by Tanya Boteju
“Sooo . . . I just found out some confusing stuff about my mom.”
Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he replied in a low, hollow voice. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Not sure I’m completely ready to talk about it, but . . . it’s really messed up.”
He dragged his feet into his body, gathering small piles of soil at his heels. His eyes traveled to my lap. “Is she as messed up as me?”
Oh, sugar, I heard Deidre say in my head. “It’s not that she’s messed up . . . more like the situation is hard to get my head around.” As I said it, I was surprised by my assessment of my mom. Wasn’t she messed up, though? But if she was, then aren’t we all? “You’re not messed up either, Gordon. At least, no more than the rest of us.”
He frowned, his eyes still blankly gazing into my lap. “Do you feel messed up ’cause you’re gay?”
I thought about that for a moment. “No. I don’t think so.”
His eyebrows popped up and he gave a slight nod. Then, as if assuring himself, “But you are gay, though.”
It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “Yeah, you made that clear in front of Tessa the other day.”
One side of his mouth tilted downward. He glanced up at me, then shrugged.
What an ass.
I pulled out some limp dandelions growing at the base of the fence and started yanking off clumps of the yellow petals.
A barely audible “Sorry” emerged from beside me.
I sighed as loudly as I could and chucked the stems to the side. “Can you please tell me what’s going on?”
He rubbed his hands against his jeans and looked away. “Fuuuuucckkkk.” A few more moments passed. “I don’t know. I just . . . I feel weird in my body or something.” He took in a deep breath like he was gasping for air. “Like, my body is supposed to be different . . . not so fucking rough and bony and shit.” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Shaking his head, he muttered, more to himself, “Jesus. That’s so fucked up, right?”
He said that “Jesus” with such defeat, such sadness, that my chest ached for him.
I tried to choose my next words carefully. “I don’t think you’re fucked up.” Viewing him in my peripheral vision, I tentatively asked, “How long have you felt this way?”
His mouth trembled without making a sound, and then, “A while.”
“Have you talked to anyone else about it?”
His head jerked up and the blur in his eyes turned to sharp, focused anger. “No fucking way. And you better not either. I swear to God if you tell anyone—”
“I won’t, I promise.” His fury made my heart skip.
But then his eyes watered again. “No one can find out about this.” A crack in his voice.
“I—I understand.” After a few moments of us staring into our own laps, I tried, “Maybe . . . you could also refrain from casually referring to me as a queer in public? ‘Nima’ will do.”
“How ’bout ‘raging lesbo’ instead?” He smirked.
“Such an a-hole.” I threw some grass at him.
His smirk fell away. “I won’t. Call you stuff, I mean.”
I thought about his arm draped around Tessa’s shoulders. “So . . . you and Tessa . . . ?”
“What about it?” Sharpness edged his voice, and his eyes refocused on me.
I searched his face. The set jaw and darkened eyes made me mumble, “Nothing.”
His next words plowed through the air. “I’m not a homo, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
My head automatically tilted to the side. “Um . . . hello?”
A very dim light went on in his face. “It’s not the same. Two girls going at it is hot. Two guys is sick.”
My heart hammered away at my rib cage. “Seriously? You know the same people who say shit like that are the ones who would say stupid shit about you.” I felt my face flush with anger.
He picked at a loose flap of rubber on his kicks. “Whatever. I like chicks, all right?”
I could see this was a topic to avoid for the time being. “Fine.”
He and I sat for a while, fiddling with rubber soles and ripping up clumps of grass respectively.
“What now?” I asked.
He looked up and stared into the tomato vines. There was that little boy again. “I have no idea.”
Not knowing quite what to do with Gordon now that he’d spilled his startling guts to me (literally and otherwise), I shocked the hell out of myself by inviting him back to my place for some lunch. Even more shocking, he agreed.
We walked back to my house in silence, Gordon with his head slung low and hands deep in his pockets, and me glancing sideways every few seconds to try to get a read on him. From what I could tell, he’d gone into sullen mode, and it would take some seriously perceptive moves to keep him from bolting. I wasn’t sure I had those kinds of moves, but I was willing to try. Despite my own problems, I couldn’t imagine entrusting someone with the kinds of things Gordon had just confided in me.
As we chewed our turkey and cheese sandwiches silently on the porch steps, Gus in front of us, diligently staring at our food, the drama of my own life began to mingle with Gordon’s, and a strange plan began to hatch in my admittedly convoluted mind. What if . . . ?
I swallowed and cleared my throat. Picking at a wilted piece of lettuce, I asked, “Would you maybe want to see another drag show? Since you missed the last one, I mean?”
“What? When?” Gordon quickly responded, his words muffled through a mouthful of bread and meat.
“Ugh. Chew first. Swallow. Then talk.”
“Fuck you,” he replied, without chewing or swallowing.
I shook my head. “But seriously. Would you? Come with me? Tomorrow?”
This time he did chew and swallow before speaking. Then he bit at his lips for a while before finally mumbling, “What show? Where?”
“At some bar in North Gate. I think it’s the same folks who put on the show we were at before.”
“Huh.” He took another massive bite of his sandwich and then irritatingly munched it for like, half an hour.
“Come on—we could just check it out, and if it’s too much, we can leave.”
“It’s gonna be a bunch of queers, innit?” His frown was somewhere between concerned and curious.
I sighed. “Yes, Gordon, the crowd will likely be a mix of folks—just like the last show you managed to get yourself into.”
“What if some dude hits on me or something?”
“Right, ’cause you’re so irresistible?” I took a chance and threw the piece of floppy lettuce at him.
It landed on his shoulder, but he just looked at it.
“Listen,” I said, “pretend that piece of lettuce is some guy hitting on you.” I wasn’t sure where I was going with this particular metaphor, even as I was saying it, but I think my exhaustion was getting the better of me. “Let’s say he uses some line, or maybe even puts his hand on your arm. What do you do?”
“Punch him in the face.”
“Gordon, no. You just brush it off.” I flicked the lettuce leaf off his shoulder. “Say no, thanks—not interested—and move on.”
“Sick.”
Okay, maybe this was a bad idea. “Never mind. I’ll go by myself. I don’t think you’re quite ready for it.”
He just ripped a chunk off his sandwich and shoved it into his mouth.
I stared out at the sidewalk and started thinking about alternative plans for tomorrow night, but my thoughts ended abruptly when I saw Charles across the street. He must have stopped in his tracks when he’d seen Gordon sitting on my front porch, because he was just standing there, hands by his sides, staring. I could understand how we might be a jarring sight. I stood up and tentatively waved with my sandwich hand. A piece of turkey fell to the ground and Gus pounced on it.
Even from across the street, I could see the confusion and hurt in Charles’s face. He started to march back up the street to his house. We hadn’t spoken in almost
two weeks, save the crappy text he’d sent me—not since the whole Tessa debacle. I wasn’t sure whether he was coming to see me, but I really wanted to explain what he was seeing. “Charles!” I yelled, and ran after him.
Gordon uttered, “Don’t you fucking dare tell him anything I told you.”
I ignored him and kept running. Charles continued his shuffling, quick walk.
I ran out in front of him and held out my hands to signal stop, realizing that I still held the half-eaten sandwich in my hand. I looked at it, then at Charles. Then I held it out to him. “Sandwich?”
He looked at the sandwich, then at me. Nothing.
“Charles, I can explain, but not everything, not yet. Just trust me—there’s a good reason Gordon Grant is on my porch eating a sandwich right now.”
Even through the sheen of his glasses, the strength of his glare surprised me.
“Please trust me?”
“Trust you?” His voice cracked with the force of his anger. “Trust you to what, Nima? To pressure me into another embarrassing situation? Or to make friends with the biggest jerk around and expect me to tag along? What am I supposed to do? Go on a double date with my gay best friend and the bully who’s dating the girl I like? Sounds amazing.”
He was right—this must have felt like utter betrayal, and I felt for him. But it wasn’t like I hadn’t tried to talk to him. He’d ignored all my calls and texts, after all. And I guess I couldn’t help comparing his troubles with my own or Gordon’s, which made me say this next crummy thing. “Oh, poor you, Charles. I’m so sorry one girl doesn’t like you and some people laughed at you.” I threw my sandwich at his feet. “Try having a mom who basically chose anything else over you and then being rejected by every girl you like. Then we’ll talk.”
His brow flickered a frown. But now I couldn’t stop myself. It’s like that moment when you see the dog poop on the sidewalk, and you want to stop your foot from stepping into it, but your foot does its own thing ’cause it’s already in motion and it just goes ahead and takes a nice, shitty plunge whether you like it or not.
I lowered my voice so Gordon wouldn’t hear. “Not to mention, Gordon’s got crap to deal with you can’t even begin to understand, so . . . Get. A. Grip.”
His eyes widened. His chin crinkled. “Are you kidding me? You’re defending Gordon Grant?”
Really? That’s all you heard?
My jaw ached with tension. “You don’t know the whole story. I wish I could explain more, but I can’t.”
“Right. Of course you can’t. I’m sure I’m incapable of understanding anyway.” He pivoted to leave.
“Charles—”
But he just kept walking.
Gordon was still sitting on the porch steps when I came back. I stopped in front of him.
“So? You and buddy boy make up?” he asked.
“Don’t, Gordon. It’s partly your fault we’re fighting.”
“What? Me? Don’t blame me for Davis’s shit.”
“You didn’t exactly do anything to stop it!” I could feel my breathing quicken, but I tried to keep my voice calm as I said, “Did you know Charles liked Tessa?”
“Nah, man. Besides, I can’t help it if she likes me instead.”
“Do you like her?”
He yawned. Actually. Yawned. “Enough.”
I made a sound Jill sometimes makes when she’s thoroughly disgusted by something—halfway between a grunt and a cough. I guess I knew I was being unfair—it wasn’t really Gordon’s fault Tessa liked him instead of Charles—but his nonchalance right now grated on my already fraying nerves. The thought of my best friend hating me didn’t help. I just needed a break from all this shit.
“Okay, well, you can leave now,” I said, and started up the steps to go inside.
I had my hand on the doorknob when he piped up with, “Actually, I was thinking I would go to the show with you tomorrow.”
I stopped and turned. “What?”
“Yeah, I thought about it and decided I could handle it.” He shrugged. Was that arrogance, or uncertainty?
I studied him for a moment. “Yeah, no thanks.” I turned back toward the door.
“Don’t be pissy. I’m sorry I’m such a pain in the ass for you and your pal, okay? Let’s face it, you don’t want to go by yourself tomorrow anyway.”
He was right. I didn’t. And it would be nice to have a ride. Selfish, but true.
Gus whined at me from the top of the steps. “Ugh. Fine.” I yanked at my ponytail with both hands to tighten the band against my scalp. “But you can’t be an asshole, all right?”
“Me?” He smirked.
“I mean it.”
“Fine, fine . . . whatever. I’ll wear my best feather boa and heels.”
Christ up a creek. What did I just get myself into?
CHAPTER 13
The Dad situation worked itself out—one of the few things that seemed to work in my favor these days—when he told me Friday morning before work that he’d decided to take a little “bro trip” with his buddy Jack. He’d be away for the weekend, and maybe even until Monday or Tuesday, depending on where their wheels carried them, he had said. He’d already let Jill know, and if I needed anything, she’d be around.
I wondered what that conversation had sounded like, given all the subtext between them and Jill’s freshly dug-up feelings about it all. But I didn’t wonder too long, because my dad’s road trip made it infinitely easier to plan out my weekend. I felt a little guilty about withholding my plans, but not guilty enough to do anything about it.
I texted Jill and told her I’d talked to Dad but was going to hang out with my “new friends” in North Gate tonight, and would she please feed Gus?
She called immediately, and I begrudgingly answered it.
“Nima, I’m not sure it’s such a great idea for you to take off while your dad’s away. Does he know?”
I contemplated my options and decided to cash in on recent revelations. “No, and I don’t want him to. I’m just going to this show. Take my mind off things. I might even stay a night or two. I just need to get away, Jill.” Then, plaintively: “Please?”
A deep sigh passed from her end of the line to mine. “You have to promise to answer the phone if I call you. And you have to text me tomorrow to update me on your plans.” Pause. “And if you need anything, you have to call me.”
I couldn’t help but smile at her concern. “Okay, I promise.”
Gordon’s truck looked as grungy inside as it did on the outside. Where Deidre’s van smelled like vanilla, his truck smelled like a mix between pot and sweat. Remarkably, however, he seemed to have spruced himself up a bit. Instead of the shabby gray T-shirts he usually wore, a clean black shirt hung over his lanky frame, and he must have broken out his best pair of jeans, because the pair he had on wasn’t torn or smudged with any dirt or grease whatsoever. I think he even put mousse or something in his hair, because the long part looked clean and combed.
He tucked it behind one ear as I climbed into the passenger side and buckled my seat belt, which looked like it might actually help me die if we did crash. Gordon barely looked at me. In fact, he looked a little nervous. Like he was going to be sick.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
He exaggerated a frown. “What? Yeah. I just ate a shitty burger for dinner.”
Hmm. Right. But I didn’t push it.
Since it was Friday night around eight thirty, traffic up to North Gate was a bit busy, and on the way, Gordon barely said a word. I filled the silence with description after description of each drag performance I’d seen at the festival, which I thought would help—to prepare him and all—but in hindsight, might have just made him more nervous.
When we got close to the Lava Lounge and I told him to pull into any parking spot, he said, “Can we go get a drink somewhere normal first?”
“Somewhere ‘normal’? Like where?”
“You know what I mean.” He kept his eyes on the road.
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br /> “You mean somewhere not gay?” I needled.
“I just need a couple drinks or something first, all right? Gimme a fuckin’ break.”
I remembered the pool party and softened. Yeah. A couple of drinks can help. Or cause you unending embarrassment. “Okay, okay. But I don’t know what’s around here.”
We found a divey spot a few blocks past the Lava Lounge, and Gordon circled back to park in between the two bars.
The “normal bar” turned out to be a nice match for Gordon’s truck. I had the urge to wash my hands as soon as we walked in. The good news was that they certainly weren’t picky about their customers, so we didn’t get ID’d. I’d been a little worried about this detail of our adventure. Gordon had, in an unexpected show of initiative, secured me a fake ID just in case. But I was glad I didn’t have to use it, since the girl in the photo looked at least thirty and was white. I applauded his effort, though.
We sat at a dark table off to one side and Gordon brought two shots and a beer over.
“Are any of these for me?” I asked, pointing at the three drinks.
“Yeah, you get a shot.”
“Remember you have to drive us home, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll have a few drinks now and by the time we go home I’ll be fine.”
I stared at him.
He rolled his eyes. “I promise,” he said in a whiny voice. “Cross my heart and all that bullshit. Cheers.” He winked at me and poured the liquid down his throat like he’d been doing it his whole life. I supposed that might not be far from the truth.
I sipped my shot—the brown liquid burned the crap out of my throat—and Gordon finished his beer in about three minutes. I let him finish my drink, too.
“One more and I should be good to go.” He sauntered over to the bar and ordered another shot, slinging it back right there.
“All right, let’s hit this fruit stand before I lose my buzz,” he said, heading toward the door, his chest puffed out.
I could see this was going to be more excitement than I’d bargained for.
We walked the couple of blocks to the Lava Lounge, which didn’t have a line yet since it was still early. In fact, it was so early, the burly woman checking IDs at the door barely glanced at our cards as we passed through. She did, however, give me a once-over and a wink. I thought it best to reciprocate with what I hoped was a flirtatious smile, but which I’m sure looked more like a blend of pre-sneeze and constipation.
