WEDNESDAY IS GENDER BENDER DAY, which basically amounts to southern straight people cross-dressing. It’s definitely not my favorite.
We’re watching Twelfth Night in first period, because every English teacher is a comedian. Mr. Wise has this warped, ratty couch in his classroom that smells a little like beer, and I’m pretty sure people sneak in here to have sex and rub their fluids all over it after school. It’s that kind of couch. But we all fight to the death to sit on it during class, I guess because everything’s just a million times more bearable when you’re not in a desk.
Today, it’s been taken over by soccer boys in Creekwood cheerleading uniforms—specifically, Nick, Garrett, and Bram. That’s generally what the jocks do for Gender Bender. There are only about twenty cheerleaders in all, so I have no idea how they meet the demand. Maybe they all have ten uniforms each. Who the hell knows what this school spends its money on.
But I have to admit that there’s something kind of awesome about soccer calves and scuffed tennis shoes coming out of pleated cheerleading skirts. I can’t believe Bram Greenfeld dressed up. Bram from my lunch table. He’s this quiet black kid who’s supposed to be really smart, but I’ve never heard him speak unless he’s forced to. He leans way back into the corner of the couch, shuffling the toe of one foot against the other, and I never noticed it before, but he’s actually kind of adorable.
Mr. Wise has already started the movie when Abby charges into the room. Between cheerleading, the play, and all of her committees, there’s always a reason for Abby to be late to first period, but she never gets called out. It really pisses Leah off, especially because the people on the couch always seem to be willing to scoot over to make room for Abby.
She takes one look at the lineup on the couch and bursts out laughing. And Nick looks so ridiculously pleased with himself. The expression on his face is exactly the same as the day he found a dinosaur bone buried beneath the elementary school playground.
I mean, it turned out to be a chicken bone, but still.
“What the heck?” Abby says, sliding into the desk behind me. She’s wearing a full suit and tie and this long, Dumbledorian fake beard. “You guys didn’t dress up!”
“I’m wearing hair clips,” I point out.
“Okay, well, they’re invisible.” She turns to Leah. “And you’re in a dress?”
Leah looks at her and shrugs without explaining. Dressing extra feminine for Gender Bender is just something Leah does. It’s her way of being subversive.
So, here’s the thing. I would have left the godforsaken industrial-strength hair clips in Alice’s drawer where I found them if I thought I could get away with it. But everyone knows I participate in this kind of crap. Ironically, of course. But still. It would be weirdly conspicuous if I didn’t cross-dress at least a little bit today. It’s funny how it ends up being the straightest, preppiest, most athletic guys who go all out for Gender Bender. I guess they feel secure enough in their masculinity that they don’t care.
I actually hate when people say that. I mean, I feel secure in my masculinity, too. Being secure in your masculinity isn’t the same as being straight.
I guess the one thing that’s weird for me is dressing like a girl. What no one knows, even Blue, is that dressing up used to mean something to me. I don’t know how to explain it or reconcile it, but I haven’t forgotten the feeling of silk and air against my legs. I always knew I was a boy, and I’ve never wanted to be anything but a boy. But when I was younger, I used to wake up at night in April dreaming of Halloween. I would try my costume on a dozen times each October, and all through November, I obsessively fantasized about pulling it out of my closet one more time. But I never crossed that line.
I don’t know. There’s just something kind of mortifying to me about the intensity of those feelings. I remember them so clearly. I can’t even stomach the idea of cross-dressing now. I don’t even like to think about it too much. A lot of the time, I can’t believe that was me.
The classroom door opens, and there stands Martin Addison, framed by the bright light of the hallway. He managed to find a cheerleading uniform, and he even went to the trouble of stuffing his chest with weirdly realistic boobs. Martin’s really tall, so the amount of his skin on display is actually pretty obscene.
Someone in the back row whistles. “Looking hot, Adderall.”
“Late pass, Mr. Addison,” says Mr. Wise. And maybe it’s just Leah getting into my head, but I can’t help but think it’s unfair that Abby didn’t have to get one.
Martin stretches his arms up against the frame of the doorway like he’s hanging from monkey bars, and the top of his uniform rides up even higher. Some of the girls giggle a little bit, and Martin grins and blushes. I swear to God, that kid will whore himself out completely for a cheap laugh. But I guess he’s kind of a genius for that, because I’ve never met a nerd so beloved by the popular kids. I mean, I’m not going to lie. They kind of live to tease him. But there’s no bite to it. It’s like he’s their mascot.
“Any day, Mr. Addison,” says Mr. Wise.
He tugs his top down, pushes his boobs back into position, and walks out of the room.
On Friday, the math and science hallway is covered in hay. It’s probably three inches thick under my feet, and a few strands of it jut out stiffly from the slats of my locker. Dust seems to rise off the ground, and even the light looks different.
The theme this year is music, and out of every genre in the world, the junior class picked country. Only in Georgia. Which is why I’m wearing a bandana and a cowboy hat. School freaking spirit.
Okay. So, homecoming sucks and country music is just embarrassing, but I’m in love with the hay. Even though it means Anna and Taylor Metternich and all the other asthmatics will have to skip science and math today. It just transforms everything. The hallway looks like another universe.
When I get to lunch, I seriously almost lose my shit. It’s the freshmen. They’re adorable and ridiculous, and oh my God. I can’t stop laughing at them. Their genre is emo, and it’s basically a sea of bangs and wristbands and tears. I begged Nora last night to show up in a black wig, eyeliner, and for the love of God, at least a My Chemical Romance shirt. She basically looked at me like I had suggested she show up naked.
I catch a glimpse of her now across the cafeteria, and her curly blond hair is really the opposite of emo. But it looks like she talked herself into the raccoon eyeliner, probably once she saw everyone else doing it. She’s a perfect chameleon.
It’s hard to believe this is the same person who once insisted on dressing up as a trash can.
Martin’s at the table right next to ours, and he’s wearing overalls. Seriously, he owns overalls. He tries to catch my eye, but I look away abruptly. Avoiding Martin is like a reflex for me at this point.
I take a seat between Leah and Garrett, who carry on arguing right over me.
“Who the hell is that?” asks Leah.
“You seriously haven’t heard of Jason Aldean?” says Garrett.
“I seriously haven’t.”
Garrett slaps his hands down on the table. So I slap my hands down to imitate him, and he shoots me a self-conscious smile.
“Hey,” says Nick, settling into the seat across from me and opening his lunch bag. “So, I have a thought,” he says. “I think we should go to the game tonight.”
“You’re kidding me,” says Leah.
Nick looks at her.
“What about WaHo?” she says. We always hang out at Waffle House during football games.
“What about it?” asks Nick.
Leah’s head is tilted down, so her eyes look kind of scary, and her lips are sucked into a straight line. Everyone is quiet for a moment.
And maybe my timing sucks here, but I guess I’m not really thinking about Leah.
“I’ll go to the game,” I say. Because I’m pretty sure Blue will be at the game. I like the idea of sitting in the same bleachers as Blue.
“Seriously?” Leah says. I feel her eyes on me, though I make a point to look straight ahead. “Et tu, Brute?”
“Holy overreaction, Batman—” Nick starts to say.
“You shut up.” Leah cuts him off.
Garrett laughs nervously.
“Did I miss something?” Abby arrives to find us caught in this thick, weird silence. She sits down next to Nick. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine.” Nick glances at her, and his cheeks look sort of pink.
“Okay,” she says, and grins. Abby isn’t wearing a cowboy hat. She’s wearing a full-on stack of cowboy hats. “So, are you guys psyched for the game tonight?”
Leah stands abruptly, pushes her chair in, and leaves without a word.
The game starts at seven, but there’s a parade at six. I walk over to Nick’s house after school, and we drive back to school together.
“So, we’re on Leah’s shit list,” I say as we turn onto the road leading to Creekwood. Already, cars are parallel parked on the street, which has to mean the parking lot is full. I guess a lot of people like football.
“She’ll get over it,” he says. “Is that a space?”
“No, it’s a hydrant.”
“Crap, okay. Geez, it’s crowded.”
I think it’s the first time Nick has been here for a football game. It’s definitely the first time for me. It takes us another ten minutes to find a spot that Nick can pull up into from behind, because he hates parallel parking. In the end, we have to walk about a million miles through the rain to get to the school, but I guess those cowboy hats are good for something after all.
It’s really the first time I’ve ever noticed the stadium lights. I mean, they’ve always been there, and I’ve probably seen them turned on before. I never realized how incredibly bright they are. Blue loves them. I wonder if he’s already a part of the mass of people milling around the field. We pay a couple of dollars and they give us tickets, and then we’re in. The marching band plays a weirdly awesome medley of Beyoncé songs and does this stiff little dance in the stands. And really, despite the rain and the fact that it’s homecoming, I think I understand why Blue loves this. It feels like anything could happen.
“There you are!” says Abby, jogging toward us. She gives us each a giant hug. “I just texted both of you. Do you guys want to walk in the parade?”
Nick and I look at each other.
“Okay,” I say. Nick shrugs.
We end up following Abby to the teacher parking lot, where a bunch of student council people have assembled around the junior class float. It’s built onto a flatbed trailer with a frame constructed up the back, and it definitely looks like country music. There are bales of hay lining the entire surface of the trailer, stacked up higher along the back, and red bandanas knotted together like streamers all around the border of the frame. Everything is lined with Christmas lights. Twangy pop-country music blasts through someone’s iPod speakers.
Abby’s in the thick of it, of course. She’ll be riding the float with some of the other cheerleaders, wearing short denim skirts and flannel shirts knotted up to show their midriffs. There are a couple of guys in overalls, including one dude sitting against the hay bales pretending to play an acoustic guitar. I have to grin at Nick, because nothing pisses him off more than someone faking on the guitar. Especially someone who can’t even be bothered to move his fingers along the frets.
This girl Maddie from student council lines us up behind the float in rows, and then someone passes down pieces of straw for us to hold in our teeth.
“And y’all have to chant,” Maddie says, looking deadly serious. “They’re judging us on spirit.”
“Gah jernyrs,” I mutter to Nick, who snorts. There’s only so much you can do with a piece of straw clamped between your teeth.
Maddie looks panicked. “Oh my God, everyone, okay. Change of plans. No straw. Everyone take out the straw. Okay, good. Be loud, y’all. Remember to smile.”
The float starts moving around the parking lot, where it falls into place behind some kind of rock ’n’ roll monstrosity the sophomores have put together. We follow behind it, taking our cue from Maddie, who calls out cheers and randomly yells, “Woo hoo,” when things get too quiet. The parade actually leaves the school grounds, where it loops around for a block before coming onto the track circling the football field. The lights shine down on us, and people cheer, and I can’t believe Nick and I ended up in the middle of this. It’s so Johnny high school. I feel like I’m supposed to make some comment to underscore the ridiculousness of it all, but honestly? It’s sort of nice not to have to be cynical for a change.
I guess it feels like I’m a part of something.
Abby and the other cheerleaders rush off to the bathroom as soon as the parade ends to get into their uniforms, and Nick and I look up at the bleachers. The faces blur together, and it’s hard to find anyone we recognize. It’s a little overwhelming.
“Soccer team’s up there,” Nick says finally, pointing up to the left and a few rows down from the top. I follow him up the concrete stairs, and then we end up having to squeeze past people to get over to them. God. Just when you think you’ve discovered every kind of awkwardness there is. And then comes the issue of finding a place to actually sit. Garrett pushes in closer to Bram to make room, but I’m still basically sitting on Nick’s lap, and that sure as hell isn’t going to work. I stand up again immediately, feeling twitchy and self-conscious.
“Okay,” I say, “I’m going to go sit with drama club people.” I spot Taylor’s bright blond, super-brushed hair a couple rows ahead of us next to the stairs, and she’s sitting with Emily Goff and a couple of the others. A couple of the others including Cal Price. My heart beats faster. I knew Cal would be here.
I squeeze through my row and back down the stairs, feeling like every eye in the stadium is on me. Then I reach under the banister to tap Cal on the shoulder.
“What’s up, Simon?” he says. I like that he calls me Simon. A lot of the guys call me Spier, and I don’t mind that, but I don’t know. Honestly, I think I would like whatever Cal Price called me.
“Hey,” I say. “Can I join you guys?”
“Definitely.” He scoots over a few feet. “Plenty of room.” And there is—I won’t have to sit on his lap, anyway. It’s actually kind of unfortunate.
I spend a full minute trying to think of something to say. My brain feels foggy.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a game,” Cal says, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.
And seriously, I can’t even. Because Cal’s bangs. Cal’s eyes. The fact that he apparently notices me enough to know I’m not at football games.
“This is my first time,” I say. Because I just have to say the most virginy thing ever.
“That’s cool.” And he’s so calm. He’s not even facing me, because he can talk and watch the game at the same time. “I like coming when I can. I try to make it to homecoming at least.”
I try to think of a way to ask the thing I can’t ask him. Maybe if I mentioned something about the smell of the air, just to see how he would react. But if I said that and Cal really is Blue, he’d know immediately that Jacques is me. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.
I’m so freaking, ridiculously, absurdly curious, though.
“Hey.” Suddenly, someone slides in next to me on the bleacher. It’s Martin. I scoot down automatically to make room.
“Adderall,” some guy behind us grunts, messing up Martin’s hair. Martin grins up at him. Then he smooths his hair back down, or tries to, and chews his lip for a minute.
“What’s up, Spier?”
“Nothing,” I say, and my heart sinks. He turns his body toward mine, and he’s clearly in the mood for a conversation. So much for talking to Cal. So much for the air smelling like possibility.
“Hey, so, this Abby thing.”
“Yeah?”
“I asked her to the dance,” he says, super quietly, “and she shot me down.”
“Okay, um. Sorry. That sucks.”
“Did you know she already had a date?”
“Um, yeah, I think I did know that. Sorry,” I say again. I probably should have gotten around to speaking to Martin about that.
“Could you give me a heads-up next time,” he asks, “so I don’t embarrass myself?” He looks so miserable. I feel weirdly guilty. Even though he’s blackmailing me, I feel guilty. So that’s a little fucked up.
“I don’t think they’re like boyfriend-girlfriend,” I say.
“Whatever,” he says. I look at him. I don’t know if he’s giving up on Abby, or what. And if he does give up on her—what happens to the emails? Maybe he gets to hold them over my head forever.
I actually can’t think of anything worse than that.