Crossing

by Stacey Wallace Benefiel

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “I don’t really know. It’s one of the episodes where Pete from Mad Men is Angel’s son and they’re being all broody. I was considering turning the sound down and just looking at them and wishing for shirt removal.” She paddles her feet up and down, which in our house is the international sign for foot rub, and I oblige, putting my hands on her super gross, tore up from the dance floor, feet.

  “Your pinky toenail is growing back nicely.”

  “I wish it wasn’t. It’s just going to fall off again.” She moans. “Girl, you can work an arch. If only stupid boys knew what you can do with those hands of yours.”

  The beautiful, tall, blond, hilarious Elizabeth is referring to my lack of any sort of love life. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve had boys who were friends that I’ve slept with, but no one who ever took me on a date, in public, or declared any kind of feelings for me. It’s weird. I’m not hideous. I mean, I’m whatever. I’m a normal-looking person with a decent personality, but it seems like all the guys on my level are always trying to trade up. Which makes them assholes and not worth my time anyway, because they go for girls like Elizabeth who could give a fuck.

  She’s got a boyfriend back home in Medford who against all odds trusts her not to cheat on him, and she gives him the same respect and it works for them. They’re happy. He’s a horse trainer and they’re totally going to get married someday after Elizabeth is a famous ballerina. They’re going to live on a horse farm where she can teach dance to little kids and it’s going to work out.

  You can’t help but have a little hope when someone like that thinks you deserve it, too.

  “I’m not sure a foot rub and a hand job are comparable.”

  She cracks her toes. “You’d be surprised what some people like.” She giggles. “So, any hotties in your classes?”

  “Meh. It’s all the same pretentious Lit guys – calling Chaucer ‘deliciously bawdy’ and shit like that. I don’t have Geology until tomorrow.” For some reason, I’m reluctant to tell her about Liam. Like he’s a secret I want to keep to myself. But I don’t. This is one situation where Elizabeth lives vicariously through me. “There was this one guy…”

  “Yes?” She cocks her head at me and pushes her other foot into my hands.

  “My scene partner in my Acting I class. He was funny is all. Easy to talk to.”

  “And…”

  “And…cute.”

  She kicks me in the boob, which in our house is the international sign for ‘spill it bitch.’

  I sigh. “His name is Liam, and he’s from Boise. Tall. Dark brown hair. It’s cut short and not all douche-y and hipster bang-y. Brown eyes. Really nice ass. Like, infinitely grab-able.”

  “Did he flirt with you Dani? ’Cause you’re blushing!”

  I blush deeper. “Not really. Just…he kept up with me.”

  I feel like a complete lame-o the second that leaves my mouth. It’s weird the things we know about ourselves that we’re not allowed to acknowledge out loud because it comes off pompous. Just like I know I’m only okay looking, I know I’m funny, usually the funniest.

  Elizabeth doesn’t care. “Intriguing. Hot and witty.”

  I shake my head. “Too hot. Your level, not mine.”

  “I hate it when you talk about yourself that way. That’s what is keeping you from getting a boyfriend, you don’t know how awesome you are.”

  “I just know from experience that guys that look like him, or hell, guys that don’t look as fine as him, like to be entertained by me. Maaaaybe they like me enough to kiss me when no one else is looking or sleep with me when they’re drunk, but I’m just not a sexual entity otherwise.”

  “Fuck those fuckers!” Elizabeth lifts her foot to my cheek and runs her seriously grody bunioned big toe down my cheek.

  I grab her foot and pretend to bite it. “What did I just get done telling you? Nobody is going to be fucking anyone.”

  “You know what I meant. Did you ask Kristin and Cam if they want to go to RUMORS with us tonight?”

  “Yeah, I told them we’d swing by on our way.”

  “Cool. What do you want to do about dinner? I had a nasty salad at Dairy Queen for lunch, so please say you’ll make us something better than that.”

  I roll my eyes at her. “I could make us shit on toast and it would be better than that.” Lifting her legs up, I duck under and go into our tiny, olive green tiled kitchen to see what I can dig up.

  I open the fridge. “Leftover Chinese from…three days ago? Nevermind. Or I could make an omelet.”

  “What kind?”

  “The kind with eggs.”

  “I know that, bitch. I meant, what filling?”

  “Um, three day old Chinese food, bitch. We need to go shopping.”

  “Ugh. Maybe you could go this weekend? Eggs sound good.”

  X

  “I’m already regretting my shoe and wardrobe choices,” I say as we near RUMORS.

  “You look cute,” Kristin says, finishing off her cig and dropping it to the ground. “Besides, it’s going to be all women here anyway. I mean Ladies’ Night is literally Ladies’ Night at this joint isn’t it?”

  “That’s why I’m worried about my clothing choices!” I scoff. “Straight guys don’t care about what we wear, but women, gay or straight, have opinions. This is going to be a night of judgment, I can feel it.”

  Elizabeth punches me on the shoulder. “Not everyone is as hypercritical as you are—”

  “And you are—” I say

  “And I am,” she says. “Are you freaking because I made you wear that halter? Because you’ve got a fucking cardigan on over it, which negates any effect that it would otherwise generate. If anyone judges, it’s because of the black wooly flipping cardigan, not how hot your boobs look in that top.”

  “Or my sparkling personality?”

  “Or your goddamned sparkling personality.”

  We approach the door. Elizabeth gets in without having to pay the cover or show her ID. Cam and Kristin have to pay the cover, but not show their ID. I have to both show my ID and pay the cover, and I sort of get the feeling that the bouncer would’ve been willing to give me my money back if I’d kept my cardigan buttoned up to my neck. I tell myself he’s gay and that my boobs look like two gigantic elbows to him, therefore, who wouldn’t be repulsed?

  Things are in full swing inside, even though it’s only nine. Bars close at two in Eugene, but people always show up early to catch happy hour or avoid the cover.

  Elizabeth waves me over to the half of a table she’s managed to snag for us. She motions for me to take my cardigan off, but I leave it on. “I’ll get the first round,” I say loudly.

  I don’t bother to ask what the others want. We want whatever drink is on special unless it’s Long Islands or White Russians. Lucky for us it’s vodka gimlets. I wait patiently in line, three deep behind the server’s station, because I know from experience I get nowhere trying to weasel my way up to the bar. Plenty of other women are trying that and succeeding, but plenty aren’t. I worry less about my top when I see a middle-aged lady wearing a golf shirt buttoned all the way up. Who knows what her rack looks like, but it could be a nice one. I get a flash of rack pride and take the cardigan off, first slinging it over my forearm and then tying it around my waist.

  It’s finally my turn to order drinks. “Eight gimlets please.”

  The male bartender’s eyes don’t even pretend to do a quick glance at my boobs. They’re nailed to mine during our entire transaction.

  “How many are you buying for?” he asks.

  “Myself and those three.” I point to the table and the girls wave.

  He nods. “Eight gimlets comin’ up. That’ll be sixteen.”

  You gotta love two dollar drink night. I hand him a twenty.

  He makes the drinks in record time and puts them on a tray for me. “Can you handle the tray?”

  I pick it up and hoist it above my head. “I work
ed Corn Fest all through high school. I got it.” I wink at him even though he’s already moved on to the next thirsty customer.

  I deliver the drinks and everyone takes their allotted two off the tray.

  Elizabeth holds both of her drinks up and we all follow. Two fisted toast! “To Fall term!” she says and we all echo her. “To halter tops!”

  “To pushy ballerinas!”

  Kristin and Cam clink their glasses together. “To crazyass neighbors!”

  X

  Four gimlets, or six…an even number of gimlets greater than two later, I am an awesome dancer. I look awesome in my magenta sequined halter-top. I am sweaty. There is body glitter all over my arms and chest, and I wasn’t wearing any when I came in the door.

  I’m hangin’ with the Drag Queens.

  Earlier, I was feeling how I do again, getting down, wanting to put my cardigan back on. Elizabeth had an endless stream of admirers wanting to buy her drinks, most of which she refused, some of which she didn’t. Currently, she is at the edge of the dance floor kicking her right leg up next to her right ear. It’s her party trick. She’s wearing black satin tap pants for fuck’s sake.

  But anyway, minions were worshipping at the altar of Elizabeth. Kristin and Cam were outside on their umpteenth smoke break, probably smoking more than cigarettes at that point. And I just was. I was at the table. Drinking gimlets and resqueezing the limes over the ice for lack of something better to do.

  I liked the music, okay? I like to dance, and I can dance when I’m sober, but I’m so much better at it when I’m drunk, y’know? And I wanted to dance, but I didn’t because I wanted to wear a cardigan.

  But then the Drag Queens walked in. I’d heard about them. That they did shows here on the weekends, but we’d never seen them because the cover doubles and we can get properly wasted at the Elks’ Lodge for that much money.

  But they’re gorgeous. Tall platform heels. Legs longer than Elizabeth’s. Slinky gowns and sequins. Bouffant hair up to there.

  I instantly smiled and I don’t know why, but I screamed, “My people!” and then pointed to my sequined halter-top.

  The loveliest lady sauntered over to me, her eye shadow four shades of blue. “You look good girl! Are you having fun tonight? ’Cause you aren’t dancing, and a sparkly little thing like you should be dancing, honey!”

  She extended her long gloved hand, and I put mine into it and let her pull me out onto the dance floor.

  I close my eyes. I raise my arms. I dance and dance and dance. I feel the music. It’s my pulse. I like myself like this.

  Chapter Three

  I try not to look for Liam on my way into Villard Hall, but fail miserably, feeling a little disappointed when he’s not there holding the door to the Little Theatre open for me.

  But then my disappoint melts away because he’s waiting in the back row, saving me a seat instead.

  Sliding into it, I drop my backpack to the floor. “Hey, thanks.”

  “No problem.” He smiles and then reaches down into his backpack, coming up with a black cardigan sweater, much like the one I left at RUMORS on Monday night. “Here, I think this is yours. At least I hope it is or I stole some chick’s sweater by accident.”

  I take it from him and wad it up in my lap. “Uh, thanks? Were you at RUMORS on Monday night? I didn’t, uh, see you there and can’t remember or something?”

  Rarely do I drink so much that I don’t remember what happens, but I have had plenty of fuzzy nights that have needed a kickstart to jog my memory.

  “I work there.”

  I lower my eyes at him. “Liam, are you a drag queen?” I tease.

  His expression surprises me. I expect him to be all indignant, but instead he gives me a half grin. “No, I’m a bar back. Monday was crazy. It’s been way busy since they started having drag shows every night.” He taps his index finger on my arm. “Are you sure you’re not a drag queen? Didn’t you call them your people?”

  I kind of want to die, but I also kind of want him to give me his sober perspective on what I looked like while dancing. I shrug. “I was wearing their native costume.”

  He chuckles, bringing up the other side of his mouth for a full-on sexy smile. “You looked nice. I might hang out and raise my alien baby with you after all.”

  I hold my left hand out. “Ooh, are you gonna put a ring on it?”

  He shakes his head. “My kind still believes in open relationships, regardless.”

  “That’s too bad. My kind doesn’t,” I snap, turning away from him to face the front of the room. I don’t know why I said that. I’m a ruiner of things.

  He’s talked to me twice. I’m sure he can totally sense all of my lifelong issues in two ten-minute conversations, especially when five minutes of each conversation consisted of talk about alien sex and child rearing.

  He makes an air sucking through his teeth sound. “Ouch. You’ve been burned, huh?”

  I round on him, unable to keep my ruining train from derailing. “What does a pretty-boy like you know about getting burned? Please.”

  Liam rolls his eyes at me. “You’re warped. Of course I’ve been burned. It happens to everyone.”

  I don’t believe him. “So, what, you liked a girl and she made you wait until the eighth date to get in her pants or something?”

  Liam sits up taller in his seat and leans away from me. “Screw you,” he snorts. “My ex, Ariana, who is the only person I’ve ever been with by the way – my girlfriend since junior year of high school – broke up with me last spring because she’d been fucking a football player since October. We lived together and I had to move out of our apartment without any help into a studio way the fuck across town near the dump.”

  I shake my head. “Bullshit.”

  He yanks on the collar of his shirt, exposing the shoulder that’s facing me. Curving around the top of his impressive triceps is curly tattoo script spelling out the name Ariana.

  “I’m an asshole,” I say, immediately. My heart plummets to my gut.

  Liam faces forward. He lets go of his collar. It’s all stretched out. That’s my fault, too.

  Maren stands. “All right, let’s get warmed up and then you guys get five minutes to practice your open scenes before it’s showtime.”

  We file down the stairs and get into a circle. I stand across from Liam again and can’t wait until we get to kabuki lion because I am going to finesse the shit out of it and get him to smile at me.

  Fuck. He’d had the same girlfriend for, like, six years. Long term. Only person he’d ever been with and she just left him to go screw a tight end? Not cool. Goddamn, that kabuki lion better hurry itself up. I need to kabuki my face and make myself laugh.

  Yeah, he’s been burned. Who am I kidding? I haven’t ever been burned, not really. Passed over? Used? Sure. Had my heart ripped out of my chest? Nope. Not even close.

  We stretch. We do Sun Salutations. We wheeeooooo, wheeeoooo. When it comes time to make the funny faces though, Maren changes things up.

  “Find a partner, stand across from them. Form two lines.”

  India is making a beeline for Liam, but I cut her off and plant myself across from him. She pinches me, hard, on the back of the arm, but I ignore her. Ignore the pain. Fuck her. Liam looks at me, his expression blank.

  “I’m an asshole,” I say.

  “You said that already. Come up with something better.”

  Public humiliation is my big time go-to. “My lady parts are riddled with STD’s!” I shout, drawing shocked looks from everyone in the theatre.

  He cracks a smile.

  Maren clears her throat and all eyes are back on her. “Okay, folks. You’re looking at your scene partner for the next two months. You’ve got ten seconds to make a switch if need be.”

  “Do you want to switch?” I ask.

  Liam’s eyes meet mine. “No, asshole, I don’t want to switch, but I would suggest you get some antibiotics stat.”

  “Good, fuckface, because I like b
eing partners with you. It’s what’s best for our alien baby.”

  A couple of other people do switch partners, which I think is kind of awkward. I got lucky getting paired with Liam. He could be good for me. He can keep up and keep me in check.

  X

  “Why does it matter?” I say, looking away from Liam.

  He puts his fingers under my chin and turns my face toward him. “Because…”

  We wait a beat and then link hands and bow for the audience.

  “Excellent job, Liam and Dani.” Maren shuffles through a stack of papers and pulls out two sets of stapled-together pages. “I think this scene from Acolyte will work for you two.”

  We take the papers and go back to our seats. Liam holds up his hand for a high-five and I slap it.

  Promptly, we get to checking out our real scene while the rest of the class finishes up their inferior open scenes.

  “Huh,” Liam drawls, in a way that’s not really a question.

  “What?”

  “Um, nothing.” He shakes his head and directs his attention to the stage.

  “What?”

  Liam flips to the third page of our scene and points to the stage direction at the bottom of the page. They kiss.

  Which means that we kiss.

  “Oh. Huh.”

  Liam chuckles. “Whatever. No big deal.”

  No, I suppose it isn’t for him. He’s had six years of kissing practice. I bet he’s spectacular at it. I’ve never kissed the same person more than once, so I have to adjust my game every time. I have no idea if I suck at it or not. Guess I’m gonna find out.

  “Will I be the first person you’ve kissed since…?”

  We both scooch down in our chairs.