by Tanya Boteju
Deidre’s cheek pressed into mine as her mouth spread into a giant grin. “Done and done.”
“Now, usually,” she said, as she turned me to face her, “we’d use hair clippings and spirit gum, but I’ll go easy on you today.” She carefully pulled off my ball cap and replaced it on my head backward, then looked at me. “Ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She began by lightly dipping a soft sponge into a container of dark, creamy makeup, then brushing the sponge gently along the contours of my face—above my eyebrows, down either side of my nose, across my cheekbones, along my jawline. After, she used her finger to blend the makeup into my skin.
“This is just to emphasize your features—make them a little sharper, a little more masculine.” She leaned back repeatedly as she worked, checking her craft.
Once she seemed happy with this initial phase, she used a thick brush to apply a powdery substance over the work she’d just completed.
“What’s that for?”
“This, my beginner boy, is concealer. It’ll keep your new face from falling off.” She crossed her eyes at me as she said this, making me smile.
“How do you know what to do for drag kings? Is it the same as what you do for your own face?” I asked.
“Mmm . . . not the same, but there are similarities. The only reason I know what to do with girl faces is I wanted to make sure my side business catered to all types, know what I mean?”
“Who taught you?”
She made a smacking sound with her mouth. “Girl, Dee Dee taught her damn self. Now hush for this next bit.”
Deidre picked up a compact with dark eye shadow and a makeup brush that looked like a little fan. Beginning by overlapping the bottom of my natural sideburns, she applied the makeup down along my jaw, to my chin, and then back up along the other side of my face. She added a simple sketch across the top of my lip as well.
Her strokes were firm and swift, and every so often, they sent pleasant shivers across my neck.
Next, she used an eyeliner pencil to make quick, light touches on top of my new beard and sideburns, to mimic hair, I supposed. Clearly there was more to applying your “face” than slapping on some single-tone lipstick.
She continued working, topping up my eyebrows with the pencil, then smudging and lengthening until she was satisfied that my facial hair looked natural enough.
Finally content, she placed the makeup back onto the sink ledge and pressed my chin between her thumb and pointer finger, gently turning my head from side to side to survey her work. “Mm, mm, mm. You are handsome, girl.”
I shook my head at her. “Do I get to see now?”
She guided my hips around so I faced the mirror. The first thing that lured my eyes was the manicured beard and mustache she’d given me, like a trim, tight frame around my mouth. She’d somehow made it look like real hair, like I could touch it and feel actual bristles. When I automatically raised my arm to do just that, Deidre patted my hand away. “Don’t touch. You’ll smudge it. What d’you think, lovey?”
She’d been right. The mustache and beard made a significant difference, but the sideburns added a masculinity I would never have imagined possible on my own face. They somehow created an edge to my cheeks, and the edge made me feel kind of . . . sexy.
“I love it.”
Over my shoulder, Deidre grinned. She swung me back around to face her. “Come on. This is just the first stage.”
“Okay, give me a minute and I’ll be right there.”
She floated out of the washroom and I turned back to the mirror. Peering closer at Deidre’s handiwork, I marveled at the difference, but somehow was equally transfixed by what felt recognizable, if that made any sense. I saw me and a new me—both, together, and somehow more whole. My face, like this, felt familiar.
When I got back downstairs, Deidre was spinning in tight circles, bringing her eyes back to themselves in the mirror on the wall with each and every spin. Something that sounded like disco music bounced off the walls.
Mid-turn, she caught sight of me and her mouth stretched into her trademark smile. She finished her turn and drifted right out of it toward me, then lifted me and swung me around in a circle. “You ready for boot camp, little prince?” She placed me down gracefully and held me at arm’s length.
“Probably not. But let’s do it anyway.”
Deidre let out one of her bursting laughs, which of course made me laugh too.
Once Deidre’s voice came back down to earth, she said, “Well, let’s get sweaty then, boy!”
The only way to describe the next few hours was as boot camp for sparkly people. Instead of squats we did leaps, instead of chin-ups we pumped our arms up and down. Our version of push-ups were slow wiggling movements across the floor. Where we typically would have sprinted, we swaggered or sashayed. And while I can’t say I’d suddenly garnered magnificent athletic abilities that would have made me a superstar on the basketball court, somehow my body moved with an energy and instinct I’d not known I was capable of.
Deidre showed me the delicacies of hand and finger movements, and also how to play masculinity (“or what the world seems to think of as masculinity, child”)—taking up space, wearing attitude in my face, my shoulders, my chest. We flowed between femininity and masculinity without restraints or judgment. An elegant twirl unfurled into beefy chest-pounding. Hands slapping against the floor in indignation slid outward into a slow, curvy stretch across the floor.
Only a few moments felt awkward, when I became aware of where I was, what I was doing. Every other moment swept me into a surprising new version of myself. The instant when Deidre and I fell into sync as we swept our arms above our heads. When she picked me up, threw me over her shoulder, and spun me around like I weighed nothing at all. The moment I closed my eyes to find the beat and opened them to find Deidre’s eyes radiating with pride.
By the time we’d finished, I hadn’t thought about my dad or Jill or Mom or Ginny or Charles or Luce or Winnow or Gordon once. We lay on the floor, breathing heavily, sweaty and tired and entirely satisfied. Thinking of my painted face, I suddenly began laughing hysterically. My diaphragm tightened and my legs curled into my stomach. I covered my face and bellowed open, boisterous howls into my palms. My body jerked with the effort, and I felt as liberated and singular as I had ever felt.
“Deidre,” I said, between gasping laughter, “I think I’ve lost my mind.”
She reached over and tickled my neck. “Looks to me like you’ve lost your inhibitions, sweetheart.”
My laughter had squeezed tears from my eyes, and I wiped them away as I sat up. “I can’t believe how much fun this was,” I said, looking at her.
“What do you think? When do we sign you up for the stage?” Deidre asked, sitting up and reaching her fingers to her toes in a long, lithe stretch.
My face sobered. “Whoa. Easy, friend,” I said, the palm of my hand flattened toward her. “You said no pressure to perform.”
Deidre shimmied over to me on her butt and wrapped herself around me from behind. “But wouldn’t that be amazing?” she said, her chin on my shoulder again. “I think if you had a chance to practice, you’d kill it.”
“You’re joking, right? What makes you think I would ever get in front of people and do this again after last night’s catastrophe?”
Deidre playfully dug her chin farther into my shoulder. “What if . . . I helped you? What if you spent some quality training time with Dee Dee La Bouche?”
The thought of making a fool of myself once again made me want to crawl under one of the cushions on the nasty plaid couch, but something in me burned to see if I could be this person outside this room, to share what I’d experienced here with others.
But still.
“I don’t know, Deidre. Can I think about it? For like a year or two?”
She chuckled and immediately pulled me a little closer to give me a peck on the cheek. “Of course you can, sugar,” she said, as she w
iggled her fingers into my sides, sending us both into a tickling, howling mess.
CHAPTER 15
Back at Deidre’s, while she showered, I took out my phone.
There were two texts and one missed call from Jill. Damn. I’d need to check in with her at some point, but not right now. I texted Gordon instead.
You okay?
By the time Deidre appeared about half an hour later, wrapped in her silver robe and massaging cream into her hands, he hadn’t texted me back.
“Gordon’s not responding to my text. Do you think I should be worried?”
Deidre folded her legs beneath her on the couch next to me and placed one hand on my knee. “Tell me why you’re so worried about him in the first place, and then I’ll answer you as best I can, baby.”
I knew what I’d promised Gordon, but I had to trust my gut here, and my gut was telling me that Gordon needed help—more help than I could give him on my own. He’d probably hate me for it, but I decided I was okay with that, if it meant he’d be cared for. And who better to trust with this than Deidre?
I told her everything I knew—going back to my own experience with Gordon’s dad, to Gordon’s general behavior, to the unexplained bruise on his face, to his artwork, to our conversation the other day. I also told her about Gordon’s reaction when I asked if he liked girls.
Deidre listened without interrupting, and once I’d paused long enough to signal a possible ending, she said, “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah” was my feeble response.
“I don’t have all the answers, sugar, but I do think there’s some reason to worry. All you can do is make yourself available, though—listen, be there. In my experience, people need time to work through their stuff and good folks around who are willing to let them.”
“Should I go find him, you think?”
“You should. And I’ll come with you.”
Deidre dressed in a matter of minutes. Somehow, even in capri jeans, a collared, sleeveless blouse, and no wig, she still looked glamorous. We hopped into her van and she drove me back to Bridgeton.
I figured the most obvious place to find Gordon would be at his house. I only had a vague sense of where he lived, though, so I asked Deidre to drive south of the high school and hoped we’d catch sight of his truck.
It didn’t take us long to spot the blue beast parked outside a small, one-story house whose front yard was really just one giant parking lot for several cars—none of them in any better shape than Gordon’s own aging vehicle. Paint curled off the house like someone had taken a carrot peeler to it, and several roof shingles dangled like loose teeth.
Deidre parked across the street. I slid out of the van and trod warily into the yard. The screen door bent outward at an obstinate slant, its top hinge detached from the doorframe, but the front door was closed. I searched from afar the four windows visible from out front, but each had curtains drawn across them. I called out, “Gordon?” in a voice barely above normal speaking volume and listened, half expecting him to appear in the front seat of his truck.
Nothing.
I walked around the side of the house. The back looked much like the front, with two more cars hunkered down on the grass and a tumultuous heap of household fixtures like sinks, toilets, and hot-water heaters piled up against a shed. I tried halfheartedly calling Gordon’s name again, but the only reply was a grasshopper’s chirrup from across the yard.
No way was I knocking on the door—Bill Grant’s leering face loomed in my mind—so I turned to check the shed. As I did, a door slammed. My heart skipped a beat, but I was relieved to find Gordon trudging toward me from the back door.
My relief was short-lived. He made his way through the maze of derelict cars, the features of his face set in stone. Coming way too close, he grabbed my left arm and snapped, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I instinctively wrapped my fingers around his wrist. “Ow—Gordon, let go!”
He glared at me for a few moments and then abruptly removed his hand. “What . . . the fuck . . . are you doing here?” he repeated, slowly and quietly, which was scarier than the first time.
Rubbing my arm, I tried to keep Deidre’s words in my mind and replied, “I—I was worried about you.”
He glanced behind him at the house and then pushed me roughly behind the shed. Once in this relative privacy, he hissed, “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Are you sure? You left so abruptly, and—”
“And? I had better things to do.”
I gave him an impatient look. “And . . . Deidre and I both just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Deidre?” He looked around in a panic. “Is he here?”
“She.”
“What?”
“Is she here. And yes, she is. Out front. She’s worried about you too.”
“What?” His eyes turned to fire. He grabbed my arm again. “Why would he—she—be worried about me?”
“I—”
“Hey, y’all.” Deidre appeared around the corner of the shed like a sunrise after two thousand years of darkness. A breath caught in my throat finally escaped my lips.
Gordon dropped his hand from my arm.
“Whatcha all up to back here?” Deidre asked, as though we were playing a game of cards or something equally mundane.
Gordon sniffed and took several deep gulps. Neither of us said a word.
“Come on. This is no place for three fabulous people to be conversing. I’m gonna take y’all for some food. Dee Dee’s starving and won’t take no for an answer.” She ignored the obvious tension thickening the air and cut right through it, encircling us both in her arms and guiding us back to her van. I was shocked that Gordon let her, but he seemed completely stupefied, his arms hanging still at his sides and his face slack.
As we climbed into Deidre’s van, the front door of Gordon’s house swung open, and his dad staggered onto the porch. The sight prompted a flash of Jill’s story in my mind, and my stomach pitched sideways.
But Bill Grant just stood there, swaying slightly and staring. I looked at Gordon, who was frozen, one foot in the van, one on the ground.
Deidre started up the engine and calmly conducted Gordon. “Hop on in, honey.”
Gordon blinked twice and lifted his other foot into the van, sliding the heavy door shut after him. I avoided looking back at Bill Grant before climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door closed. Deidre pulled away and drove up to Biddy Park, then past the northern limits of town. Soon we were on the main road back to North Gate. Gordon must have noticed too, but neither of us said anything.
Deidre finally came to a stop in front of a restaurant named the Lotus with a large patio out front. “Come on, babies. Let’s eat.”
She asked for a table in a corner of the patio, away from the five or six other people enjoying their meals outside. It was about four in the afternoon, and the place wasn’t busy.
Deidre seemed to know our server, Jeff, and told him to bring us a large nachos and three iced teas. Once Jeff left, she looked at Gordon, who hadn’t said a word since his backyard, nor made eye contact with either of us. Since he’d let go of my arm, his whole demeanor seemed to have switched from furious to . . . subdued? Maybe even willing? I couldn’t begin to imagine what was darting around his mind at this point. But if anyone could find out, it’d be Deidre.
Gordon’s hands lay balled up in his lap, and Deidre reached under the table to place her hand over one of them. He let her.
“Sweetheart, Nima’s just worried about you, and so am I. That’s the only reason she shared with me a little about what’s going on with you.” Gordon lifted his eyes quickly to hers, then mine. This time, however, they held fear instead of fury. I could tell his fists grew even tighter, but Deidre’s hand remained firmly in place. She continued, “You can trust me, sugar. Ain’t nobody at this table judging you.” She gazed intently at him and waited patiently as Gordon fixed his eyes on the table and remained silent
for several more seconds.
I knew Deidre was a miracle, but when Gordon slowly unfurled his fists and grasped Deidre’s fingers like they were a lifeline out of deep waters, I had to blink to believe my eyes.
We spent a long time out on that patio—long enough for the sun to set a simmering glow like embers along the skyline. Gordon didn’t say a lot, but he shared in his own words the things I’d passed on to Deidre and revealed that the black eye had come from Davis after he’d accidentally seen some more explicit drawings Gordon had drawn. He’d promised in his usual cocky tone that Davis looked much, much worse, though, and wouldn’t be telling anyone about the drawings anytime soon. Deidre just nodded and, as promised, didn’t judge.
Gordon asked Deidre questions I was completely unequipped to answer, like, “Does this mean I want to be a girl or something?” and “Why the fuck is this happening to me?” Deidre didn’t have answers either, but she responded with the kind of fathomless love and understanding that I imagined came only with years of experience and of having similar questions.
Gordon also wanted to know about how Deidre felt growing up, when she knew her body wasn’t exactly the way she wanted it to be, and why she sometimes dressed like a “chick” and sometimes somewhere in the middle. For these, Deidre gave her own truths. As she did, I watched Gordon carefully, noticing that even among the uneasy flinches and compulsive hair tucking, his eyes never left her.
The only moment that became a little tense between them was when Deidre asked, as casually as possible, if Gordon preferred to be called anything else besides “he” and “him.” His eyes grew wide and he immediately responded with a hard, “No! What? NO.” Deidre didn’t pay his tone any attention. She just smiled, said, “Okay, sugar,” and launched into a story about the first time her mother called Deidre “her” and how Deidre had just about fallen over. Gordon eventually lost his scowl.
I knew I was witnessing something profound and was just grateful to be a part of it, even as a bystander. I found my heart thumping hard, hoping that these moments would help Gordon see there was a place for him in the world, even if he wasn’t sure yet how that might look.
