First Time for Everything

by Andrea Speed

  Max was secretly glad to have a task. “Not yet. Transmetropolitan was awesome.”

  “I know, right? I’m trying to collect as many of the past issues as I can afford. I mean, Sandman’s totally out of my price range.”

  “What about Hellblazer?”

  Taylor grimaced and held out his hand to make a so-so gesture. “Some of the runs were okay, and some weren’t. I have most of the good ones in trade form.”

  Max nodded. “Fair enough. I have Transmetropolitan in trades.”

  He could see Taylor appraising him openly, and Max wondered if he was gay. Could he be so lucky? It just seemed like he was checking him out. Although really, Max wasn’t sure if he was doing it. He didn’t have a lot of experience with it. “What are you looking for?” Taylor finally asked.

  Max was forced to shrug. “Just browsing. If I come across something I can’t live without, I’ll know it.”

  Taylor openly grinned, and it lit up his face. He did have an attractive but slightly goofy smile. “Probably the best way to do it.”

  Max glanced down at the box so Taylor couldn’t see him blushing. He wanted to continue this conversation, he didn’t want Taylor to wander off, but he didn’t know what to say. There was a long moment of silence as he brainstormed, and finally he asked, “Have you been to lots of comic cons?” Almost as soon as it was out of his mouth, he winced, as it sounded as stupid as hell.

  Still, Taylor must not have minded, because he answered. “A couple. Not as many as I’d like. You?”

  “This is my first.”

  Taylor’s grin, which had faded, came back with a vengeance. “This is an awesome one to start with. It’s not like one of the huge ones.”

  “What? This seems pretty huge to me.”

  “Well, yeah… but San Diego is cray. You hafta get tickets way in advance, or you’re sorry.”

  Max shook his head. “I can’t imagine.” And he couldn’t, because the crowd in this place was starting to make him feel claustrophobic.

  “I went once, and it was kind of a nightmare,” Taylor said, running a hand through his short black hair. “I was just a kid, my dad took me, but I was just overwhelmed. Too many people, too weird, too many lines. As first comic cons go, it wasn’t great.”

  “I bet.” Max looked at him openly, and Taylor returned his look. Interest, or just friendly? Damn it, he couldn’t tell. And it wasn’t like you could say “Hey, are you gay?” casually. Maybe if he wasn’t so shy or afraid of rejection, it would be easier, but that wasn’t the way he was.

  Just then, he noticed Sasha waving at him. She was next up to Cara. Taylor noticed, and said, “It looks like you’re wanted, Logan.”

  “So it does,” he agreed and gave Taylor a smile before turning away and joining Sasha near the head of the line.

  As soon as he was up there, she leaned in and whispered, “Who’s the adorkable guy?”

  “Taylor. We just got to talking while he was looking for Transmet.”

  She was nodding and smiling in what Max found to be a very cryptic manner. “He was totally checking you out.”

  Max almost looked back but was kind of afraid to. What if Taylor was still there and caught him looking? Worse yet, what if he wasn’t? He couldn’t decide which he’d hate more. “Was he? I couldn’t tell.”

  She nudged his shoulder with her own. “Go on, Romeo, follow up.”

  He stared at her in shock—she knew him, right?—but never got the chance to say anything, as they were finally able to see Cara.

  She was just as friendly as he had hoped and was happy to sign their comics and talk about Claw, the old school superhero she’d resurrected and made genuinely good again. (Well, before the character was passed off to an overpraised male writer who made him a joke again, but that was a complaint for another time.) They had to move on because there was a line, but she was great and didn’t seem to mind talking to them at all. It was kind of nice when your heroes didn’t disappoint you.

  They had just walked away from the table, sorting out their comics, when Sasha said, “Look.”

  It took him a second, but he saw what she meant. Taylor was standing near the vendor booth where he’d been talking to him, seemingly waiting for him to return. Max’s heart skipped a beat at the thought. Had he really stuck around for him? That seemed hard to believe. No, strike that, impossible. He wasn’t the type of guy anyone ever waited around for.

  Sasha took Max’s arm and said, “Ooh, I have to meet this one.”

  Before he could protest, Sasha was dragging him toward Taylor, giving him no say in the matter. Of course, he should have expected it, but even after all this time, her boldness occasionally surprised him.

  “Hi,” Taylor said to him.

  “Hi,” Max replied.

  “I’m Sasha,” she said, not waiting for an introduction.

  “Hi, I’m Taylor. Awesome costume. That was Storm’s best era.”

  “I know, right? She never should have lost the Mohawk. So, Taylor, tell me about you.”

  He smiled faintly. “What d’ya wanna know?”

  “The usual stuff. Where do you go to school, how old are you, do you have a girlfriend or boyfriend, are you a serial killer, that sort of thing.”

  He chuckled. “Oh yes, the usual. Well, I’m seventeen, I go to Jefferson High, I’m not a serial killer, and I don’t have a girlfriend or a boyfriend.”

  Sasha nodded, as he’d passed the test so far. Max couldn’t help but notice he hadn’t reacted at all to boyfriend, which was a good sign. Maybe. It was possible he was just a really laid-back hetero. “So, would you like to have coffee with my friend Max here?”

  Oh God. He should have known she’d just go for it. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

  Max hoped he wasn’t turning beet red in embarrassment, but he quickly glanced at Taylor to try and read his mood. He was smiling.

  “I’d love to, if he’s interested.”

  Now Max’s heart started to race. So Taylor had been checking him out! His instincts weren’t wrong. That was nice to know, as he was never sure. Max looked at him and forced a chuckle. “I’d… I’d love to. If I wasn’t currently being embarrassed to death.”

  Sasha clicked her tongue and slapped him on the shoulder. “If you used your words more, I wouldn’t have to intervene.” She slid her arm out of his grasp, patted him on the shoulder, and added, “You boys play nice. Storm has some strutting to do.”

  “UMM…,” MAX said, but that was as far as he got, as Sasha did indeed strut away, fluffing up her Mohawk. He looked at Taylor and said, “Well. Um.”

  Taylor was just grinning. “How did a nerd like you end up with a friend like her?”

  Max shrugged and couldn’t help but smile. “We grew up together.”

  “Man, why couldn’t I have grown up in a decent neighborhood? Seems all my neighbors were either younger or way older than me.” Taylor gestured with his hand, a sweeping forward movement like he was a waiter showing him his way to his table. “Should we get some coffee before she comes back and punishes us for lying?”

  The funny thing was, she just might. What else were best friends for? “Sure. So you’re, uh….”

  “Gay?” Taylor replied. “Yep. I’m guessing you are too?”

  Max nodded, feeling himself blushing, although he hoped Taylor couldn’t see it. With his skin tone, it was possible. “I wasn’t sure how to ask.”

  Taylor shrugged a single shoulder. “NBD. I’m just glad you are.”

  That made Max smile and realize something for the first time. “Yeah, me too.”

  As they walked through the crowd, heading for the concession stand, Max was super glad Sasha had talked him into going to the comic con. He was going to have to dress up like Logan more often.

  ANDREA SPEED writes way too much. She is the writer of the Infected series for Dreamspinner Press and is Editor In Chief of CxPulp.com, where she reviews comics as well as movies and other stuff. She won a Rainbow Aw
ard for best horror/paranormal novel in 2012, and feels she may be ubiquitous on the web. But she is not (sadly) the Italian DJ of the same name that often comes up first in Google searches.

  Visit her website at http://www.andreaspeed.com and her Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/andrea.speed.3. She tweets at https://twitter. com/aspeed.

  KISS AND MAKEUP

  ALLISON WONDERLAND

  IN OUR junior year of high school, my best friend shared with me her plans for the future.

  When I’m in college, I think I’ll be a LUG.

  I had to request a translation. Isn’t that a verb? I inquired, foraging in my closet for my teal cardigan sweater.

  It’s actually an acronym, she replied. It stands for Lesbian Until Graduation. L-U-G. See? Basically, I’ll be a lesbian for a limited time only.

  I remember feeling conflicted after the explanation. On the one hand, I resented her for having the audacity to go after girls who were and always would be lesbians, like me, and who would end up hoodwinked and heartbroken when she traded up for a guy. On the other hand, I envied her for having the gumption to go after what she wanted, even if she didn’t want it for very long.

  Me, I didn’t even have the guts to ask a girl out. Bawk bawk bawk bawk bawk. I did accept dates when they were offered, though they weren’t offered often, as I didn’t exactly put myself out there. In fact, I spent the majority of my time in high school being out but never going out, instead sublimating my attraction to girls with the kind of asexuality that abstinence-only advocates can only fantasize about.

  I had a whole slippery-slope scenario worked out in my head: I meet a girl. I fall for the girl. The girl doesn’t fall for me. I fall into a deep depression. I fall behind on my schoolwork, inevitably flunking out of school. Shortly thereafter (because where else is there to go but down?) I fall off from humanity, and later, a cliff.

  It sounds silly, I know, but there was safety in self-denial. As long as I didn’t put myself out there, I didn’t have to worry about rejection. As my mother is fond of saying: Gina, you need a serious attitude adjustment. Stop putting yourself down. (My mother is also fond of saying that I’m her little lezzie. She considers it a term of endearment.) But she’s right, as mothers often are, and even though it took me almost four years, I finally managed to acquire a smidgen of self-esteem and get that trajectory of tragedy out of my head. I got tired of being a window-shopper—always browsing, never buying; always looking, never touching. I vowed that as soon as I finished secondary school but before I started the third, I would get a girlfriend. It would be my graduation present to myself. Plus, I did not want to be the least experienced lesbian on campus.

  But fulfilling my promise hasn’t exactly been a cakewalk. What my efforts lack in success, they make up for in failure. My first biggest problem is that I have no idea what to look for. What’s my type? Femme, I suppose, but if I only look for femmes, I’ll be limiting my options, right? Yet I have to exclude some candidates. I can’t be open to everyone, because then I might wind up taking what I can get instead of getting what I want.

  My second biggest problem is that I have no idea where to look. I’m too young for the bar scene or the club scene. I could try the online scene, but then I’ll have to worry about what to put in my profile. And what if it doesn’t get any hits? What if no one looks me over and everyone overlooks me?

  There’s always the mall scene. The mall is the source of most of my other graduation presents, so why shouldn’t I… shop around for female companionship? I spend enough time there anyway. In fact, I’m there right now.

  Not to, um, check out the merchandise. I don’t really have time for that. I’ve got an interview at the park district in two hours for an internship in Program and Event Coordinating. I spent hours picking out my outfit, wading through an ocean of shirts and skirts and messes of dresses before I finally found something suitable to wear. Then I took one look in the mirror and nearly called and canceled. I’m feeling anxious about this interview, and when I get anxious, I get acne. I thought I would outgrow that once I hit eighteen, but clearly I thought wrong because I am, at present, spottier than a Dalmatian. I need professional help.

  That help comes in the form of a beauty consultant at one of the way too many cosmetics counters in the only department store at which I can afford to shop. I don’t even have an appointment, but Simone, as her nameplate proclaims, senses my desperation and instructs me to hop onto a stool and get comfortable.

  It takes me awhile to get a good look at her, as I spend most of the time with my lids lowered, like a doll with sleepy eyes, terrified of being stabbed in the pupil with an eyeliner pencil.

  “Gina, I know what I’m doing,” Simone assures me, though she doesn’t sound insulted. “You can keep your eyes open ’til I tell you to close them, all right?”

  “All right.” I comply and raise my lashes in time to see her swipe a blush brush through a rectangle of peach powder.

  “This color will look really good on you,” she says, sweeping the bristles across my cheek.

  Since my eyes are conveniently open, I decide to make the most of it. I study Simone’s face as she paints mine, noting the hazel color of her irises, an appealing complement to the hazelnut color of her skin. Her tapered tresses, pepper black with brown sugar streaks, are clipped below her chin, outlining the square shape of her face. Even beneath the unremitting glare of department store lighting, the kind that’s designed to alert you to flaws you never even knew existed, Simone looks flawless.

  I can’t tell much about her figure, though, as it’s concealed by a shapeless white coat and, under that, a charcoal-colored blouse and matching slacks. But I do detect the contour of a breast, the undulation of a hip.

  When Simone pauses to select a shade of eye shadow, my gaze wanders. I glance at my reflection in the magnifying mirror. I look… almost attractive, a conspicuous improvement. But Simone has already seen my naked face. And what kind of person would be intrigued by a connect-the-dots complexion?

  Yet in spite of my doubts, Simone seems interested in me. We talk while she works, and it feels like we’re having a genuine conversation, not the frivolous sort of chitchat employees are obligated to engage in with potential clients. I tell her about my plans for college. She says her sister majored in Leisure Studies too. I tell her about my impending interview. She says I should put my best foot forward and knock their socks off. And when she finishes, she doesn’t ask me if I want to buy any of the products she applied. Instead she says, “Keep me posted about the internship, Gina,” and I tell her I will, because she sounds like she means it.

  And then I say, once I’m back on solid ground, “I’d like to see you again.”

  I pray that the amount of blush she used is sufficient to camouflage my own. “Um, what I mean is,” I splutter, fearing another breakout, “I’m really happy with what you did… with my face, and I’d like you to be my… my regular makeup artist. Er, uh, beauty consultant. If, you know, you want to.”

  Simone smiles and removes a business card from her pocket. “Well, it says in my job description that I’m supposed to—how did they word it again? ‘Create and maintain relationships with clients’? Of course, it also says that I’m supposed to sell you stuff, but I like the relationship requirement a lot better.”

  Ditto, I think, making sure to touch her fingers as the card changes hands.

  “THAT’S TOO bad about the internship.”

  I shrug, averting my eyes, directing my attention to the marshmallow-colored cushion of the stool. “It’s not your fault.”

  I feel like a fraud. I landed the internship I interviewed for at the park district. But I told Simone that they selected someone else, as well as three other interns for three other internships that I purportedly applied for. I should have been honest with her, but I was afraid if I told her I’d been hired, I would have no reason to see her anymore.

  I know, I know—I need a serious attitude adjustment. Not only am I
a fraud, I’m also a fool.

  At the moment, however, I’m nobody’s fool. I’d like to be Simone’s if I could, but I don’t see much chance of that happening, especially when she reveals me for the fraud that I am.

  “So, Gina, do you have a boyfriend?”

  Simone’s voice transports me back to Earth. “Hmm?”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Oh. No.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have asked you that,” Simone remarks, frosting my lips with a glittery gloss. “Not because it’s a personal question, but because it just seems sort of counterintuitive for me to assume that you’re a hetero when I’m a lesbo.” She reclines against the counter, twirling a carousel of lipstick tubes. “You’re into girls, aren’t you?” Simone inquires, posing the question as though she merely wants to confirm something she already knows.

  “Yeah, I’m… I’m… into girls,” I respond, so panic-stricken I’m practically scared straight.

  Simone smirks. “Thought so,” she gloats. “I got the gaydar prototype. It’s like a sixth sense.” She taps the base of the halogen lamp sitting atop the counter. “Guys just don’t appeal to me,” she continues. “They’re, uh, anatomically incorrect, if you will.”

  I attempt to giggle, but my voice sounds like a squeaky toy.

  “I’d like to see you again,” Simone says, resuming her place behind the glass enclosures.

  Pump pump pump, goes my heart, giving the foundation dispensers a run for their money. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  “You say that like you’re hoping I’m not,” she ribs.

  “I’m not,” I splutter, struggling to keep my nerves in check. “I mean I’m not hoping you’re not. I… I’m hoping you are.”

  Simone smiles and plucks a card and a pen from the pocket of her coat. She flips the card over and slides it across the counter. “Write down your number,” she instructs me.

  I scribble a series of digits on the back of the card, but my fingers are twittering and my fours resemble nines and my fives look like sixes. When I’m done, I read the digits aloud, lest there be a remake of Sorry, Wrong Number. “Call me whenever,” I say, giving her carte blanche. “And we can, um… you know….”