The Boy in Makeup

"Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome, I'm sure."

"Why didn't you go to the game Friday?"

"Did you?"

"God, no."

"Well, I probably didn't go for the same reason."

"I hate football."

"Me, too, but only because they won't let me play. I can't stand to sit in the stands with all the hormones soaking the air as everyone tries to pretend they're not doing what everyone knows they are doing . . . trying to get laid."

"I've never been laid," I admitted, for some unknown reason.

"I'm not surprised."

"That seems mean."

"I didn't mean it to be. There just doesn't seem anybody here who you'd be into. I imagine you with Audrey Hepburn, not Kelly Bundy."

"Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome, I'm sure."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"It's the difference between confident and diffident. When you say 'I guess,' I say 'I'm sure.' I'm being funny, or trying to be. But, I'm also sure. You never are. You're always guessing."

"Oh."

As I walked out of school that day, Evans pulled up and offered me a ride home. I hesitated and then leaned in through the passenger window.

"You shouldn't give me a ride, Evans."

"Why not?"

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not the big man on campus. If you're caught with me, you won't be, either. You'll be the object of innuendo and rumor. It's happened before," I said, thinking back to Steve.

"I have no interest in being a BMOC at PHS. And, if they talk about me with you, at least they'll be talking about something more interesting than what they usually talk about. Hop in, Cupcake."

I did. As we pulled away from the curb, I asked "Cupcake?"

"That's what people call you. Behind your back. If I'm going to do it behind your back, I ought to do it to your face, too."

"Or not all all."

"Why? I like cupcakes. I have a sweet tooth."

I got warm from my head to my toes. I felt like Evans was flirting with me. But, I wasn't sure. No one had ever really flirted with me before, so I wasn't necessarily attuned to the subtleties.

I didn't want Evans to see where I lived, so I told him he could drop me at the park about four blocks from our apartment. When we got there, he climbed out, too. I didn't know what to do, so I leaned against his car and talked. He talked back.

Evans had already learned what I had long known: Paris was not an idyllic little town, and it was a tough place to be an outsider. Bonds formed early and were not dynamic. Circles of friends rarely were broken with new names. Cliques closed fast and firm.

Evans seemed nonplussed by it all.

"I'm here only for one year," he said. "And, all I need to get by for that one year is one friend. I already have one friend, so I'm set."

I didn't say anything.

"You know I'm talking about you, right?"

"Oh . . . uh . . . sure," I said, confirming what I had, in fact, not known.

The next day, Evans drove me home again. He took me to the same park, turned the car off, and climbed out. Like the day before, we leaned against the hood of his car talking.

"Why me?" I asked.

"You were nice to me. And, you're not a cookie. I'm not much for cookies."

"I thought you had a sweet tooth."

"Not for cookies."

"What's a cookie?"

"At my old school, it was anyone who was cut from the same cloth. You know, a cookie cutter cuts the same cookie every time. So, all the followers were 'cookies.' This school is full of cookies. It's quite depressing, actually. Everyone's afraid to think something that no one else is thinking. It's like everyone is looking around for approval before they make a move or think a thought. Everyone sits on the edge of the pool. No one's on the high dive. No one will even slide in. They're waiting for someone else. My school in St. Louis was not like that. At all. It's hard to get used to."

"I guess I'm not a cookie."

"You're definitely not a cookie. Dude, you wear makeup to school. In Paris, Illinois. There's nothing cookie about that or you. Your'e on the high dive bouncing up and down as hard as you can, about to soar, and you're not afraid, at all. It's awesome. I'm afraid of the high dive."

We settled back onto the hood of his car and stared straight up. He asked about my family, and I shared things with him I was loathe to share generally. I told him about my suicidal lineage. And about my awesome mother. And about how we felt most of the time like we were the last two Christians in the Coliseum, battling an endless Army of lions, warding off wave after wave but always facing another.

The next day, we were in the same spot, and Evans was telling me about his family. His father was successful professionally, but not personally. He drank too much. He was cold and distant. He thought children should rarely be seen and should never be heard. He was an "ist." Racist. Misogynist. Whatever other "ists" there were, he was.

Evans' mother toed the line. It was not her nature, but she would not cross her husband. She sacrificed her children to him.

Evans was the youngest of five boys. The other four were long gone, scattered hither and yon by careers and college and family and then kept at arms length by their father's coldness and distance and by their mother's supplication.

Evans was an over-achiever. He was a Division II football prospect. He was a straight A student. He acted. He debated. He painted. He played the piano. It was as clear as a bell to me that he was doing anything and everything to gain the one thing that was elusive, his father's approval. He'd never get it, no matter how hard he tried.

He was also a world class charmer. The girls wanted to be with him. The boys wanted to be him, even if they wouldn't admit it.

St. Louis isn't Paris, France, but it also isn't Paris, Illinois. He was way more worldly than we were. He knew black people and black music. He knew gay people and gay music. He was not repelled or repulsed by any of it. Word of AIDS was spreading, but, unlike most of Paris, Evans didn't think the right tact was to quarantine the gays and let them die off.

He changed subjects. "Why do you have me leave you here instead of at your door?"

"I'm embarrassed about where I live."

"No reason to be. It has nothing to do with who you are. It's just a place."

"You can drive me home, if you want."

"I want. And, I'd like to meet your mother."

My mother was thrilled that I had a friend in our apartment. She insisted that Evans stay for supper, which he readily agreed to do. I was mortified. My mother could barely scramble an egg.

By the time our awful, undercooked supper was over, my mother was applying makeup to our faces. She arched Evans' eyebrows with a pencil, painted his long eyelashes with mascara, and raised his cheekbones with base. By the time she had outlined his lips, we looked like glam rockers. Or drag queens.

We laughed a lot. It had been a long time since there had been that much mirth in our little hovel.

When Evans announced he had to go, I thought my mother would cry. She grabbed her polaroid, and took pictures of him and me, of him, of me, and - holding the camera as far away as she could - of all three of us. She was taking selfies before selfies were a thing.

We used Pond's cold cream to remove our makeup. Halfway through the process, we looked like mimes. Evans pretended he was trapped in a box, and he was pretty good. I tried to pretend the same, but I only looked like I was groping for someone in the dark.

I walked Evans to his car. Evans put his hand on my shoulder. "I had a great time, Cupcake. Thank you for letting see where you live. And letting me meet your mother."

"You're welcome," I said, and turned to head back up the stairs to our apartment. I was stopped by Evans' voice.

"Cupcake!"

"Yes."

"If any of those pictures show up at school, I'm going to kick your ass."

"No, you won't."

"You're right. But, I really don't want to see those pictures floating around school."

"You won't. You can trust me."

Evans cocked his head and looked pensive. "Of that, I am sure," he said.

I fell asleep that night thinking of Evans. Not in makeup, but with his hair pulled back, his makeup removed, and his beautiful, stripped face, pure and untroubled.

Chapter Seven

Jealousy blinded Lori, and she started campaigning against Evans. He was a user, she said. He'd flee as soon as the rumors started, she said. He'd throw me over as soon as some girl wanted to bed him, she said.

I protested, but to no avail. According to Lori, I was emotionally retarded, naive, and a rube. I was using my head, but the wrong one.

I was in the middle. I was Jennifer Jason Leigh at the end of the Hitcher. I felt like I was going to be pulled apart.

I picked Evans. Lori was sullen and surly, mistreating me because she wanted our story to remain a dyad. Her reaction confirmed the wisdom of my pick.

Still, I was conflicted about it. Lori and I had stood shoulder to shoulder for years, enduring and resilient. So many times, she had helped me up when I had gotten knocked down.

My conflict piqued my mother, and she inquired. I explained that Lori was being ridiculous and selfish. My mother disagreed. "She's stood with you through thick and thin, Eric. Don't choose the new toy over the favorite toy, unless you're sure the new toy will stand the test of time. Otherwise, you'll wind up with no toys at all."

I understood what she was saying, but I didn't understand why we had to be an alliance of two. I thought there was plenty of room for Evans, and I thought Lori was ugly in her exclusivity. It seemed she was perpetuating the them versus us mentality that we had long railed against. I stuck with Evans.

In my core, I knew I was wrong. Lori had earned my loyalty with hers, and I had betrayed it out of self-interest. I could pretend otherwise, but I knew I was pretending.

*****

For Halloween, Evans decided we should dress as Sid & Nancy. I told him it was too esoteric, that only he and I would understand our costume. He viewed that as a plus, not a minus.

We did. For that first time that year, I went to a school event. To avoid stereotyping, Evans dressed as Nancy, and I dressed as Sid.

We were not a hit. If you can think only one thought, you eschew other thoughts. We were another thought.

Evans reveled in the ridicule that came our direction. He found the ignorance impressive, and he dismissed it with casual comfort of someone who knew what and who he was and didn't care if others could not or would not.

When the dance was over, we were at our kitchen table removing our makeup and laughing. We were genuinely happy as we stared in the mirror, cold cream caked on our faces. Evans leaned his head against mine, and we looked into the same mirror. When Evans' eyes caught my eye, he smiled at me. I melted into that smile.

Without saying a word, Evans moved to our phone, called his parents, and told them he was staying the night. I was mortified. Our couch made a horrible bed for me, much less for me and him. We'd have to sleep on the floor.

We finished removing our makeup. I used my bare hand to remove cold cream and makeup from his eyes and his cheeks. He ran his fingers along my eyebrows and lashes, cleansing them as he did. The whole experience was unintentionally erotic.

By the time we were done, I was on edge. But, I was still vexed by the sleeping arrangements.

My mother solved the problem. She arrived home from an evening out, offered us her full bed, and took the couch for herself.

I had never been in bed with another boy. Evans seemed unconcerned. He pulled his clothes off, leaving on only his white briefs.

I could not help but steal glances. He was muscular, but almost hairless. Other than a small trail that started about two inches above his navel and flowed into his briefs, there was no hair on his torso. There was little hair on his arms and legs.

I was much hairier. I had curly blond hair on my chest, on my stomach, and on my arms and legs. I had clippered it once, but it had seemed for naught.

When we were in bed, Evans rolled onto his right side, and propped his head on his hand.

"I had a great time tonight," he said, taking his left forefinger and tracing along my clavicle. I cringed at his touch.

"I did, too."

"I have a great time with you."

"I have a great time with you, too."

"Tell me something about you that I don't know."

My trust in him shocked me. I told him about my temptations and the tunnels.

"Do you really think about that?"

"Sometimes, it's all I can think about."

"There's no hole too deep to climb out of."

"That's easy for you to say. You've never been in a deep hole. If you were, there'd be an army to throw you ladders and ropes. I have only my mother."

"You have me," he said, stunning me. He leaned over, kissed my shoulder, and said, "Good night, Cupcake. Sweet dreams."

I couldn't respond. I wanted to kiss him back, somewhere. I wanted to roll over, pin him down, and kiss him until one or both of us suffocated. I wanted to do to him anything and everything I had ever dreamed about doing to anyone.

Instead, I did nothing. He rolled away, and then over, and I laid there, paralyzed and imagining all the things I would have done if I could have done any of the things I dreamed of doing.

When I awoke the next morning, Evans and I were face to face, and light was barely breaking through the blinds. I couldn't resist, so I kissed his nose, briefly.

When he opened his eyes, I sheepishly said, "Good morning."

He shielded his mouth with his hand and responded, "Good morning, Cupcake."

"Did you sleep well?"

"I did. I always sleep better with someone else in the bed. It's calming."

I rolled onto my back. To my surprise, Evans put his hand on my chest.

"You're hairy."

"I am. You're not."

"Nope. I'm part Navajo. I'm almost hairless. Except for the black hair on my head. And a little bush above my crotch."

I was surprised he mentioned his crotch. Between it being morning, me kissing his nose, and his hand on my chest, my crotch was on fire.

I didn't say anything, enjoying the sensation of his fingers gently moving in and out of my chest hair. My nipples were rock hard when he brushed up against one.

His hand never went below my diaphragm. I wanted to grab it and press it to my crotch, but I felt like I was behind enemy lines. I was on high alert.

"Can I tell you something?" he asked.

"Sure."

"I like you better without the makeup."

"Really?"

"Yep. I like the real you, not the mask you wear to hide the real you. I like you right now. Authentic. Genuine. I feel like I can see what you're thinking."

No one had ever accused the makeup of hiding the real me. It had only confirmed the real me.

"You can't," I assured him. "If you could, you wouldn't have your hand on my chest."

"Maybe not. Maybe I'd have it right here," he said, moving it to my stomach.

"Or right here," he said, moving it to my abdomen.

"Am I right? Can I see what you're thinking?"

"Yes," I croaked, from my arid mouth.

"What about right here?" he asked, moving his hand to my hard bulge. "Am I still seeing what you're thinking?"

"Yes," I croaked again, looking at him. He looked at me as he rubbed and squeezed my hardness. Inexperienced and overwhelmed, I came. I couldn't help myself. I had never been touched by another.

"Dude, did you just come?" Evans asked.

"Yes," I said, more plaintively than I intended.

"My turn, then" he said, moving my hand to his bulge. I started rubbing and squeezing.

"Take it out."

I reached through the hole in his boxers and worked his penis out. It was smooth and turgid. It seemed there was a lot going on, roiling beneath the skin.

I moved my hand on him the way I moved my hand on myself. Evans arched his back, raised his hips, and came all over his stomach. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

Carol's knock on the door knocked some sense into us. "Breakfast," she proclaimed, through the pressed wood.

Evans hopped out of bed, tugged on a shirt and shorts, and headed to the door. I followed, afraid my mother would see or smell what had happened.

I was also afraid Evans and I had taken a step too far. Momentarily, Evans quelled my fear. Just before he opened the door, he leaned into me, almost putting his lips to mine, and whispered "Boo!" into my mouth.

Breakfast was normal. My mother either did not suspect anything or did not betray that she suspected anything. Evans was Evans, as always.

I didn't spend the rest of Sunday fretting. But, I also didn't hear from Evans, which was weird.

On Monday morning, Evans was odd during homeroom. He lingered with the girls, his backpack on his back, his desk empty. He bolted when the bell rang. I was instantly concerned that our rub out was more significant than he'd let on just after.

Chapter Eight

Homecoming was a week later, and I was, of course, dateless. Three months earlier, I'd have gone with Lori. But, she was still off about Evans, and she'd have been more off if she'd known about Halloween.

Evans was not dateless. He was going with Karen Nemelka, who was the likely Homecoming Queen and who had badgered him into taking her.

I went alone in a group of friends, including Lori. We posed for pictures together, but she barely talked to me.

Evans was staggeringly beautiful. He wore a black jacket and a black shirt that complemented the blackness of his hair and his eyes.

I went old school. I wore a tuxedo I had found at a thrift store. I parted my long, blonde hair on the side and combed it slick. I wore little makeup, just enough to hide the imperfections in my face. And to highlight my blue eyes. I looked like the Great Gatsby.

My friends and I danced to the fast dances, but sat out the slow dances. Evans and Karen danced to the slow dances, but sat out the fast dances.

I hadn't really talked to Evans all week. As I trudged toward Homecoming, I'd have given anything to undo the trauma of All Saints morning. It was awesome, but it wasn't worth the rift. I wanted to lie on the hood of his car and talk about life. I walked home alone instead.

Our Homecoming theme was "Follow You, Follow Me" from Genesis, which was hard to get excited about. Phil Collins was just awful. When the theme came on, everyone danced. I grabbed Lori and forced her to dance with me.

"You sure you don't want to dance with Evans," she hissed, as the song played and we swayed back and forth. I couldn't answer her honestly. It would have caused an even greater rupture.

"I'm sure," I said. "I'm dancing with the best friend I've ever had. Or ever will have."

"It hasn't seemed like it lately," she answered.

"I'm sorry about that," I said, thinking Evans was gone and that I needed to circle the wagons. "I got caught up in my shiny new toy. It wasn't all it was cracked up to be."

"Have you seen your old makeout buddy, Steve? He and Sally look like they're out of a fairy tale."

I had noticed Steve and Sally. Steve was in a traditional tuxedo, and he looked perfect. Sally had her hair up, and she looked elegant, like Grace Kelly at the height of her powers. They dripped of class, and they looked like they were headed to a state dinner.

"Yes," I said. "But, she looks more like a beard than a princess."

As I said that, I caught Evans' eye. He was dancing with Karen, about 25 feet away. Unlike the rest of the week, he didn't look away, pretending he didn't see me. Instead, he smiled and arched one eyebrow, a move that reminded me of my mother.

I was surprised when he mouthed "hi" over Karen's shoulder. I did nothing back. I wasn't sure what was going on, but I was sure I was pissed at his week of diffidence and indifference.

I turned Lori around so she was facing Evans and Karen.