First Time for Everything (29 page)

Aha! That’s why my brother had so many friends; they were all into sports. They had that in common, and it was a good “distraction” that made them all happy and easier to approach. But how would that relate to smiling at an unhappy person? Wouldn’t that make them happier? Oh gosh, now I’m thinking about interaction instead of just my action, the only part I had any control over. Should I not be expecting a response? That sure would help. I’d read something lately about “responding to the universe, not reacting with emotion.” Did that even come into play with just saying hello?

Just then I saw Lauren and her friends again. They were sitting near me, and I hadn’t even noticed. I looked at them and smiled, and Lauren narrowed her eyes and hissed, “Stop following us. What are you, some kind of stalker?”

I felt like she had just slapped me. Turning into my old self again, I got up and left, even though I really liked the music. My mood had darkened and now nobody seemed friendly at all.

I decided—well, I didn’t think about it until later, but I just stopped being friendly, or trying to be, and just wandered. I was overwhelmed now by all the people and noise and color and sound. I went into the bookstore on Fourth Street—the gay one. I’d often wanted to go in before but had always been too afraid. I thought I saw one of Janice’s friends; so I turned my back and studied the books on the first shelf I saw. I stared long and hard at one, wondering why it looked so familiar. Oh God, it was a book about lesbian sex, and the cover had the exact same damn picture that was on my shirt.
Her
shirt.

I was mortified. That bitch! Janice… I would get even some day. She could count on that. As I lurched out of the store, I could imagine her giggles and guffaws rocking the rafters. I grimaced. I almost missed what happened next. There was a guy walking into the store as I was leaving. He saw what he thought was my smile—and smiled back. He was old and bald and fat and kind of creepy-looking, and I didn’t know whether to be proud that it had worked or scared that it had worked. So I just made it a smile and got the hell outta Dodge. I wondered what I’d have done if he’d said hello!

My spirits restored, I went back to saying hello or smiling. I racked up six return smiles, one set of raised eyebrows, one haughty look, a big goofy grin (I think that kid was one who rode the short bus, though, but hell, why not? Wasn’t he people too? And there was genuine warmth in his smile too.) I hadn’t made any friends, though, and I thought I should maybe ask questions or make small talk. But that would mean standing still and trying to find something in common, wouldn’t it? Talk about being outside my comfort zone. I was clueless about that, though I could see it might just be the next logical step.

What was the point of small talk? Just connection or something deeper? Having something in common seemed to be important but not vital. I realized I’d never been more than idly curious about what other people were like. Even worse, it was true that I never moved toward them, that I always expected they should move toward me because, after all, wouldn’t they just run away if I reached out? I wasn’t like my outgoing brother, and he’d made it plain, both he and his friends, that I wasn’t included in their circle (which, to my mind, seemed to encompass everyone in the whole school. Black and white, all-or-nothing thinking, I suppose, but that’s how I felt.)

So… for some reason… I’d always believed him, but why? Because he was older? Why didn’t I have the confidence he had? What the heck was I, chopped liver? I didn’t really think so. His strengths were right there, sports, good looks. I know I wasn’t as good to look at, and as an athlete I was a total schmuck, but I was well read, got better grades, and could play the piano. I was trying to invent a simple harp and write music for it. I’d never met—as far as I knew—anyone who was interested in that sort of thing, but then, I’d never shown that side of myself either, had I? It felt like my brain ticked over and said
You’re an idiot. You should have figured this out ages ago
. I had to laugh at myself because that feeling was the complete opposite of what I usually felt, which, I had to admit, was fear.

Speaking of which, it was getting dark, and my fear was returning, but I ignored it this time. Maybe fear has a purpose besides paralyzing a person with fright. Maybe sometimes it also gave you some much needed common sense. Was it typical to go overboard when you learn something new?

Probably. Anyway, perhaps I shouldn’t have talked to the guy I did, but he was the next one to be there. I smiled, made eye contact, and not only said, “Hello,” but added, “Are you enjoying the art fair?”

And out of nowhere, he punched me in the face, knocked me to the ground, and fished around in my pocket for my wallet. I only had eight dollars in it, but he took it, and while I lay there stunned, he kicked me and said, “Asshole.” And I lay there in a puddle of blood, my heart pounding, my great new way of thinking gone in an instant.

It being
Art Fair,
it started to rain. I managed to find some air and got it inside me and sat up. Blood and rain ran down my face. My left eye was swelling shut, and I heard myself crying. I vowed to never say hello to anyone ever again. I felt cheated and shocked and like every bad thing anyone had ever said to me was true. I felt like it was my own fault I’d been assaulted and robbed, just like it was my own fault I didn’t have friends. I don’t think I’d ever been hit before. My mind careened through wanting to blame my brother and my dad. I wanted to blame everyone except me. But apparently, I was to blame in some horrible, unknown way. Something was obviously wrong with me. And I didn’t know what.

Catching my breath, trying to make the best of it, I decided it was time to go home. Then I realized I didn’t even have bus fare anymore, did I? Since it was going to be a long, wet walk, I figured I’d better try to clean myself up first. I could barely see. I managed—I thought—to stop crying, and stood up, shakily. I almost fell over again. Lightning hit nearby, and I saw I was next to one of the area’s many coffee shops. I opened the door and went inside, wondering if I could use their bathroom. I really needed to pee and was surprised I hadn’t already done so. Silver lining in the clouds, huh?

As soon as the warm air hit me, though, I got very dizzy, and suddenly someone had my arm and was leading me to a chair over in the corner. “Sit here,” a male voice said quietly, “and I’ll get some paper towels.” All I could see was that he was one of the baristas, and the few letters I could make on his name tag said “Mark.”

My head was still spinning when he came back. I could barely see him: tall, young, dark hair curling over his forehead, and the deepest, most caring eyes I’d ever seen. My dick twitched. I looked into his eyes with my right eye and his lips were right in front of me, his mouth just slightly open and the tip of his tongue sticking out. He was holding a cold, wet paper towel against my left eye, pressing firmly but gently on my eyebrow, which apparently was cut. I wanted to hold my breath and just let him take care of me, but then I heard myself whimpering like a puppy. His lips shifted into a cockeyed smile, and suddenly I heard myself blurting out the whole story. I felt pathetic, and I didn’t even care.

He pulled back from me a minute and just watched me with his big, beautiful eyes, shaking his head gently. He spoke. “Never mind, dear. I’ll drive you home.” Then as I nodded fatuously, he added, “You look like you need someone to kiss you and make it all better.” He didn’t even blush as he said it.

I couldn’t take my eyes off this man. I was feeling electricity all over my body now, from my toes up, and then more up. My chest, my—I realized I was nodding dumbly to what he had said. For the first time since toddlerhood, I remembered I had nipples. They felt like radar guns, pointy little laser guns. I could feel my pupils expanding to the size of pools. My dick now felt like an anchor; it was so hard, I almost felt proud. All I was really aware of, however, at that moment, drowning in the man’s eyes, breathing like a steam train, my face either flooding or flaming or draining—all I really knew was I did need someone to kiss me, badly, and was slowly and terribly bravely, nodding my head.

“Will I do?” he asked with a smile.

I didn’t know who moved closer to whom… but as our breaths merged into one, I held back just for a second, put my finger on Mark’s lips and said, quietly, “Hello.”

There. I’d done it. I’d made a friend—my first friend. A friend with whom I had something
major
in common.

Friends are God’s way of apologizing for our families.

—Tennessee Williams

E
MERY
W
ALTERS
is the prominent author of nine books ranging from sexual abuse recovery to coming of age stories of gay youth. Despite the serious nature of the subjects, he fills his stories with the irrepressible humor for which he is well known. His eighth book—a completely straight children’s adventure—was published in 2014 along with his ninth, a pure, gay, piratical farce. He is now finding success in a new venue: individually published short stories.

Born in Illinois, he has lived in many states from Connecticut to Arizona to Washington. He now resides in Hawaii with his wife where he pursues writing, photography, and snorkeling. He also has an interest in pirates, wenches, and cabin boys. He received his BA in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and took master’s degree courses in Ypsilanti, Michigan.

Emery is no stranger to the world of sexual orientation and gender variance. He has a gay son and a transsexual wife. He himself transitioned from female to male in 2002. His life has been full of change.

J
O
R
AMSEY

O
N
A
way too hot September day, Alyssa Eagen wore a long-sleeved cardigan and jeans.

Bandages peeked out of the cardigan sleeves. I was pretty sure she didn’t want anyone to see them.

She and I had the same lunch period, the only time I would see her during school since she was a junior and I was a sophomore. We didn’t share any classes. I’d noticed her the year before, but I doubted she’d ever noticed the girl with the color-changing hair who dressed all in black with occasional bursts of navy blue or brown.

Yeah. That was me. I colored my hair random colors no natural hair would ever be, though unless the heat outside was more than I could stand, people didn’t usually see it because I wore hoodies and kept the hoods up. Screw the school rules that said we couldn’t wear hats or hoods. My modification plan said otherwise.

I wasn’t wearing a hoodie today, though. Even I didn’t want to sweat in the classrooms and hallways, and I was feeling brave. My neon pink hair, newly cut into something too short to be a pixie and too long to be a crew cut, had already earned me a ton of weird looks.

People believed I dyed my hair and had my ears and face multipierced to attract attention. They were wrong. I did it to hide my real self, because that girl didn’t dare let anyone see her. That girl desperately wanted to be home under the covers, staying safe because her bed was the only safe place in the world. The colors and piercings gave me a mask to hide behind so no one would see how damaged and scarred that girl was.

I’d been that girl for almost five years. Since I was eleven. After all the therapy and hospital stays and stuff, most days were good days now. I went outside. I coped at school or walking around town or the mall with my friends.

But I couldn’t do it without the costume and the name I’d chosen for myself. Alexandra Williams was in a coma under her pink-flowered comforter somewhere and had been for five years. Xan Janus was alive and well, with pink hair and black clothes that mostly hid the scars. My mother hoped someday Alexandra would come back to life, but I didn’t see it ever happening. Xan was healing, growing stronger, facing the world even if I needed my mask to do it. Alexandra would never be able to handle anything again.

Today I wore a black miniskirt over black leggings, with a black way-too-huge concert T-shirt from the 1980s that I’d scored at a thrift shop. The shirt only covered my arms to the elbows. The tons of rubber bracelets I’d collected covered the worst scars, on my wrists, but a few were visible in the gaps between the bracelets and sleeves.

Those scars were the reason I noticed Alyssa’s bandages. Some people might have assumed she’d been hurt accidentally. I knew better. The way she shrank into her cardigan and the total absence of the long blonde hair half the girls at school had been jealous of told the story.

Something had happened to her over the summer. Or maybe before. Now that I thought about it, I realized I hadn’t seen her around after April vacation. Since I’d only been a freshman then, I hadn’t really thought much of it. Alyssa and I didn’t run in the same circles, so it wasn’t surprising that our paths hadn’t crossed. But I’d seen her in the hall plenty of times before April break. She’d always been one of the bubbly popular girls who drove me nuts, but she was so pretty I hadn’t minded the bubbles.

She’d never talked to me, but I’d spent plenty of time watching her until she wasn’t around. Now I wondered if she’d even come back for the last two months of school before summer break.

She was there now, but she wasn’t bubbly anymore. Or popular, apparently. She sat alone at the table in the farthest corner from the cafeteria doors. People glanced at her and turned away fast. No one spoke to her.

So I decided I should.

When I walked over to her table, Alyssa looked up at me as if I was nuts. And then her eyes went wide.

I didn’t think my appearance was
that
scary.

“Hi.” I pulled out a chair and sat down, leaving an empty spot between us so she wouldn’t feel crowded. If I’d guessed right, she needed plenty of space, and I wasn’t going to be the one to cross a line. “How’s it going?”

“You’re Xan, right?” Her forehead wrinkled, and she tilted her head to one side. “Nice hair.”