After styling my hair into two braids that crisscross over my head like a messy headband and putting on my boots, I wait for Freddie out front.
I watch as Bart’s truck, his beloved 1948 Chevy pickup, rocks over the potholes toward my trailer. I wonder how much talking Agnes had to do in order for Freddie to borrow it.
He hops out of the driver’s side and pauses for a moment as his eyes drink me in. “Well, you look lovely, but as promised . . .” He holds out a black tuxedo T-shirt for me that perfectly matches the one he’s wearing with his dark-wash jeans shredded on one knee and high-top sneakers.
His cheeks flush, making his orangey freckles stand out even more than usual.
“You look pretty,” he says. “You are pretty, I mean.”
I slip the T-shirt over my head, mussing up my already messy hair. “Thanks.” But my voice is too low for him to hear.
He opens the passenger door for me before jogging around the front of the truck to his side.
He flips through radio stations restlessly as we drive out of town.
“Where are we going?”
“Not far. I don’t think.”
“But it’s a secret?”
“New Orleans,” he says. He never was good with secrets. “I love it at Christmastime, especially.”
My rib cage tickles with excitement. “NOLA is my favorite.” And I’m a little relieved we’re venturing out and away from Eulogy. I’m still not sure how we exist in public.
“I know,” he says. “Me too.” His shoulders bounce. There’s electricity in the air. I can feel it. “Favorite city. Favorite person.”
I grin as he turns the music up. We take the scenic way there, making our drive about an hour and a half long, and soon after we cross the state line, we’re driving down narrow strips of land with rows of newly constructed houses on stilts sitting at the edge of Lake Pontchartrain.
According to my dad, all of this was wiped out by Katrina, too. Anytime he talks about Katrina in regard to Louisiana, there’s a bitterness in his voice. When the world thinks of Hurricane Katrina, they imagine the overflowing Superdome and the Ninth Ward and the flooded historic streets of the lower Quarter. No one thinks of our Mississippi and the incredible damage that forever changed the coast. No one talks about the industries and livelihoods that were lost.
I often wonder what my life would look like if I had lived in a world where Katrina didn’t happen. In that universe, my parents are still together and we’re not rich, but we’re not scraping by like we have for as long as I can remember. And all the deserted concrete slabs that line the coast are occupied with buildings that have stood against the same hurricanes my dad witnessed as a boy. It’s a different world, but not one I’ll ever have the privilege of existing in.
In our little trailer park, not even a mile from the coast, we’re sitting ducks. Folks in Eulogy don’t use years to measure time. They use storms, and I guess I’m just waiting for the next big one.
I get a little fidgety as we cross a huge steel bridge into New Orleans that can be raised up and down for larger boats to pass through. I remember, as a kid, being so mesmerized by the idea that an entire structure could adjust for one boat—one single boat that happened to be too tall. As I got older and the inches kept adding up and the growing pains became almost unbearable, I remember wishing that the doorways of our trailer could raise up and down just for me.
I’m impressed with Freddie’s ability to maneuver the traffic, but I’m in the habit of staying quiet, because when we were kids my dad would get anxious with all the added cars and pedestrians. We pull into a skinny parking lot that runs the length of the Moonwalk, which edges up against the Mississippi River. The walk is lined with tourists and men with towels thrown over their shoulders and shoe polish in their hands as they try to talk anyone who will make eye contact with them into a shoe shine.
“Are you hungry?” Freddie asks.
“Starving.”
“Good.”
We walk out of the parking lot and down the steps to Decatur Street. Sprawled out in front of us is Jackson Square, a beautiful green space in the middle of the French Quarter. Behind us, overlooking the Mississippi River, is a ginormous Christmas tree with huge gold and red ornaments and an equally huge star on top. Oversize red bows hang from every lamppost in sight. The Quarter has this smell—and I don’t particularly hate it, even though I should. It’s a combination of once-exquisite day-old food, puke, and the sticky-sweet scent of frozen daiquiris.
Freddie points to St. Louis Cathedral. “I used to think it was the castle from Disney World.”
And I see it, too. There aren’t as many turrets, but it’s bright and white, like a beacon.
That’s when he chooses to take my hand, when I’m distracted and not ready, but so ready. Our hands clasped together makes my breath catch, which seems silly since we’ve been pressing our bodies together in whatever quiet corners we could find for the last week. But this is outside, in the middle of the day, and it somehow feels even more intimate than a kiss.
We’re not a secret. I tell myself this over and over again. I know what it’s like to be a secret, and this is not it. But there’s a freedom—almost the same kind I felt so briefly with Grace at Viv’s party—that comes with being strangers in a big city.
As I let Freddie lead the way to wherever he’s decided to take me, I am only the Ramona who exists in this moment. I’m on a date. With a person who happens to be a boy. And we’re holding hands. I am Ramona and he is Freddie and that’s it.
We walk a few blocks toward Canal Street, and every time someone points and laughs at us, I have to remind myself that we’re wearing matching tuxedo T-shirts. Freddie stops at the corner of Chartres and Toulouse behind a line of people.
“They, uh, don’t take reservations,” he says.
The sign hanging above our heads is white with a pink fleur-de-lis and simply reads The Grill.
“This was my favorite place growing up,” Freddie tells me.
“I’ve never even heard of it,” I say with bemusement. I think that’s one of the many wonders of this city: you can come here your whole life and always find something new to discover. “But I’m excited to see what’s so special about it.”
“I don’t know if it’s all that special, but I thought so when I was little.” He squeezes my hand once and pulls me closer to the building so that his body is protecting me from the sudden gust of wind. It’s almost a wasted effort because of my height, but I appreciate the thought.
I press my nose to the glass and see that the inside is an overcrowded light-pink-and-white diner with a bustling waitstaff in black pants, white chef jackets, and bow ties. I can see little Freddie being fascinated by this place. There are no tables or chairs, but instead one big bar that lines the kitchen with dark green bar stools. Twinkly lights hang from the ceiling and a small aluminum Christmas tree sits next to the jukebox. Based on the line of people, I’m assuming it’s good, but I know what it feels like to revisit something from your childhood and find that the mysterious magic it once held has evaporated.
The line moves fast and we are quickly ushered inside to two bar seats at the end of the row. Despite the place being loud and packed, our little corner feels quiet.
A tall black man whose name tag reads Hugo takes our drink order and tells us the catfish sandwich is his favorite. “So what’ll we have for food?”
Freddie doesn’t even glance at the menu before saying, “Grilled cheese with eggs. Sunny-side up.”
I sputter for a moment and choose the first thing I see. “Pancakes?”
“You got it,” says Hugo.
Freddie turns to me. “Sorry. I guess they try to get people in and out pretty fast, but it’s great diner food.”
“It’s okay.” It’s not what I expected for a date, but I guess nothing about this is what I expected. And I don’t even know if I’ve really been on a date. Do people even go on dates anymore? With Grace it was more like hang out, make out, watch TV, hang out, eat food, make out. (Which, if I’m being honest, is nothing to complain about.)
“So, I never asked. How did you like Star Wars?”
He latches his pinkie with mine. “It was good.”
“Yeah?”
His lips fall into a faint frown. “Got me thinking about my dad.”
I squeeze his pinkie with mine.
“I had such a big crush on you when we were kids,” Freddie blurts, changing the subject abruptly.
My cheeks grow warm, but it might just be the rising temperature in the packed diner. I go along with the subject change, not wanting to make him talk about anything he doesn’t want to. “Did you really?”
“Yeah. You were like this wild summer child who was always in a swimsuit, with hair full of sand. I didn’t even realize until, like, fourth grade that your real name wasn’t Ramona Blue. You were as much a character in my life as Santa Claus was.”
Hugo returns with our drinks and whips two straws out like a set of swords. “Food’ll be out in a minute.”
“You were like my own Peter Pan,” says Freddie. “I thought you would never grow up and that you’d always be this constant fixture on the beach, challenging other kids to races in the sand and swimming-noodle duels.”
His words suck the breath right out of my lungs. No one has ever summed me up in such a succinct way. I feel like Peter Pan, and it’s like Eulogy is my Neverland. “I guess that makes you my Wendy Darling.”
He grins. “I like that.”
I laugh. “I thought you guys were so rich. I thought everyone who visited the coast was rich. I knew we weren’t rich, but we got to live in the place where everyone else vacationed, so it seemed like a fair trade-off.”
“Did you like me?” he asks. “Even a little bit?”
“I remember feeling a faint curiosity,” I admit. “But I think I was too busy worrying about why I wanted to kiss girls.”
“How did you know?” he asks. His brow furrows, and I can see he’s trying to make sense of us with what he knows to be true about me in mind. Frankly, I’m trying to do the same. “Were you ever scared that you were supposed to be a boy or something?”
“I was never confused about my gender,” I tell him. “I’ve definitely always felt like a girl. The confusing part was liking other girls. Not feeling like I wasn’t one.” I know I should be disappointed that his understanding of my sexuality is so elementary, but at least he’s eager to learn. Growing up in the deep, deep South, I might have found it easy to assume that my feelings for girls made me less of one.
He takes a sip from his drink. “Will you think I’m some gross dude if I admit that I was kind of disappointed when I found out you were into girls?”
“Yes, but no,” I say. “I guess it’s like when someone you like is already with somebody else.”
He nods. “Yeah. Sort of. But I thought we—this!—was impossible.”
“But you had Viv!”
“I did,” he says. His shoulders fall into a downward slope. “I guess maybe that’s why I tried so hard to make it work with her even when I knew it was over.”
On one hand, this revelation elates me, but on the other, I feel so much more pressure not to mess this up.
“Grilled cheese for the man in the tux,” says Hugo. “And pancakes for the lady in the tux.” Then he drops our bill on the table.
Freddie pulls a twenty from his pocket. “No change.”
“My two favorite words,” says Hugo.
I don’t know if I’m starving or if the pancakes are really that good, but I finish every last syrup-doused crumb.
After we’re both done, we take a stroll back toward Jackson Square, and this time it’s me who finds Freddie’s hand first. “So Viv,” I say.
“It was over long before that party.” His voice is sad but firm.
I feel for him, but not in a commiserating way like I did at first. Now I’m more upset that anyone would dare hurt him.
We sit down on the steps of St. Louis Cathedral and watch as artists lining the fence of the square sit camped out on the ground creating more art, scratching their dogs’ bellies, and chatting back and forth about tourists and upcoming local events. To our left is an impromptu street brass band playing “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” And beside them are a few psychics with folding chairs sitting behind card tables as they wait for night to fall and for the inhabitants of the Quarter to turn curious.
“Was she your first girlfriend?” I ask.
“Does that make me pathetic?”
“No,” I tell him emphatically. I want to ask. I shouldn’t. It’s none of my business. But maybe it is. “Is she the only girl you’ve ever been with?”
“Been with?” He smirks. “If you’re going to ask it, you have to say it.”
I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. “Is she the only girl you’ve ever had sex with?”
He nods. “Yep. For a while, I even thought she might be the last.”
“Are you serious?”
He turns to me. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“Unrealistic? Yes. Ridiculous? No.”
“I thought I’d found it. I don’t even know if we were in love, but we were happy, and . . . and happy is more than my parents ever had, if what they had was anything at all. It’s sad that sometimes we let ourselves believe that if it’s not bad, it must be good.”
I carve out a corner of my memory for his words, because it’s a sentiment I don’t want to forget. It’s an idea that feels dangerous, because it makes me want more, and suddenly I’m reminded of Prudence Whitmire, the old lady at the pool, and her offer to put in a good word for me at Delgado Community College. But I push her from my head, because the last thing I want to think about when I’m on a date is that woman and her inability to keep her opinions to herself.
“You don’t talk about them much,” I say, referring to his parents and trying to pull myself away from thoughts of the future. “Do you know where they are now?”
He shakes his head. “I think my dad’s out in California somewhere. My gram said she heard he’s got a wife and kid out there now. I might have a sibling that I don’t even know. Isn’t that nuts? I can’t think about it for too long, because it’ll eat me up.” He drums his fingers on his knee. “I guess good on him for having a life. He just forgot to let me know about it. And my mom—there’s no telling.” He laughs drily. “She’s like bad cell reception. Never there when you need her most. Last time I saw her was the day after my gramps’s funeral. She was late. A whole day late.”
Having Agnes must make up for a lot, I’m sure, but hearing about his parents still makes me feel like shit for even complaining about my mom. She’s a flake, sure. But she’s a semi-responsible flake.
“Come on,” says Freddie. “You gotta dance with me.” He stands up and pulls me with him.
“I don’t dance.”
That doesn’t faze him. “Me neither.” He takes my arms and drapes them over his shoulders as he gently holds my hips. “This seems like a good place to start.”
My hips sway like they’re attached to marionette strings controlled by the music. It’s a song I know so well from my childhood, a brass band cover of “Sexual Healing.” Maybe that’s weird, but it was always one of my dad’s favorite brass band covers.
“Look at you go!” says Freddie over the music.
Our bodies inch closer together as the crowd claps along to the beat. And then his hips are pressed against mine and his hand is on the small of my back. Our upper bodies are loose as we let the trumpets possess us. There are whistles and hoots.
For a second, I let myself look around, and a crowd has formed around us, the band, and a few other couples. Passersby toss cash into hats and open instrument cases. We’re just as much a part of the performance as the band. The trombone kicks in and our feet stomp along to the music.
“People are staring,” I say.
“Let them,” he says, and kisses my hand before spinning me out and twirling me back in so that his chest is pressed against my back.
I’m scared that this might be the happiest moment of my life. I’m scared, because I don’t want it to end, and because this can’t be it. I need more. I need more moments like this. Everyone should dance in the middle of a beautiful square with a freckled person they love.
Love, I think suddenly. It’s just a thought, I tell myself. It might not be true. But I do love Freddie. In what way, I don’t know. But I do.
The song ends and the crowd gives a loud cheer before quickly dispersing. The two of us are out of breath, chests heaving, and I’m smiling so wide my cheeks ache.
The band comes by and shakes our hands. I search my pockets for a few bucks to drop in the trombone case. (It is my personal philosophy that dresses without pockets are useless.) They transition into “O Holy Night,” and a whole new crowd has already gathered.
The sun has dipped far below the horizon of buildings, and all that’s left is a faint early-twilight glow.
Freddie takes my hand. “Let’s walk.”
And we do. We walk all over in our matching T-shirts. We wander into stores full of beautiful things we can’t afford. We take pictures in souvenir shops, wearing feather boas and ridiculous hats. We slide into a photo booth and Freddie says to make serious faces and then tickles my armpits, making me laugh so hard I can’t breathe until the last frame, when he kisses me and I kiss him back.
I pull him into a store on Decatur Street called Hex. The windows glow with candles, and in a small corner of the store a woman sits behind a partially closed curtain, telling fortunes. I can see that the store makes Freddie a little nervous—or maybe it’s the girl behind the counter with the shaved head. He hovers close behind me as I look very carefully at all the spell kits. You can buy a kit for love, money, happiness, justice. Anything you can think of.
Freddie drifts from me as I study the bowls of crystals and stones. It’s incredible to me to think that all these objects can hold so much meaning, but at the end of the day they’re objects and only we can give them meaning.
Freddie kisses my temple. “I’ll be outside.”
The curtain at the back of the shop opens, and a man comes out with a worried expression. Behind him, the fortune-teller gently touches his shoulder and he nods a thank-you. She’s not the person I expected to see behind the curtain, that’s for sure. She wears mom jeans with a floral oxford tucked in. Her bangs are teased, and she looks like she should be chasing kids around an outlet mall.
Her eyes are warm when she says, “Aren’t you the tall one?”
It’s something I hear all the time from strangers, but it still takes me by surprise. Sometimes—and especially on days like today—it’s easy to forget yourself.
“Blue hair, too.” She squeezes past me to the office behind the register. “Blue is for stability, if I recall, but sometimes it’s good to shake things up. Isn’t that right, Sam?” she asks the girl at the register.
“Yep,” she says, her voice dripping with indifference. “Shake things up.”
I twirl a loose tendril around my finger and nod. After looking around for a minute or two longer, I buy a few prosperity crystals for the chocolate box under my bed and meet Freddie outside.
The woman’s words stick with me, though. On most days, I would shrug it off, but today is different. Today is not an average day in the life and times of Ramona.
He looks down at his phone. “Quarter to midnight,” he says.
“Oh, wow.” I yawn. “I guess we should start heading back.”
We walk hand in hand back toward the car and stop at the Café du Monde to-go window for two café au laits and a bag of beignets for the ride home.
The drive is quiet as we sip our coffee and try not to get powdered sugar all over Bart’s truck. After a while, I feel myself slipping in and out of sleep for the next hour and a half.
Freddie wakes me up, and I expect to be home, but instead we’re at the base of a dark, empty bridge.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
I stretch my arms out, forcing myself to be alert. “Nothing good ever follows that question.”
He checks the rearview mirror and turns his headlights off. There are no streetlights. All that’s left is the hazy glow of the moon above. In complete darkness, he begins to drive over the bridge.
“Roll your window down.”
I do as he says.
It’s a little bit terrifying and it’s a little bit peaceful.
“We’re floating,” he says.
And I see it. I feel it. We’re in a truck coasting through the stars, hovering high above Eulogy. I am Peter Pan and he is Wendy, and this moment will last forever. We are flying.