Breakaway: A New Adult Anthology

by Jay McLean

  “How come no one will talk to me?” I ask.

  “Because you’re new. You haven’t proven yourself yet. You’ve been invited, but you can’t expect to just be one of them.”

  I know she means the butch women. “Like a code of honor?”

  “Sort of,” she says. “One of my jobs is to introduce you to some people.”

  “I’d rather talk to you.”

  A tiny grin pulls at the corner of her mouth. She reaches over and rests a hand on my knee. We both look down at it, then at each other, and it’s like the gesture took us both by surprise. I run two fingers along her shoulder.

  She shakes her head and angles herself away from me. “We can dance, we can sit at the bar, or I can introduce you to a few people.”

  “I wanna talk.”

  “We can’t talk.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m just your escort.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I know a few ladies I can introduce you to.”

  “No. I wanna talk to you, with you.”

  She uncrosses her legs, holding her cigarette away from her body, and she meets my gaze. “Stop that. I’m your escort.”

  “What does that even mean! For real, Daze.”

  “It means, it’s my job to introduce you to this, but nothing more” she says, taking a slow drag. Her face softens. “I can’t be your girl, Martie. I’m someone else’s girl.”

  “Oh.”

  My shoulders feel heavy. I look down at her feet, at the black polish on her toes.

  “Drink, dance, or meet others?” When I don’t respond, she lifts my chin with a finger. “Which one, Martie?”

  “Dance.”

  She extinguishes the cigarette in a nearby ashtray and waits until I clue in and offer her my arm.

  #

  We dance for so long, because I don’t want her to tell me she’s someone else’s girl again. Because as long as I’ve got her in my arms, then I can pretend she’s mine, that I’m strong enough, badass enough to be this woman’s man. I don’t get too close, though.

  When the songs are fast, I try to mimic some shit I’ve seen in Dirty Dancing. Sometimes, it doesn’t work, so I imitate what I see the other couples doing. I watch the other girls, just testing to see if maybe the others would do to me what Daze does to me. Nothing. I look for the girl from outside in the first-timers lot, trying to figure out if she’s infatuated with her escort, but she’s at the bar chatting with a group of women, butch and femme. What’s wrong with me? I’m fucking this up.

  #

  By the time two comes around, my back’s damp and there’s a sheen on Daze’s shoulders. Couples start to step out and not come back. The magic is about to end.

  “I’m going to go freshen up,” Daze says, pulling away.

  Pulling away before I have a chance to say anything, to brace myself for her breakaway. I’m alone on the dance floor, in the middle of whatever few dancers are finishing up the song.

  Steer clear of trouble… I should steer clear of trouble.

  Slipping my fingers in my pants pockets, I head to the ladies room, parking my ass outside the door. Still, no one will talk to me, but the difference is, now I don’t give a fuck. I’m not here to make friends.

  I care about one thing—

  The knob to the Femme restroom twists, the door opens a crack. I step forward, pushing myself inside. Daze looks surprised for a moment, the moment I close the door behind me and lock it. I slip my arms around her waist, up her back. Pulling her to me, bringing my face to hers, staring into her eyes, then at her lips—

  I kiss them. She doesn’t stop me.

  I taste her, cherries and tobacco. I breathe her in, vanilla and clean sweat. Stuff is blowing up inside me. There are noises coming from her as she lets my tongue find hers, as she lets me suck on her bottom lip.

  “You have no idea what you’re doing,” Daze says.

  “No?”

  Then I breathe against her mouth and slip a hand up her dress, against her thigh.

  She gasps, then moans.

  If this isn’t me, then who is it?

  “You’re gonna get in trouble for this,” she says, which makes me pull away to look at her face, but then she slips her hands under my jacket, over my shoulders, slipping off my sports coat. I lead her back to the vanity and she hops onto it. I push the dress up around her thighs, so her legs can wrap around my waist.

  She’s got a fistful of my shirt, then grabs the metal chain, pulling me to her while her mouth works over mine. The scent of the cologne I’ve got on is driving me nuts, thinking about the fact that it’s my scent now. I don’t know what to do beyond this, because this is as far as I’ve ever gone with a girl. With anyone.

  Almost like she can hear my thoughts, Daze takes my hand and pulls it to her, slips it between her legs. And her skin’s against my chest.

  And my hand’s there now, and her voice is in my ears, and—

  There’s a faint knock on the door.

  But I don’t stop. I move so she can keep making noises. So I can hear them and know it’s me making it happen, and that she loves it. She fucking loves it and I’m so tall and strong that I fill the room. She arches her back, and I see everything. I see her, then I see myself reflected in the mirror. I see…me.

  There’s banging on the door now—it’s locked, right? Daze stiffens but I try to keep her there, keep her with me. Except the pounding—it won’t stop. She pushes me off her.

  “Fuck, Martie.” She hops off the counter and fixes the dress that had basically turned into a wide belt at her waist. She picks up my jacket and hands it to me. “We’re in trouble now.”

  “So? I don’t care.”

  She gives me a sweet smile, stepping over, but only to fix my hair. “Good luck.”

  The door bursts open behind me.

  I’m grabbed by the left arm and pulled. Then someone’s on my right arm. What the fuck?

  #

  Both sides are pulling me, yanking me backwards. Daze’s face settles into a frown as she gets farther away, still in the doorway of the Femme restroom. I’m dragged sideways. No one cares that my feet can’t keep up. They all stare, even the bartender, a woman with a shaved head and neck tattoos.

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” the person to my left says.

  I glance right, at the butch with the bulging temples and the set jaw. Then left, at the other butch woman, the one who spoke, who’s stronger than she looks.

  “What!” I yell.

  They drag me out of the bar, and up the stairs. I trip over and over. My underarms hurt from bearing my weight.

  “Listen, kid,” the woman to my left says, once we get to the main floor and the one on the right lets go of my arm. “If you’re lucky enough to get invited to a B&F Soirée, do yourself a favor and steer clear of Blue’s girl.”

  My bomber jacket’s thrown at me by the other butch who had me, and I scramble to grab hold of it before it falls. The door person from earlier heads over to hand me my cell phone. She shakes her head like she’s sorry I fucked up.

  Blue’s girl?

  “Daze invited me! I didn’t know.”

  “You knew she wasn’t yours to take,” the talkative bouncer says. “You don’t mess with another butch’s lady, or you get fucked, you got me?”

  “So, that’s it? I’m out?”

  “You’re out, kid.”

  The door lady opens the door wide and fresh snow blows inside. I throw on my jacket, feeling totally fucking livid at the thought of not seeing Daze again. My fists ball, but I’m just a kid, a girl in a costume. What the fuck can I do?

  As I’m about step out into the snow, a hand rests on my shoulder. I turn to see the skinny vocal butch. She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Look, give it a few days and Blue will cool down. If you’re one of us, you’ll get another shot.”

  “What about Daze?”

  “You forget about Daze, or next time, you might have a couple broken ribs.
”

  I step out into the night without saying anything.

  “Oh, and we called you a cab. You had a couple drinks. We’ll return your car to you tomorrow.”

  I have two papers due next week. I don’t have time for this fucking archaic B&F bullshit.

  #

  The next morning, my car’s back in the student dorm lot. I can see it from my window. It’s been snowing like a motherfucker for the last hour. See, this is only spring break for people like Shellie, who are somewhere warm, getting laid, drinking, and forgetting about the bullshit.

  I shove my butch clothes into the back of the closet. In bed, I pull the blankets over my head and wait.

  #

  Two hours later, I remember the chain around my neck. It’s warm, with my heat only now. I spin it between my index and thumb. Last night’s scene is happening in my head and I can see it clearly, even with my eyes open. I remember seeing it all through the mirror, while Daze moaned under me. I looked pretty badass.

  I felt badass.

  I wouldn’t mess with some other butch’s girl, except—

  This girl wanted me. I saw it in her eyes. I felt it.

  That’s why she picked me.

  #

  The next day, my first paper’s complete. I think it’s decent, even though I can’t remember why I gave that much of a shit about congenital heart defects. I mean, if this paper was going to end up saving babies’ lives, then it would be worth it, but I’m just regurgitating a bunch of other people’s research to give my prof two thousand words to grade.

  Also, there’s no “Daze” in the Canadian Yellow Pages. Well, there are, but they’re mostly all in Québec, and it’s always just a last name.

  The only way I’ll see her again is by hoping this Reading Week ends quick as hell so that I can get back to class. But, she probably won’t be there.

  She’ll be at Blue’s, though.

  #

  When I get to the place, there’s a tall wrought-iron fence blocking the entrance to the winding driveway. I’m not insane enough to snow-shoe my way through the forest. Fuck Blue.

  #

  I should’ve gone to Cabo. I should’ve never taken the invitation to Blue’s. I should’ve never put on those clothes. I shouldn’t have.

  Because now I hate my own clothes. They don’t feel the same. They don’t feel the same as me, anymore. I don’t like the way I walk. I hate my hair. I’m so sick of steering clear of myself.

  #

  Thursday, I get an email. An email from Blue’s Lounge. I take my laptop to bed, inhaling a couple breaths before resting my eyes on the first word—

  Martie,

  Thank you for attending last weekend’s evening. You are invited to this Saturday’s B&F Soiree; however please understand that you are on probation as a result of your ungentlemanly behavior last weekend. We are confident that you will be able to rectify this situation and would like to offer you a second chance.

  Begins at 10 p.m., at the Blue Lounge, 1428 Silverthorn Ave.

  This invitation is required for entry.

  Formal male attire expected, as you know, or no entry will be granted.

  Your escort will be Bailey.

  We ask that you respectfully avoid Daze, which we’re sure you’ll understand.

  We all make mistakes. We hope to see you this Saturday.

  ~The Blue Lounge Team

  #

  Saturday night, I’m in a brand new Michael Kors charcoal suit, single-breasted. My button-down is white, with the collar open and Daze’s chain hanging against my chest. I borrowed $300 from my mom. I lied and said it was for my car. It was for the suit, the new shoes, and the haircut. Oh, and the bottle of Altitude.

  In the mirror, something’s different about my face. It’s happening on its own. I feel tough. I feel fucking awesome. I’m Martie.

  This is why Daze picked me. And I’m gonna go get her.

  M-E GIRARD

  M-E Girard is writer of contemporary fiction—mostly young adult fiction, sometimes new adult fiction, usually queer fiction, and always about girls. She’s working on her first young adult novel, Boifriend, a finalist and recipient of various contest awards. M-E was a fellow of Lambda Literary’s Writers Retreat for Emerging LGBT Voices in 2013. She’s all over social media, and always trying to make blogging a more regular thing. She lives not too far outside of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, with her partner and their two Chihuahua babies. Visit her website at www.megirard.com