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It soon became clear to both of us that I yam what I yam: a devout and dedicated homosexual. Chan threw in the towel and we quickly changed course. We spent our time discussing the best online shopping (Chan was a bit of a metrosexual), new music, and my rage and resentment at my parents.
I’ve never been so mad at them. They didn’t like who I was. It was insulting, offensive, hurtful. I expected more from them (or at least from my mother). At one point, I stopped speaking to both of them for sixty-two days, which for me was quite the feat. I’m a champion chatterer. I literally had to bite my tongue at times to stop myself from talking to Mom.
Before Chan, Mom and I were the best of girlfriends. We could hang together without getting all shrill on each other, like she does with my sisters. I listened endlessly to her litany of complaints, unlike either of my sisters, both of whom are way too self-consumed to ever bother with someone else’s issues.
During the “Silent Talks,” as I fondly refer to those sixty-two days, I would e-mail or text in emergencies. Otherwise, my lips were sealed. It broke my mother’s heart. She went into therapy herself. Eventually, Chan told my parents that I was fine. Not the least bit “confused or conflicted.” And the sessions ended. I’m here, I’m queer, get used to it. And they have, mostly.
I knew Mom would come around, but Dad surprised me. He’s a little bit to the right of Attila the Hun. It’s a minor miracle how well we’re getting on these days, considering who and what he is—a Republican to the core. I think he came out of the womb in khakis and a blue blazer. His great-great-great-great-grandparents came over on the Mayflower. He was in an eating club at Princeton. He is so white, they’ve named a shade of Benjamin Moore paint after him (Bright, Uptight White #7). He runs a private equity firm that specializes in crushing the spirit of middle management. He buys companies, strips them of all their employees, and then sells off their assets, leaving people unemployed, hapless, and helpless, all in the name of making money. Lots of it. It’s kind of unconscionable. And yet, I blithely live off the proceeds, which kind of makes me hate myself at times. But the alternative, not living off it, is a nonstarter.
Despite it all, Dad and I have come to terms with the fact that we are inextricably father and son. We’re loving each other the best we can. It’s not always a perfect scenario, but what is?
I’m coming up empty-handed on the Kylie front, and starting to feel frustrated, when a red dress calls to me from the hanger. I hold it up to my body and immediately feel I’ve found a friend. It’s a T-shirt style and surprisingly demure, despite the fact that it’s screaming red sequins. It’s not too plunging, not too short. It would show off Kylie’s curves without strangling them. I love it immediately. It’s the perfect podium look. It says, “I’m smart, chic, and sassy. Call me.”
The problem is, Kylie’s not really a red sequins kind of girl. Or a dress girl. Kylie’s not really an anything kind of girl. She is an extremely fluid concept. For once, I’m happy she’s not here, negative nabobing in my ear. I’m inclined to buy one for her and one for me. We should show up to graduation in matching red sequins. It would sure give Freiburg something to remember.
I throw on a black chain necklace, very eighties. And spiky black patent heels.
Ding ding ding. We. Have. Got. A. Wi
I exit the dressing room to admire the look I’ve just curated, ignoring the tweaky stares I’m getting from tweens and their moms. I stand in front of the three-way, staring at myself from every angle, which is when it hits me. I’m actually kind of over the whole cross-dressing thing. At first it was fun—lots of shock and awe, which was a kick. But lately it’s been less satisfying as people have become slowly inured to my look.
Girls’ clothes feel different on the body. They cling, they hug, and they drape. It’s sexy and pleasurable to have a different relationship to fabric, but I’m kind of starting to miss the fit and feel of a finely tailored men’s suit. Nothing like a European-cut Tom Ford to make you feel dapper. The honest truth is, I like stylish men’s clothes as much as the next guy. Maybe even more than I like women’s clothes. Maybe it’s time for a change. Maybe I don’t have to shove my gayness down everyone’s throat. Maybe I should consider the possibility of a suit at graduation. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. The kid needs to give this one a good think.
The one thing I do know is that Kylie absolutely must wear this dress. It rocks.
“Will Bixby, what the hell are you doing?”
I turn around to see Lily Wentworth staring at me. She is wearing the exact same dress. Stokely Eagleton hovers behind her like some kind of military helicopter, ready to whisk her away in case of emergency.
Lily Wentworth? What is she doing slumming at Forever 21? She’s such a label whore.
“What’s wrong with you? You look totally gay,” Lily says.
“I am totally gay, Lily,” I remind her. “I’m buying it for Kylie.”
“I don’t think so. I’m buying this for graduation, so you might as well just put yours back,” Lily insists, like she’s the boss of me or something.
Stokely nods in solemn affirmation, as though the word of God has just been handed down.
I am suddenly back to wanting to shove my gayness right up Lily’s ass, along with the stick that’s been in there for a while now. So much for the suit.
“Kylie will be wearing it to graduation. Deal with it.” I flash Lily a toothy grin just because I know it will drive the knife even deeper. “If I were you, I’d find something a little more…forgiving. Maybe try the plus sizes or something.”
Lily doesn’t say anything. She just glares at me. I turn and sashay back into the dressing room like I’m working the runway.
“Does this make me look fat, Stokes?” I can hear Lily asking. Mess with me, beyatch, and I will mess you up.
“Not at all. You’re a size two. It looks great on you. He’s just jealous. He knows you’ll totally show up Kylie if you wear the same dress. I mean, Kylie Flores? Please,” Stokely says.
“You’re right. Besides, who cares what weird Will Bixby thinks, anyway?”
“Totally,” Stokely echoes.
Man, I hate Lily Wentworth. I can’t believe we were best friends in kindergarten. What was I thinking? I walk out of the dressing room, firmly clutching my red dress, and march over to Lily, getting all up in her grille. I am so over being called a loser.
“Hey, Lily, shouldn’t you be at Dolce or Prada?” Lily noticeably flinches. I’ve hit a nerve. “I mean, wearing a dress from Forever 21? Everything all right at home?”
Mom and Ms. Wentworth are friends from The Casino, a hideous te
“Go to hell, Will,” Lily says. And it’s bingo, baby. Something is definitely up over at the Wentworths’. Has Daddy gone bust?
I wave and smile as I strut off.
Mission accomplished.
e are going to die. For a fraction of a second, the four of us stare at each other. I’m sure the two guys are trying to figure out what the hell we were doing in the truck. Max and I share a quick look, both scrambling for a Plan B. We have no idea where we are or what we’re doing. There’s no one around. And we have absolutely no time to think, so it’s not much of a plan—more of an instinctive desire not to die—when we simultaneously turn and dart back up the street, ru