a Florence song, I am screwed.
I look over.
He’s started to sing along. But not to me.
“Oh man,” I say. The tattooed guy isn’t singing back. But he’s listening. He’s enjoying it. They’re both enjoying it.
And as they’re enjoying it, this shirtless guy comes up to me, smiling like I know him.
I steal a glimpse of his chest, his abs. He looks like someone who may have dabbled in porn.
“Do I know you?” I yell over the song.
“No, but don’t you want to?” he asks.
“Really?” Katie says.
But Johnny No Shirt isn’t listening to her. He’s focusing on me. Really. Intently.
“What are you doing?” he asks, more conversational now.
Where is your shirt? I want to ask. I mean, did he come here shirtless? Like, on the street? Or is there a shirt locker somewhere?
He has to be in his twenties. At least. And that’s just not me.
“I’m heading out,” I tell him. “Sorry.”
This only makes him lean in closer. Playfully. Like, to the point that his jeans are touching mine.
“We have a girl to find,” I say. “Violet. Maybe you’ve, um, seen her?”
He takes my hand and starts to guide it to his back pocket.
“She’s right here,” he says, smiling.
“No no no no no,” Katie interrupts. “Thou shalt not take her name in that vein.” He steps back and lets go, finally hearing her. She looks me in the eye. “As I see it, Mark, you’re at a crossroads here, and there are at least three options you can follow. Well, four, because there’s always the option of doing none of the options. I am not advocating one over the other. I just need to know what to do.”
Johnny No Shirt has somehow gotten his hand on my back, and it’s putting my body into a little bit of a trance. But
I’m still looking at the dance floor, still watching how Ryan isn’t watching. And then there’s Katie, who looks much less amused than anyone else except maybe me.
“I’m coming with you,” I say. I turn to my chesty suitor and tell him sorry again. This time, he relents.
“Some other time,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
As he’s walking away, I take a long look at his perfectly sculpted back. My whole body sighs.
“Are you sure you want to leave?” Katie asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m sure.”
“But why? I mean, you own this place right now.”
I look her in the eye. “Because we’re friends. Duh.”
That’s enough for her. And it’s enough for me, too.
We start to go, but I still feel the foolish pull of obligation, this strange sense that I’m abandoning Ryan. We were in this night together, and even if he’s dancing with someone else, I can’t leave without saying goodbye. But I can’t go over there, either.
I send him a text. Tell him I’m helping Katie out with something and that he should text me when he wants to head back. I’ll come meet him.
I hit send. I imagine the phone pressing against his thigh, signaling. But it can’t compete with the music, can’t compete with the dance or the boy that Ryan is now smiling at, leaning into.
“I have to go,” I tell Katie. “Like, right now. I have to go.”
* * *
The street is almost as crowded as the club. Pride Week is just starting, but nobody’s holding back anything for Monday or Tuesday or any day after.
“So where were you supposed to meet her?” I ask. “I mean, that’s where we should start.”
Katie stops walking. “I know … but what if she’s there?”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“It is. But…”
“But what?”
“I don’t want to just run into her. I need to be prepared.”
“Do you know what she looks like?”
From the scalding look she gives me, it’s clear she’s memorized what Violet looks like.
“Okay. So we’ll play this carefully. Keep our eyes open. If you see her, we take a time-out. Gather your thoughts. Go from there.”
“But what if she isn’t there at all?”
“Then we’ll follow the trail, my dear Watson.”
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”
But she doesn’t move.
“You need to lead the way,” I remind her.
“Oh yeah,” she says.
She still doesn’t move.
I don’t say anything. I wait. She closes her eyes for a second, says something to herself. Then we’re off. We’re back in the throng again.
* * *
I’m expecting to be dragged to a club with a feline name, where short-haired women lean laconically into each other with Brooklyn poses as they talk about love and compare their vining tattoos. All the lesbians I know are in some way smarter than me, or at least seem to know the world a little more. They also tend to read a lot of books.
But this party isn’t at a club, it’s in a house that looks like Stockbroker Sally could live in it. The people gathered outside are as drunk as anyone else—I wonder why I don’t imagine lesbians as ever being drunk, as if they’re just too smart or cool for that. There’s a guy leaning out a window, yelling, “I love you! I love you all!” He is not looking at me or Katie when he says this.
“Friend of yours?” I ask.
“No,” Katie says. “But they are.” She points to two girls sitting on the curb. One of them is smoking, the other breathing it in.
We walk over. As soon as they see her, they jump up and let out a shared barrage of sentences.
“Where have you—”
“been?”
“Lehna’s been looking—”
“all over for—”
“you. She, like—”
“so mad.”
“Why did you—”
“Where did you—”
“go?”
They stop for a second and finally notice me standing there.
“Mark,” Katie says, “this is June and Uma. June and Uma, this is Mark. He goes to our school.”
“This doesn’t look good,” June says.
“No, this doesn’t look good at all,” Uma agrees.
Katie turns bright red. “Noooooooooooooooo. I didn’t leave to see Mark. I just met Mark along the way.”
“Well, you missed her,” Uma says.
“You really, really missed her,” June adds.
“But where did she go?” I ask.
“What’s it to you?” June asks me.
“What’s it to him?” Uma asks Katie.
I feel my phone vibrate once in my pocket. A text.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I say.
I’m hoping it’s from Ryan. I’m expecting it’s from Ryan.
But instead it’s my mom.
Where are you?
This is not good.
I could lie. I want to lie. But she wouldn’t be asking if she didn’t already know the answer. A lie will only make it worse.
I’m in the city.
It only takes her five seconds to reply. She’s better at her phone than I am.
Why are you in the city? Is Ryan with you?
This time I borrow a new truth to take the place of the original truth.
My friend Katie needed me. I’ll explain tomorrow.
Then I lie outright.
And yes, Ryan’s with me.
This does not appease my mother. She types:
If you are not on the next train home, your father is coming to get you.
I quickly text Ryan.
The moms have discovered our subterfuge. In other words, we’re fucked. Need to get back ASAP. Meet me?
I expect him to respond immediately. But he doesn’t. He must still be dancing.
I turn back to Katie and am about to tell her I need to go. But before I can get a word out, an angry Viking of a girl comes storming up to us and sucks all the air out of a ten-block radius, just to fill her lungs enough to belt out an enormous “ARE YOU OKAY?” in Katie’s general direction.
Katie moves to answer, but before she can, the Viking continues. “Were you abducted? Lured away by a stranger with candy? Or maybe you saw a cat in a tree and felt you had to save it? Was there an old queen trying to cross the street, and you had to help? No, wait—I know. You heard about a top-secret Sleater-Kinney concert in an abandoned BART station, but you weren’t allowed to tell anyone about it—not even your very best friend. That has to be it. Because if you are not bodily harmed, and if you were not at some secret show, or if you were not saving someone’s life, why would you leave here without saying a word and then not respond when I call you and text you a thousand times?”
“Lehna,” Katie attempts, “I just—”
Lehna holds up her hand, cuts off the excuse. “She was here, Katie. She was so excited to meet you. She brought you a flower, for Christ’s sake. And there we were, going from room to room, looking for you. We even checked the closets because isn’t that funny, ha ha ha, maybe she’s in the closet. She watched as I called and texted you. I said you had to be here somewhere. I said you wouldn’t just leave, because you were so excited to meet her. She believed me at first. But after a while, even I started to become unconvinced. Because you know what? You might as well have just slammed a door in her face. If you wanted to blow your chances this badly, why not just slam a door in her face?”
In the smallest, saddest voice I can imagine, Katie says, “She brought me a flower?”
I expect one of her other friends to pat her back, to tell her it’s going to be fine. When none of them does that, I find myself doing it instead.
She’s taking these deep breaths, like sobbing but without the tears. Like suddenly it’s all too much.
“She can’t have gotten far,” I say. Then
I look at Lehna. “Where did she go?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Mark. Why the fuck are you so angry?”
“I am angry because after months of planning, after concocting a brilliant cover story and spending more energy on this relationship than I have ever spent on any of my own relationships, my best friend decided to bail. Even though she swore she wouldn’t. Even though she made it look like she was going to go through with it for once in her life. My awesome cousin was willing to put up with Shelbie’s hideous house music and even more hideous beer in order to meet this girl I had told her so, so many good things about. I am angry because this didn’t have to happen, but then it happened anyway. I feel like a complete fool for thinking it could have been otherwise. And I feel like an even worse fool for getting Violet so excited and then having to tell her, Sorry, it isn’t going to work, after all. I’d ask if this makes sense to you, fratboy, but I couldn’t give a shit whether or not it makes sense to you.”
“Stop,” Katie says. “Just stop. It was my mistake. Not his.”
“So you at least admit it was a mistake?”
“Why does that matter, Lehna? Really, why?”
Katie doesn’t sound angry. Just tired. My hand remains on her back. She is leaning into it a little.
My phone vibrates again, still in my other hand.
“Sorry,” I say, looking at the screen.
My mother.
Tell me you are on your way to the station.
Katie gives me a curious glance.
“My alibi’s been shredded and my mom wants me on the next train home,” I explain.
“I’ll drive you,” she says.
“You’ll drive him?” Lehna huffs.
Got a ride back, I text. Then I check my messages. Still nothing from Ryan.
Katie steps away from my hand. Steps toward June and Uma.
“I’m sorry I left without telling you,” she says. “I wasn’t ready. I wanted it so much, and I wasn’t ready for that.”
June looks like she’s going to say something, but Uma squeezes her hand and gestures her head in Lehna’s direction.
“You’re never going to be ready,” Lehna says, her voice warming somewhat. “Don’t you see that? You have to forget about ready. If you don’t, you’re always going to run away.”
