Whatever.

by S. J. Goslee

  Mike is stunned. Did Dotty really just imply that he go commando in a skirt?

  Lenny giggles.

  Mike says, “Fine,” snatches the uniform out of Lenny’s hands and then pushes them out into the hall. He doesn’t need witnesses for this.

  He digs through his drawer full of boxers until he finds an unopened packet of briefs from Christmas two years ago. They’re too small, the band cuts way down low across his pubic bone and his junk is uncomfortable no matter how he positions it, but they’ll have to work. He feels ridiculous.

  Zippered, the skirt sits high on his waist, the pleats barely falling to mid-thigh, and the sleeveless top stops just above his belly button. He doesn’t even bother looking in the mirror. He shoves his feet into his sneakers and opens the bedroom door.

  Lenny and Dotty just look at him, silent.

  Mike pushes his hair back off his face and glares at them.

  “Hi,” Lenny says. She sounds a little dazed.

  “Wow,” Dotty says. “Not entirely hideous.”

  Mike fights the urge to cross his arms over his chest. “I look like a girl.” Thank Christ they didn’t make him comb his hair or put on makeup or anything.

  “Definitely don’t look like a girl,” Dotty says.

  “I think I have a kink now,” Lenny says.

  Her fingers creep out and Mike slaps them away from the edge of his skirt.

  “No, for real,” Lenny says, “what kind of underwear do you have on under there?”

  “None of your damn business,” Mike says, still disgruntled. “Can we just go?” The briefs are already working their way into the crack of his ass.

  Lenny tugs on her elbow-length, lace fingerless gloves—Madonna? Maybe?—and smooths her hair and does some kind of shimmy with her skirt. Then she says, “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Dotty says, “Yarrrrrr,” and brandishes her plastic cutlass.

  Mike huffs and stomps off down the stairs. The skirt flounces up in the back with every step.

  * * *

  Cam’s hair is slicked back. He’s got on skin-tight bright red jeans, a blue graphic tee with the sleeves rolled up, and wraparound shades. The sunglasses slide down to the tip of his nose and he whistles through his teeth when he spots Mike. He says, “So, you gonna let the quarterback feel you up in the backseat of his Chevy after the big game, or are you gonna make him work for it?”

  “Fuck you. Who are you supposed to be?” Mike asks.

  “Stiles, Mike,” Cam says, smoothing his hands down his chest. It says Obnoxious: the Movie—how appropriate. “Check out Dee, she’s a total Boof.”

  Mike checks out Deanna, setting up a snack table across the room. Since Deanna is wearing a black cat suit, Mike figures Cam’s trying to sell the Teen Wolf movie reference as slang. Mike’s going to try his best to ignore that.

  “What happened to Tom Selleck?” Stiles from Teen Wolf is a pretty obscure costume, even for Cam, who spent two Halloweens trying to convince everyone that a fake beard and a pipe made him Rutherford B. Hayes.

  “Dad wouldn’t let me get a Ferrari. I wanted to be authentic.”

  “You should be on medication,” Mike says.

  “Hey,” Cam says, “you’re the one wearing a skirt.”

  Score one for Cam. Mike is indeed wearing a skirt, thanks for the reminder. It’s a little drafty, too, considering the time of year. “I was kidnapped by a pirate and a hooker,” Mike says.

  “A likely story.” Cam shoves a plastic cup in his hands. “Go forth, drink beer, avoid Zack, ’cause he’ll laugh his ass off at you.” He points toward the deck. “Ten o’clock, front and center.”

  Mike gives him a single finger salute and goes off to grab a beer for the first time in weeks. He’s pretty sure he’ll need it.

  * * *

  It’s not that Cam’s dad just lets them have these wild, drunken parties.

  It’s that Uncle Jem actually thinks Zack is a responsible adult, even though Zack is most definitely not a responsible adult. At twenty-six, Zack’s got a BS in physical fitness, he lives at home, sells weed to his friends, and works at The Running Place in the mall. When Zack is chaperoning, they usually end up with more alcohol than they know what to do with. He collects everyone’s keys at the door, though, before he disappears with his own gang of friends to mingle. No one goes home before dawn.

  Mike spots Wallace and Leoni early on—Wallace gives him a little wave across the kitchen; it’s totally weird. He takes an awkward swallow of his beer, nodding at him, then thankfully gets distracted by Mo and her pale pink tulle ballerina skirt.

  The house is packed by ten and the crowd’s spilling out into the backyard. It’s so hot inside that the chilly fall weather is a relief. Winter starts early there. It’s probably the last time their band’ll be able to play out on the deck until the spring.

  Cam’s deck is not actually attached to the house. It’s halfway down the lawn, on the other side of the pool. It’s more like a raised platform wired with halogen lampposts and outdoor sockets. Cam’s dad had it built because it was either that or let them hold concerts on the balcony off the master bedroom. The deck’s for his peace of mind—Cam has a tendency to fall off high things. Or jump.

  Someone wolf-whistles when Mike bends over to switch on his amp. He wiggles his ass a little, because he’s done being embarrassed. He may not be able to fully own his sexuality, but he can totally own the fact that he’s rocking this cheer uniform. The briefs still suck, but the air flow feels great now, and even Lisa had a hard time looking away from his truly spectacular legs earlier. Lisa, who is Hillary Clinton because she’s a “woman of caliber.” Mike doesn’t even think he can blame that on Larson (who came as a wood sprite, with fairy wings and everything), because Lisa’s been acting like a young primary election candidate ever since the school counselors broke out college applications. Mike thinks she’s freaking out about her future.

  Meckles is already behind his drum set, warming up. Omar is helping Jason move the Casio, devil and angel on either side of the keyboard. They swear they didn’t plan it, but Mike doesn’t believe them. Mike plugs in his guitar, plays the opening riff to “Smoke on the Water,” and feels awesome about his guitar stance, the way his worn, half-laced high-tops look huge below his bare calves. He’s ready to go.

  Cam is perched on the railing with Deanna caught between his open legs, making out. Meckles makes a sound like a dying water buffalo and pegs Cam in the back of the head with one of his drumsticks.

  “Are we ready?” Meckles says.

  Cam peels himself away from Deanna, twists around and hops off the railing and onto the deck. “Hold on to your pants, dude,” he says, and Meckles chucks the other stick at him before pulling another pair out of thin air and smashing them onto the high hat. He’s fast for a zombie.

  Jason doesn’t even wait for Cam to grab the mic before rolling into “This Is Halloween.”

  * * *

  Mike shakes his head like a dog after setting down his guitar. He’s dripping sweat. He hopes this uniform is old, because it’s never going to be the same. It’s Dotty’s own fault for making him wear it. He gets pretty animated on stage, but not nearly as much as he wants to. Sometimes Mike wants to rock out and knock shit over, but if Mike purposefully breaks his amp his mom will never buy him another one, and Meckles would probably stuff his sticks down his throat if he did anything to his precious drums.

  Mike’s sweat is rapidly cooling in the night air, and by the time he’s done wrapping cords and getting his guitar in its case, there are goose bumps popping up all over his exposed skin. He doesn’t want to go back inside yet, though.

  He leans on the railing next to Meckles, holding a plastic cup full of beer and says, “Dotty Ramirez likes you.” He feels like an idiot for saying it, but he’d promised Dotty.

  Meckles makes a choking noise. “Um.”

  Mike knocks his elbow into Meckles’ side. “Come on, at least go talk to her.”

  Meckles had be
en starting to lose his performance flush, but now the red’s flooding right back up his neck to cover his cheeks again. He shakes his head. Mike doesn’t know why Meckles is so freaking bashful. He’s got that whole Irish brawn going for him, and he’s good-looking, even if he’s got an overabundance of freckles pretty much everywhere.

  Dotty is a Latina goddess. Meckles should be all over that.

  Meckles looks at the ground and shrugs.

  Mike says, “Do I need to get Girl Meckles over here for a pep talk? Weird twinny mind-melding?”

  “No.” Meckles looks horrified.

  “Well, then. Go talk to Dotty. It’ll be fun. I’m not asking you to eat her face or anything.” Mike had been aiming for a zombie pun, but it falls kind of flat; he’s got a weird, buzzing energy under his skin, like a post-show high but bastardized somehow. It could be the way he’s spotted Wallace lurking around, staring at him.

  “Go.” Mike nudges Meckles again before pushing off the railing and sauntering away.

  * * *

  There’s a fire pit down near the woods, and the music’s loud enough to carry all the way back to where Mike is standing at the tree line. J. J.’s in front of him, and it’s starting to feel like familiar territory.

  What Mike realizes about J. J., despite having turned him down, is that J. J. apparently likes to flirt. Specifically, J. J. likes to flirt with him, and now that Mike knows he’s not going to pin J. J. to a wall and make him pay out what his mouth is so smartly selling—at least, he really hopes he’s not—Mike finds he doesn’t mind flirting back.

  It actually helps that he’s wearing a skirt. He’s not sure why, but it does. That would probably be shaming if he hadn’t let himself relax with a drink or two or three. Or four. He’s not going crazy, but he thinks he deserves a little chemically enhanced relaxation here, especially with Wallace being a creeper.

  J. J. makes a fine cowboy, but that might just be the beer talking.

  And then Mike compliments J. J.’s boot spurs and J. J. puts a hand on his thigh.

  “This is going to a weird place,” Mike says. His body isn’t completely against it, but his mind is still a shining beacon of opposition. He points off to the left. “Imma walk away now.”

  J. J. says, “You’d think after so many rejections I’d just give up. There’s just something about the way your ass is wearing that skirt.”

  “Sexual harassment will get you nowhere,” Mike says, but he’s half laughing, and J. J. trails after him back up to the house.

  * * *

  By three a.m., Mike’s relatively sober-headed again. He’s around the side of Cam’s house, smoking. The party is oddly muffled there, and Mike huddles into himself a little, wishing he’d thought to bring a hoodie. Or pants.

  A throat clears, and Mike glances up to see Wallace. Wallace has on a Steelers jersey and jeans, like he half-assed a costume just so Cam would let him through the door.

  “What?” Mike says. He’d been expecting something like this, what with all the weird, sideways glances Wallace has been giving him all night.

  Wallace ducks his head, palms the back of his neck, then says, “So. You and J. J.”

  Ah.

  Here. It. Is, Mike thinks. The big moment where Wallace calls him a fag and spits on him. Maybe. Mike’s never actually heard him use a slur to someone’s face before.

  Wallace shifts closer. “Are you—?”

  He cuts himself off, and Mike takes a suspicious step back, bringing his heels and the wings of his back as he leans away up against the siding behind him. He stills when Wallace lifts a hand, hovering dangerously close to Mike’s cheek, and Mike’s frozen for a second, because this is seriously starting to look like some kind of come-on, and there’s no way—

  “Fuck’s sake, Wallace, no, I’m not gay,” Mike says, defensive, arms crossed protectively over his chest, because he’s not coming out to Rook Wallace, of all people. No matter what Wallace saw, it’s none of his damn business if Mike’s bi.

  But then he catches sight of Wallace’s face. There’s a flash of what looks suspiciously like hurt in his eyes before Wallace’s lips curl up into a smile that’s not really a smile, and something clicks in Mike’s brain. Mike’s seen that look before. He’s seen it on Theo Higgins every time Lisa has to say no. He’s seen it on J. J.

  And Mike is now two for two at alienating people who apparently like him for some godforsaken reason. He’s a total douche. He deflates, slumps against the wall. “I mean. Fuck.”

  There are two main reasons Mike doesn’t like Wallace. The first, and most important, is because Wallace used to pound him after Little League baseball games. He’s never told anyone that, not even Cam. Mike’s pretty sure Wallace hasn’t told anybody either, it’s kind of their dirty little secret. They’d never been friends, but they’d never been enemies either, and then they both hit twelve and Wallace apparently decided that he didn’t like Mike’s face. The fact that Wallace used to jump him alone made it that much more personal. He hadn’t been showing off; he just really, honestly wanted to beat the living shit out of Mike. Mike gave as good as he got, though. They’d both limp home afterward, bruised and bloody, and Mike always gave a tough-game excuse to his mom. And if he cried a couple times alone in his room, well. It was nobody’s fucking business.

  The second reason is weirder, now that he thinks about it, but no less valid. Two months into high school and it was like someone flipped a switch in Wallace’s brain—it’s just unnatural, how freaking nice Wallace got. And then the shit-eating grins started, the holding open doors for him, the narrow-eyed stares, the body language that made Mike’s entire existence into one big joke. It was like he was no longer significant enough to punch, but ignoring him completely would take too much energy. The biggest insult.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Mike says tiredly. “You always—you—don’t you hate me? What the fuck, you broke my nose.” It’d bled like a motherfucker, too, he’d had to tell his mom he’d accidentally run his bike into a light pole.

  “I had some misplaced rage,” Wallace says with a casual shrug, like he isn’t overhauling Mike’s entire worldview, not only turning it upside down but ripping it to itty-bitty shreds. Mike’s gonna have a hell of a time trying to piece it back together. “It didn’t hurt to have a reason to touch you.”

  “Uh. Okay.” Mike’s only option is to suppress this entire conversation. Suppress, suppress, and suppress some more. He has never been more weirded out in his entire life, and that’s including the time Mike accidentally caught Cam jerking off to German porn.

  Wallace eyes him up and down, head to toe, slow and deliberate. It’s enough to make Mike freeze again, eyes saucer-wide. He watches, horrified, as Wallace’s gaze catches on his knees, slides up his bare thighs, lingers at the nervous grip Mike has on the hem of the skirt, and gets weirdly hot, the blue iris dark with pupil, on the flesh of his stomach, where the small strip of skin is exposed around his belly button. Mike’s suddenly even more conscious of how tight Dotty’s top is on him, the broadness of his shoulders making up for the distinct lack of boob.

  Wallace’s ever-present grin has crept into his eyes now, along with a look of resolve.

  Mike has just enough time to think Wait, what? before Wallace kisses him.

  At first Mike is too stunned to move. He holds himself still for one shocked moment before making an embarrassing sound in the back of his throat and kissing Wallace back.

  And, fuck it, it’s a fantastic kiss. Wallace has firm, dry lips—different from Lisa, from the sticky-sweet lip gloss she always wears—and when Wallace bites his lower lip, Mike instinctively opens up a little, just enough to let Wallace’s clever, awesome, perfect tongue sneak in and lick over his teeth.

  Mike is vaguely aware that he’s gripping the front of Wallace’s shirt in his fists, like he’s trying to reel him in closer. Wallace is standing with his thigh pressed hard between Mike’s legs and for a split second, Mike believes skirts are the best invention
ever, because that’s definitely Wallace’s hand palming his ass, fingers spread half on the thin cotton of his briefs, half on the bare crease at the top of his leg.

  But then Wallace abruptly shifts backward, breaking their mouths apart. His hand slides down to skim the back of his knee—Mike was apparently trying to climb him—and gently pushes Mike’s leg down so their bodies are no longer touching. He leaves Mike’s hands, though, where they’ve still got a death grip on his shirt.

  There’s more than a chill in the air, and Mike shivers.

  Wallace leans in again, tilts their foreheads together and breathes; Mike can feel the rapid trip-skip of Wallace’s pulse against his thumb.

  Wallace says, voice husky, “I’m really sorry you’re not gay.”

  Mike’s hands fall limp to Wallace’s hips, then fall away completely when Wallace steps back. He says, shaky, “Me, too,” but Wallace is already gone.

  * * *

  What Mike doesn’t get—besides the fact that Wallace is apparently really fucking self-aware for a seventeen-year-old, and don’t think Mike isn’t suspicious of that—is that Wallace has a hard-on for him. Mike. It’s kind of surreal. Not exactly frightening, but Mike isn’t sure what else to call the weird tingling in all his limbs.

  “You all right, man?”

  Mike looks over at Omar. His devil horns are crooked, and his eyes are bloodshot. He doesn’t look all that sober, which is rare for him. Omar usually likes to keep all his senses in working order.

  Mike says, “No, I don’t think I am.”

  eleven.

  The Tates’ garage is packed with Rosie’s old baby equipment, bins of out-of-season clothes, and an overabundance of kitchen supplies that his mom continually orders off TV, despite being the worst cook in any given universe. It’s like she keeps thinking she’ll get better if she just has the right tools.

  “There is no more normal,” Mike says, calling Lisa. His mom’s out with the car and he needs to find his bike to get to work.