“Not great, but I keep reminding myself they’re only a little over an hour away, and the only thing changing is that we’ll meet halfway with the kids rather than at each other’s houses.”
Hugo studied Kevin’s face, trying to read further into his words that seemed more like a self-pep talk than how he really felt.
“I’m sorry,” Hugo finally said, reaching out to take Kevin’s hand in his.
“I think she’ll be happier working in a place where she feels she can make a difference in some sick kids’ lives, and she’ll make enough to live there. Housing is somewhat cheaper. I guess the schools are good.”
“And when will she know?”
Kevin shrugged and then shook his head as if he no longer wanted to talk about it. Hugo let it drop.
T
HE
week was even busier than Hugo had suspected, and he and Gilbert were up into the wee hours of the morning rewriting their lines and working on costumes and props. That was after spending each day rehearsing and getting ready for the Fringe Festival. Hugo had to run around to various theaters fine-tuning sets that were now built, tweaking things with the lead carpenter, and making sure the stagehands understood how each set piece was to be used.
The Fringe play Hugo was directing would be performed five times in eleven days with Thursday being opening night. The first performance went off well, but Hugo was exhausted. He easily got out of seeing Kevin Friday night because he needed to rest and knew he’d be awful company since he was so nervous about the drag performance the next day. They talked on Skype and made plans to see each other late Saturday evening, long after Hugo had gotten rid of any and all traces of Miss Cherrie.
Finally, Saturday rolled around, and the big day for Miss Ginger and Miss Cherrie was there. Hugo started getting dressed around three in the afternoon, shaving his face and applying wax over his brows to cover them so he could draw on more feminine arches. Since he’d started dating Kevin, Hugo had refused to shave his legs or chest hair, not wanting to answer any awkward questions. That morning he’d opted to shave nearly everything, but avoided his legs. Cherrie’s dress was long enough to cover them anyway, not to mention the layers of hose he’d wear, but being a low-cut number only held up with tiny spaghetti straps, he just had to shave the rest.
Hugo spent long minutes that afternoon covering his face with creams, liquids, and powders, painting in shading and contours where there were none and trying to soften up the harsh, masculine lines of his jaw and chin. The buzzer pulled him away from his concentration, and he headed toward the door and hit the intercom.
“Yes?”
“It’s Summer.”
Hugo hit the button to let her in the building and then opened the door to his apartment a crack, heading back to the makeshift makeup table he’d set up in the kitchen because that was where the best lighting was in the apartment. All he wore was a pair of comfy cotton briefs while he got his face on, but he didn’t bother covering up any more because Summer had seen it all.
“Hey, sweetie,” Summer called out as she walked into the apartment. “I brought you something special.”
“Hi, baby. Forgot your key again, I see.” Hugo placed a careful kiss on her lips, not wanting to get makeup smeared on her before it was completely set with powder. “What did you bring me?”
Reflected in the mirror, she held up a pair of beautiful silver clip-on earrings that cascaded down with layer upon layer of filigree and pearls.
“Wow! Where did you find these?” he asked as he turned around and palmed the beautiful jewelry. “Thank you. They’re perfect for this dress.” Hugo could already feel himself becoming Cherrie, loosening up so his voice floated off into an easily found feminine lilt, his hands feeling more fluid and delicate.
“I was digging around in one of my great-aunt’s jewelry boxes that my mom dropped off last month. I finally got to it. It was buried under three huge-ass boxes with nothing but stuff to be donated or recycled. And then I came across these. There’s more, but I thought these would go well with the periwinkle color of the dress. Maybe bring out the little silver threads on the trim even more.”
“They’re perfect. Thank you, Summer.”
“So, where are we? Brows done, contouring, highlighting. It looks like you need to go a little lighter right below your brow.”
“And this, sweet Summer, is why I love you. You help make me beautiful.”
“You say that as if it’s hard work.”
I
T
WAS
a remarkably gorgeous day for August where the temperature was usually nearing triple digits. But the storms from the night before had pushed the week’s oppressive heat and humidity out of the area and brought behind it seventy degree temps and cool, refreshing winds. It was a blessing, considering Miss Cherrie Pop! was wearing hose and her dress was made of unnatural fibers that didn’t do much breathing on their own except for where there were holes in the fabric. She’d chosen the periwinkle-blue dress because it was sleeveless and showed off her long arms, which had just the right amount of muscle to be masculine but could pass as strong feminine arms as well. The back dipped low too, showing off the small of her back.
Miss Ginger Tail wore a short psychedelic-patterned dress with knee-high, white patent leather boots. Her bare legs between the top of the boots and the bottom of the dress looked great, long, dark bronze, and sleek. She’d decided on her namesake’s hair color, wearing a short auburn wig that just skirted her shoulders.
They were going for two very different looks. Cherrie was more classic forties pinup girl, and Ginger was dressed as a sixties go-go dancer, complete with overexaggerated Mod makeup. Much of their shtick was about two generations not understanding each other at all and still doing their best to get along. They both knew it was a tongue-in-cheek way of addressing acceptance and respect despite differences, but the way it was done was irreverent, and past performances of their act had gotten favorable feedback.
Cherrie looked in the mirror set up outside in the confined, curtained-off backstage area to put on the finishing touches. She twisted dark curls around her polished fingers, ensuring a few cascaded toward the front of her shoulder for that extra appeal.
“Are you ready?” Summer asked. “You look ready. Beautiful, really.”
“Yep. Ready to go. How about Ginger?”
“She’s already waiting in the wings. Go break a leg.”
“Thanks. See you after.”
C
HERRIE
rarely paid attention to the audience while she performed skits or songs, at least until she was ready to interact or collect proffered dollar bills. Too many years in theater had taught her to play
to
the audience but to also pretend they weren’t really there. Ginger, on the other hand, looked directly at people and put all the skills of an amazing emcee to good use, bringing quirks of audience members into the show with an easy, off-the-cuff read of anyone who looked like they could handle it. This helped show the differences between the pinup girl and the go-go girl too. It was a good thing Cherrie was as good at improvisation as she was because that’s what made their show fresh, and she often picked up on what Ginger said and took it in a new direction. You could watch the show again and again, but it would never be the same twice.
The act was going off without a hitch, and Cherrie took a quick peek at the crowd and spotted Summer. She was laughing at something Ginger had said, and Cherrie forgot the next line for half a second, not long enough for anyone aside from Ginger to notice. Cherrie found her rhythm again, and before she knew it, their thirty minutes were over, and Ginger was letting everyone know where they could find them again over loud applause and cheers.
Backstage, Ginger carefully hugged Cherrie, laughing excitedly at how the performance had been so much better than expected.
“It really was great.”
“So different than in a bar,” Ginger said with a smile. “I liked this. I guess being PG isn’t so bad.”
Cherrie laughed. “I think PG was just fine. We can still do our X-rated show at the club.”
“Yes, please,” Ginger joked, with a sassy look in her almond-shaped eyes. “I’m going to look around a bit. Do you need help with anything?”
“Nope. I basically brought myself and what fits in this bag.”
“Great job, girl.”
“You too, Ginger. Catch ya later.” They gave each other one last embrace and air kisses before Ginger slipped away.
Just then Summer stuck her head backstage and took the bag from Cherrie’s arm since she still had to maneuver all over the grass with four-inch heels and Summer wore sensible sandals instead.
“Are you hungry? I suppose you haven’t eaten since lunchtime.”
“Quite. I could eat a side of beef, I think,” Cherrie said, threading her hand through Summer’s elbow and allowing her to lead the way.
“Not the right place, but anything you want on a stick we can find. And cheese curds. Mini donuts. Mmm.”
When they stepped out of the curtained-off area for performers, Cherrie was rushed by several people holding out paper and pens for her to sign. This reaction wasn’t foreign to her, but she hadn’t expected it at the art fair. She took the time to sign for everyone, thanking them for coming and sharing she was glad they enjoyed the show.
A young man who spoke low, as if he didn’t want to be overheard, asked if there was any way Cherrie could show him how to paint his face. Summer dug inside Cherrie’s bag then tapped Cherrie’s hand with a business card out of the boy’s line of sight so she could decide if it was appropriate to give it to him. After finding out the boy’s age—eighteen—Cherrie handed him the card and told him to call or email her.
“I think that’s a first,” Cherrie said as she walked toward the food vendors.
“Probably won’t be the last,” Summer said as if it were a matter of fact. “You’d be a fantastic drag mama for a little lady boy.”
“Maybe.”
They each ordered at different booths, and just as Cherrie was about to take a bite of walleye on a stick, she heard, “Hugo? Is that you?”
Cherrie turned around and saw Kevin.
She knew her eyes grew as large as dinner plates, and suddenly, her appetite had morphed into nausea. Kevin wasn’t alone. He was with a short stocky guy who looked like he belonged at an art fair as much as Miss Cherrie Pop! belonged at a Minnesota Wild game.
“You know this freak?”
Kevin ignored the guy beside him and looked at Cherrie, gaze traveling up and down her body and landing on her face, studying. “Hugo, is that really you?”
Hugo barely nodded, fear blanketing his face. He could feel it growing hot and red beneath the makeup.
“Jesus,” Kevin’s companion said. “You know this faggot? Really?”
Kevin whipped around and studied his friend, gripping his arm and glaring. “So help me God, if you don’t shut up….”
But Kevin’s friend didn’t know when to shut up. He started spouting his mouth off, words slurring together, and people all around looked and stared, moving closer as if they were going to see something worth watching. Summer came rushing up to Hugo—Cherrie had been ripped away by the man’s vile words and the knowledge that Kevin had found out about Hugo’s drag in this manner. Hugo couldn’t be Cherrie when he felt so discounted, so abhorred in front of someone he wanted to love him. It bruised all the confidence Hugo needed to become her, and if there was one thing Cherrie was, it was unashamed.
Hugo watched as Kevin dragged the other man away from the crowd and away from Hugo.
Kevin didn’t look back. Not once.
From out of nowhere, Ginger approached Hugo and made some funny quip to the audience standing around gawking. Hugo didn’t catch it, but it made the people in the crowd laugh and start to disperse. A few hung around to make sure Hugo was okay, even asking if he’d like a seat, a drink, or a cab to take him home, but he just shook his head.
Hugo was left standing there, feeling like he had a hole punched right through his heart.
H
UGO
and Summer walked back to his apartment. It was only a few blocks, but Hugo took off Cherrie’s high heels and dangled the strappy shoes off his fingers. Summer was trying to get him to talk, asking all sorts of questions, but he wasn’t ready to talk yet. He ignored her, shutting out the sound of her voice and focusing on counting his steps back to his apartment.
Nine-hundred and sixty-five, nine-hundred and sixty-six, nine-hundred and sixty-seven.
Home.
He didn’t bother counting the stairs. He already knew there were fifty-two.
In his apartment, he pulled off the beautiful earrings Summer had allowed him to wear and set them neatly on the kitchen table. He sat down in front of the lighted make-up mirror still surrounded by all the tiny pots of crèmes and powders, the tubes, the compacts, the brushes of disguise.
Hugo looked at himself in the mirror as he unscrewed the cap on a jar of rose-water cold cream. He dipped his finger in the white paste and moved his hand toward his face, but something made him stop. His hand just hovered there right above his skin.
He did this, shut people out when he was hurt or confused so they wouldn’t see how vulnerable he really was. It was one of those habits he’d developed after his dad got sick, because if he talked about his worries, they just seemed to bloom into something too big to even face, and then people started to pity him. That had also been why he’d kept so much of his hurt over Tricia Stevens hidden away from Kevin for as long as he had their junior year. And he knew he needed to protect Kevin’s secret back then too.
Secret feelings.
Secret identities.
So many secrets.
“For fuck’s sake, Hugo, listen to me!” Summer’s voice finally cut through.
“Hmm?” Hugo’s gaze shifted to her, and she was nearly red with fury.
Summer knew about his habit of silence. She also knew to give him his time, but not then, apparently. She wasn’t going to let Hugo hide inside himself
this
time.