The Boy in Makeup

"Ugh," she said. "There's Olive Oyl and your ridiculous Evans, dressed in black like he's trying to live out Depeche Mode's 'Dressed in Black.'"

"I think he looks good," I said, not able to help myself.

"That's because you want to suck his dick," Lori responded, cutting to the chase. "But, he's not going to let you, so you should stop pining for it."

I wanted to tell her I wasn't so sure, that we had slept in the same bed, and that we'd made each other come. Instead, I said nothing. Discretion is the better part of valor.

When "Follow You, Follow Me" ended, the lights came up. The dance was over. Everyone would splinter off. Evans and Karen would go wherever that clique went. Lori, my friends, and I would head to a basement, mostly to talk about Evans and Karen and ridiculous people like them who thought things like Homecoming King and Queen mattered.

We were in Peter's basement until almost 1 a.m. I thought of spending the night. I had no curfew, but it was about 15 blocks to our apartment, and it was a chilly November night. I don't know what persuaded me otherwise, but I had an urge to walk home instead.

I was stunned to find Evans sitting on the porch of our building when I walked up. He was shivering.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked.

"Waiting for you, Cupcake."

"Why?

"Because I wanted to see you."

"Did you buzz? My mother would've let you in."

"No, Eric. I decided to wait in the cold instead," he said, obviously sarcastically. "Of course, I buzzed. I got no answer. I almost gave up on you."

I wanted to say something clever, like "You should never give up on me." But, I couldn't. I was in deeper water than I was used to, and I was an awkward and clumsy swimmer.

I opened the door and led him up the stairs. Once in my apartment, we plopped down on the couch and covered ourselves with my blanket. The walk home had chilled me to the bones. I could only imagine how cold Evans was.

"I'm sorry," Evans started.

"For what?" I answered, pretending to be oblivious. "You didn't do anything."

"I did. I freaked. I told myself I wouldn't, but I did."

"It's okay."

"It's not. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't do anything I didn't want yo to do. But, I kind of punished you anyway. It was a cookie move. I'm not a cookie."

"It's okay, I promise."

"It's not. Anyway, I really like you, Cupcake. A lot. I didn't do anything I didn't want to do. I'm just not sure I'm ready to do what I did. I talk a good game. But, it's pretty much all talk. I'm afraid of this. Really, really afraid."

I wasn't sure what he meant by "this." It could have been me and him. It could have been resolving who he was.

I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to encourage him. I wanted to reassure him.

But, I had no experience or innate wisdom from which to draw. I was as afraid as he was. But, I was afraid of something different. He was afraid of finding me. I was afraid of losing him.

I had nothing to say, so I put my head on his shoulder instead. He lowered his head to mine. When I turned my face toward his, he asked if he could kiss me.

"Only if you want to."

"If I didn't want to, I wouldn't have asked."

We were making things way too difficult. I should have said "Yes, please." And, he should have said "I do."

Still, he lowered his mouth to mine, and everything happened at once. The sun came out. The rain poured down. Thunder struck. Lightning hit. The Earth trembled.

When we needed air, he pulled away. "My God," I said.

"Yes," he agreed. "My God."

We rested against each other. I wanted to ask him to stay, but I didn't. I was too timid. I said nothing.

Nature abhors a vacuum. He filled the silence with his turmoil. "I'm not sure I'm ready for this. It's very scary to me."

There are essential moments in life. They usually occur when two options confront you, one that can be captured with a bold move, and the other that defaults from a tepid move. I was tepid, and defaulted to what was easy, but unwanted.

"Look, Evans, we can just be friends. I love being friends with you. I don't need more than that. Hell, I don't want more than that. Let's forget Halloween and the next morning and that kiss and go back to the way things were. There's nothing scary in that."

I could tell from the look on his face that he was hoping for the bold move. But, I couldn't take back what I had said.

"Yes, let's," he said, pulling the blanket off of himself and standing up. "That'll be perfect. We'll go back to the way things were. We'll pretend last weekend never happened. We'll pretend that kiss - that awesome kiss - meant nothing."

He ducked out as my mother was coming in. I was crying when she closed the door behind her.

"What's wrong, Honey?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know. I think I just made a terrible mistake."

"It can't be that bad."

"It is. I hate pretending. And, I just pretended I didn't want what I want. I think my pretension was terrible."

My mother settled next to me and cradled me to her bosom. She let me cry for awhile before imparting motherly wisdom.

"Honey, there's nothing that's done that can't be undone. Tomorrow's a new day, and it holds endless opportunities. Wash today away. Embrace tomorrow and the opportunities it offers."

I fell asleep wondering if I could heed her advice. And, if I could, how I would.

My sleep was troubled. I awoke wondering why I had pretended to want other than what I wanted. As I thought about it, I felt myself hurtling down tunnel after tunnel, each narrower than the one before. Before I got stuck, I hopped up and headed outside. The cold air jarred and rescued me. I stayed outside until I was so cold I thought my teeth may break as I chattered.

Chapter Nine

I slept in on Sunday. I was troubled, and I liked to sleep when I was troubled. Even if slumber didn't bring clarity, it at least could quell the thoughts I had trouble controlling. I was always at peace when I slept. I didn't have night demons. I had day demons.

I awoke full of regret. Evans had tossed me a meat ball, and I hadn't even fouled it off. I was not a ballplayer, and it showed.

I was still full of regret at school on Monday. I was plain faced, but I had my hair back in a headband.

Evans was not at school. I was crushed.

Evans was also not at school on Tuesday. Arrogantly, I thought his absence had something to do with me. I called his house when I got home. His mother answered, dismissively told me he was sick, and hung up.

Evans was not at school the rest of the week. I called every day. His mother wouldn't let me talk to him any time I called, dismissing me with a "he's sick."

I fretted. He'd seemed perfectly healthy in the wee hours of Sunday morning, but he was too sick to attend a second of school that week. Something was up.

On Saturday morning, I decided to find out what. I walked to his house and asked to see him. His mother blocked the door and refused to say anything other than "Evans is sick."

As I walked away, I turned back toward the house. Evans was in an upstairs window. He raised one hand in a meek wave, and I waved back.

Evans was in school Monday, but he pretended I was not. The shoulder he gave me was as cold as ice.

The week went on like that. Friday morning, I couldn't take anymore, and I cornered him in the bathroom.

"What the fuck, Evans?" I asked. "This on again off again bullshit is fucking me up."

"I'm sorry, Eric," he said. "I fucked up. And, my fuck up is costing me. I'm not allowed to talk to you, much less be friends with you."

"What happened?"

"I was pretty upset when I left your apartment Homecoming night. My mom was still up when I got home. I thought I could trust her. I told her I had feelings for you, and she betrayed me to my dad. He . . . freaked . . . the . . . fuck . . . out. He threatened to 'beat the gay' out of me. He blamed 'the fag in the makeup.' I'm on house arrest. I can only come here and then go straight home. I'm not allowed any calls. I'm not allowed any friends."

"Jesus, Evans, that's not a life. That's a prison."

"It's fine. I'll be leaving in less than a year. I can make it until then."

"Maybe, but you shouldn't have to. This is fucked up. You have to know that."

"They're my parents. There's already been enough of a breach. I can't cause more."

"They're not parenting you. They're oppressing you. Parents offer their children unconditional love. Not 'I love you if' . . . . "

"That's easy for you, Eric. Your mother is awesome, and you're all she's got. She's not going to let you go, no matter what you do or who you are. I hold no such exalted place. I'm expendable, and I can't make it on my own. I have to walk the line."

I was as sad as I'd ever been. I'd lived through people who gave up on themselves, but never someone who'd given up on someone else. Or threatened to. It was a sickening feeling. I wanted to retch.

I hated but understood Evans' choice. I was tearful as I turned to leave the bathroom. Evans grabbed my arm and turned me back to him.

"I'm sorry, Eric. I really am. I just don't know what else to do."

"It's okay, Evans. It really is. It'll all be fine."

When I tried to pull away, Evans wouldn't let me go. He pulled me into him, and I buried my head in his chest. He raised my face to his, and he kissed me again. I had the same reaction I had to our prior kiss. I felt strong and weak, like I was flying and like I couldn't move. I could tell from the look on Evans' face when the kiss ended he had the same sensations.

We ducked into a stall. We kissed and kissed and kissed.

I felt powerful. I unbuckled Evans' belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his khakis, and released him.

"Is this okay?" I asked, my voice a sandpaper whisper.

"Yes."

I stroked him as we kissed. He used his right hand to clamp my mouth to his as hard as he could. He sucked my tongue and grunted in my mouth as he came, coating the front of my pants. I kept stroking him and kissing him. I don't know how long we were in there and didn't care. He was completely soft when we finally broke the kiss. I was lightheaded, and my mouth felt raw. He put himself away.

"Look at me," I said. My pants were covered in cum. I was going to have to go home. There was no way I could go back to class.

"Sorry," he said. "I drop a pretty heavy load."

"No shit."

"Can we kiss again?"

"Sure."

We did. It was another long kiss. I tried through that kiss to convey "No matter what, I love you." I'm not sure I did.

When the kiss was over, Evans quietly offered, "We can try to be friends at school."

I told him I didn't think we could just be friends. I told him I thought that, if we hung around each other, we'd wind up back in this bathroom, or in an equipment closet, or in the boiler room, and we'd eventually get caught. And then it would all be over for him, especially with his father.

I squeezed him, and he squeezed me back. I broke free and left the bathroom. I was emotionally bankrupt as I walked home. Looking back, I should have explicitly told Evans I loved him. That way, he could have taken that knowledge with him.

That night, Evans' father asked if he had spoken to me at school. Evans tried to lie, but was bad at it. So, he told his father about the encounter in the bathroom, at least some of it. Evans never returned to school after that. I heard that his parents had shipped him to a boarding school. But, I also heard that they had shipped him to one of those facilities that pretends to convert someone from gay to straight. I had no idea which was true, until I got a letter from Evans telling me what had happened with his father and that his "conversion therapy" was not working, he still thought about me all the time, and he missed me every time he thought about me. He told me not write him back, because they read every letter he received or sent. He had snuck his letter to me out.

I cried and cried that night as I tried to allow sleep release me from the grip of sadness. I cried because I felt I had been cheated out of Evans. Mostly, I cried because Evans was being cheated out of his life.

Chapter Ten

I moped around school for a couple of weeks. I couldn't even tell Lori why, as she still had a blind spot for Evans, and she'd have been pissed about the encounter in the bathroom.

I was raw and so unprepared for Steve's return. I was at my locker, and Steve - out of nowhere - asked me what me and my mother were doing for Thanksgiving.

"I don't know. Why do you care? You haven't talked to me for, like, two years."

"I know. That was douchey of me. I knew it was douchey, but then it went on and on and just got easier and easier."

"It wasn't easy for me."

I thought Steve was going to cry. I was not a good person, but I decided to do a good thing, so I tried to let him off the hook.

"Look, Steve. What's done is done. It's all behind me. I move forward, not backward."

Steve grabbed my hand and apologized. "Eric, I'm really sorry. But, things we spiraling out of control. We were making out all the time, I liked it but wasn't sure I wanted it, and then my friends accused me of dating you, and I lost it. I felt like I was getting painted with the wrong brush."

"It's okay. I'm fine. I missed you, but I got over it. I'm resilient, remember."

"Yeah, I remember," Steve said, defeated. "I'm a better person than you think I am."

I wanted to be curt and say "that's a low bar" or "I don't think about you at all" something similarly accusatory and bitchy. But, I had already tried to let him off the hook, so I decided in that split second to try again.

"Steve, I don't think you're a bad person. I just think you did bad thing. And, I'm over the bad thing. If you need or want to be forgiven, you are. You have been. Be free. Walk with a clear conscience. I'm over it." I wanted to add "and you," but I didn't.

"Thank you. Anyway, my dad thinks you and your mom should come for Thanksgiving this year."

Of course he did. And Steve almost certainly didn't know why. He would not have been so cavalier if he had.

I didn't think we should go. My mother disagreed. Vehemently. I felt the tunnels starting to narrow. I felt the water covering me. I felt the flames engulfing me.

It was an extremely awkward dinner. Mr. Lustig sat at the head of the table, directly across from his wife, pretending. My mother sat between them, also pretending.

The pretense was suffocating me. The conversation got faster, the words smashing into my like bullets from a machine gun. I couldn't breathe, and I needed desperately to get away from that table, from my mother and from Henry.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I put cold water on my face, but it didn't help. I sat on the edge of the tub, trying to think of something other than the game that was being played at the dining room table. My thoughts started to scramble, and the demons started pressing in. I put my head in my hands and tried to slow my breathing down. I knew the demons fed off my anxiety.

I was in jeopardy when I heard a knock at the door. It was Steve, and he was checking on me, just as he had when I had taken a knee to my stones.

I didn't answer him, but I moved from the tub to the floor. I leaned my back against the door. I couldn't open it. If I had, I'd have spilled my guts. And, the story was not mine to tell.

Steve asked me to let him in, and I told him I couldn't. So, Steve leaned his back against the door, too. Neither of us said a word for the longest time, but I started to calm down, knowing someone was on the other side, that I was not alone. Finally, Steve asked again if he could come in. I didn't answer, but I unlocked the door and moved out of the way.

Steve came in, and I settled back into my spot. Steve sat down next to me.

"Are you okay?"

"Did you know people call me Cupcake?"

"Yes."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"I'd rather be a Cupcake than a Cookie."

"I'm not sure I understand the difference."

"Of course you don't."

"You never answered me, Eric. Are . . . you . . . okay?"

"I'm not, but I think I will be."

"Can I help?"

"No."

"I'd like to."

"Okay, but you can't."

We sat silently. Without thinking, I rested my head on Steve's shoulder, and he rested his head on mine.

I tried to match his breathing. I could feel myself calming down. I could feel the threats evanescing, the demons retreating.

"I'm not good with secrets," I finally offered. "They threaten me."

"You kept a pretty big one for a long time."

"No, I didn't. People just chose not to know what they didn't want to know."

"I knew."

"I know."

We stayed like that, quiet, our breathing matching each others', unconcerned about what was going on at that table. "Talk to me," I insisted.

"About what?"

"I don't care. I just need you to talk." I couldn't tell him I needed him to drown out the voices in my head, the ones that wanted me to do what I didn't want to do. "Just talk about you."

He started. "Alright. Let's see. I'm color blind. Not a lot of people know that. My favorite color, to the extent I have one, is orange. I see orange better than I see other colors. But, it's not your orange. It's my orange. My colors are different than everyone else's. For some reason, I like the idea of having my own colors. My favorite sport is football. My favorite player is Joe Montana. I like how calm he is under pressure. I'm not. I get rattled. My favorite movie is Animal House. My favorite TV show is Cheers. Your turn."

"My favorite color is red. Blood red. I don't have a favorite sport. I don't much care for sports. I like athletes, but not sports. My favorite athlete is Bjorn Borg. Like me, he has long blond hair. And, he's hot. My favorite movie is Ordinary People. It's also my favorite book. I don't watch TV much. Your turn."

"I rooted for McEnroe over Borg at Wimbledon. Because he's American. I hated Ordinary People. It was too slow. And Mary Tyler Moore was not the Mary Tyler Moore I knew. They made her awful. Raging Bull was a better movie and should have won the Oscar. My favorite book is In Cold Blood. My favorite song is Bruce Springsteen's 'Born to Run.' I miss kissing you. Your turn."

I was surprised by the candor of "I miss kissing you." With that admission, I felt free to move my right hand under his shirt. I wanted to be distracted from what I would have given anything not to know but could not un-know.

Like me, Steve had both filled out and thinned out in the intervening two years. He was 6'4". His curly brown hair was longer. His face and body had lost all vestiges of any baby fat. His arms and chest and legs were thick with muscle. He shuddered a little when I rested my hand on his stomach.

"I love Ordinary People because Donald Sutherland and Timothy Hutton survive the brother's death and Timothy's attempted suicide. It resonated with me, in light of what me and my mother have gone through. My favorite song is Dolly Parton's 'Coat Of Many Colors'; it reminds me of my mother and what she's done for me. Although I also love Allison Moyet's 'Invisible.' I feel that way most times . . . invisible. I started wearing makeup when I was little. It made me feel special. It still does. I miss kissing you, too. A lot. Your turn."

"You're not invisible, Eric. You're among the most visible. You wear makeup and stake out ground that no one else walks on. It draws the light to you . . . ."

I didn't hear the rest of what Steve said. I held my breath as I moved my hand over him. His nipples were hard, and had a hint of hair around them. He had a narrow, thick mat of hair on his chest. As I moved my hands to his belt, I felt the same hair leading from his navel to his crotch.

I started to unbuckle his belt. I was disappointed when he told me to stop. "Not here," he said, "not like this."