Friday nights were usually busy because of the theater next door. Moviegoers often wandered into the store to kill time and annoy me with inane questions about books they had zero intention of buying. After the first premovie rush had died down—it was opening weekend for the second movie based on the Patient F comics: The Nightmare King and the Horde of Unthinkables—and I’d finished my shelving, I settled behind the register with the copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude I’d been crawling through for the last week. Tommy had frequently “suggested” books I should read, and he’d said One Hundred Years of Solitude would change my life, but I found it difficult to lose myself in the many misfortunes of the Buendía family. Maybe the story lost something in the translation—Tommy had read it in Spanish—or maybe the city of mirrors simply mirrored my own life too well.
I stuck a bookmark between the pages, abandoned Gabriel García Márquez for the night, and picked up a book about quantum physics. I was most interested in the idea of the multiverse, as I thought it might help explain where Tommy had gone. I didn’t necessarily understand most of what I read—especially the stuff about p-branes and the potential that our universe consisted of seven or more dimensions folded so small we couldn’t perceive them—but I imagined the possibility that Tommy had been sucked into one of those other dimensions, that he was still here, maybe even right beside me, but that I simply couldn’t see him.
Another theory, equally as unlikely, was that I was the one who’d been drawn into a parallel world. One in which everything was exactly the same except Tommy had never been born. Only, if that one were true, then it meant a version of me that had never known Tommy had existed and been displaced by my arrival, and I couldn’t help wondering where he’d gone—if we’d switched places and he was in my world, living my life.
Hell, every possibility seemed as implausible as the next, but I kept coming up with them, hoping to stumble onto the truth and find a way to return to Tommy.
The electronic bell at the front of the store chirped, and Trent Williams, D’Arcy Gaudet, and Cody Dawson walked through the door. Trent was a standard-issue jock troglodyte—thick arms, buzz cut, cocky swagger—Cody his parroty sycophant, and D’Arcy a type-A know-it-all with a YouTube channel dedicated exclusively to promoting all things D’Arcy Gaudet.
Trent spotted me standing behind the registers, and a grin broke over his face. “Hey! It’s Pink Lady.”
Growing up with the name “Oswald” had sucked enough without the added shame of the surname “Pinkerton.” I’d spent sixth grade being called “Pink Lady,” though most of my peers had stopped using the unimaginative nickname in middle school. Some people, it seemed, never grew up.
“Trent.” I glowered at him and walked out from behind the counter. “I wasn’t aware you could read.”
“Funny,” Trent said. “Isn’t he funny?”
“Yeah,” Cody said. “Too bad he doesn’t realize he’s the joke.”
D’Arcy rolled her eyes. “Ugh, why are we here? If I get stuck sitting in the front row, I’m going to scream.”
“See what I gotta deal with?” Trent said.
I detested D’Arcy Gaudet, but she could’ve done better than Trent. Not only was he messing around with at least three other girls, but everyone knew he had a thing for Lua, though he’d broken a kid’s nose in tenth grade for mentioning it.
“Can I help you find something?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Trent wandered around the front displays, picking up books and dropping them on the floor. I could’ve told him to stop or called Mrs. Petridis from the back to kick him out, but it was easier to let Trent be a dick. Eventually he’d grow bored and leave.
“So I hear you’re working with Calvin Frye in Fuentes’s class,” Trent said.
“You heard correctly,” I said. I resisted the urge to pick up the books Trent had dropped, knowing he’d only toss them down again.
Trent nodded. Cody shadowed Trent’s every move, but D’Arcy stood near the door, her arms folded across her chest.
“You oughta watch out for that kid,” Trent said.
“Didn’t you guys used to be friends?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. They’d joined the wrestling team together, and had been practically inseparable until Calvin went all black-hoodie-and-no-one-understands-my-unfathomable-pain.
“Only ’cause I felt bad for the kid,” Trent said.
D’Arcy let out a high-pitched sigh. “Oh my God! Can we go already?”
The doorbell chirped again. I glanced toward the front, grateful for the opportunity to escape Trent, but was surprised when Mrs. Ross shuffled in. She was wearing loose jeans and a baggy sweater, her hair was springy and big, and she wore oversize sunglasses despite the lack of sun or bright lights.
“Seriously,” Trent said, like he was oblivious that another human being had walked into the store. “Calvin’s some kind of pathological liar. You can’t believe anything he says.”
I was only half listening to Trent because I was watching Tommy’s mom. I still thought of her as Tommy’s mom even though she didn’t remember having a son.
“Coach thought Cal was his best wrestler,” Trent was saying, “but I always knew there was something off about the kid.”
Mrs. Ross glanced in my direction. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I imagined them widening slightly when she recognized me, though to her I was no longer the boy who used to play at her trailer and for whose bloody knees she’d kept a stash of superhero Band-Aids, and was instead the crazy kid who’d shown up at her house on the Fourth of July and then called the police when she’d denied having a son.
“I wouldn’t spend too much time with him if I were you.” Trent really couldn’t take the hint that I wasn’t listening.
“Sure,” I said. “Whatever.” I moved past Trent toward Mrs. Ross, but she turned and hurried back out the door.
I wanted to chase after her, but I couldn’t leave the store, especially not with Trent hanging around. And what would I have said to her? What could I have said?
“And another thing—” Trent started, but I cut him off.
“Look, I don’t know what your hard-on for Calvin Frye is about, but we’re working on a stupid roller coaster together, and that’s all. Okay?”
Trent’s mouth hung open. He glared at me for a moment. Then, his eyes locked on mine, he swept the holiday cookbooks onto the floor.
I kept my mouth shut because his psycho smirk made me think he was one insult away from taking a giant crap on the carpet to spite me.
“Come on,” he said to Cody and D’Arcy. “We’re gonna be late for the movie.”
I waited for them to leave before I picked up the books. Trent was a dick, and I didn’t care what he said about me or Calvin. It was Mrs. Ross I couldn’t stop thinking about. Even though she’d run the moment I’d tried to speak to her, I could’ve sworn she’d hesitated. Almost like she’d wanted to talk to me too.
But I’d probably just imagined it.
12,000,003,087 LY
DUSTIN CLUNG TO MY ARM like he feared a gay riptide was going to carry him out to sea and spit his body back onto the shore covered in glitter and rainbows. I didn’t learn Lua had invited him to her show until he met us in the parking lot. Dustin had turned eighteen on Halloween, and the bouncer checked his ID and drew a fat X on his left hand in black marker. I didn’t think the bouncer, a tall drag queen, was going to let me pass, but Lua managed to sweet-talk me into the club, just like she’d promised.
The first time Lua had dragged me to a/s/l, I’d expected to discover my tribe. Instead, I’d found an adrenalized horde of radically different personalities, bonded only by their status as outsiders. The club offered them sanctuary. A place where they didn’t have to pretend to fit in. A place to relieve themselves of their chameleon skin for a couple of hours and dance.
Where I’d hoped to find a unified clan, I found a matryoshka doll of diversity.
Swishy gay boys trading catty in
sults and broad-shouldered gay boys in cowboy boots. Butch girls and punk rock princesses. Boys who kissed boys and girls who kissed girls and both boys and girls who believed who they kissed was none of my damn business. Drag queens and transgender men and women and people like Lua who defied labels.
Despite their many differences, they were my people, even though I still felt like an outsider. The only person I’d ever truly felt at home with was Tommy.
Dustin tapped my shoulder and pointed toward a dimly lit corner of the bar by the DJ booth. “I think that dude’s checking you out, Pinks!” he shouted over a hundred other conversations and the bass-heavy music blasting from the wall-mounted speakers.
I glanced sidelong at my supposed admirer. The guy, who was now smiling in our direction, wore no X on his hand, which indicated he was at least twenty-one.
I didn’t appreciate the attention Dustin’s unsubtle pointing had drawn. The last time I’d watched Lua play at a/s/l, older men in the crowd had smiled and winked at me and grabbed my ass. I’d felt like the last piece of bacon at breakfast. A man my father’s age had even tried to stick his hand down my pants on the dance floor, and when I’d pushed him away, he’d called me a tease. As if wearing pants was an invitation for any man with hands to attempt to peel me out of them.
The guy in the corner seemed harmless enough, though. He was tall and wiry with spiky black hair—an obvious dye job—and sleeves of colorful Japanese-inspired tattoos decorating both arms. I couldn’t tell from one covert glance whether he was a nice guy or a potential stalker, but thankfully, he wasn’t eyeballing me.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he’s checking you out.”
“Really?” Dustin stood taller and returned the guy’s smile.
“Don’t lead him on.”
Dustin shrugged. “Sometimes it’s nice to feel wanted.”
I grabbed Dustin’s shirt and pulled him toward the bar to buy a bottled water. On the way we ran into a couple of girls I’d met before—Lua’s groupies—and we chatted while waiting for the show to begin. Dustin, ignoring my advice, kept flirting with the tattoo guy, who eventually joined us. His name was Nikos, and he spoke with an accent I didn’t recognize. Dustin came clean about being straight, but it turned out he and Nikos were both fans of Akira Kurosawa movies, and they geeked out arguing whether Rashomon or Seven Samurai was his best film.
The girls—Beth, Blythe, and Mindi—dragged me onto the dance floor for a couple of songs, and by the time the spotlights flared and the DJ lowered the music, sweat slicked my skin and my brain swam in an ocean of feel-good endorphins, leaving me happier than I’d felt in a long time. I couldn’t remember when I’d last allowed myself to think about something other than Tommy, and I immediately felt guilty. But I was there for Lua, so I did my best to stay in the moment and give her my full attention.
Lua stood on the tiny stage behind her keyboard, decked out in a striped corset with sewn-on glittery plastic gemstones, a fluffy pink ballerina skirt, and sheer powder-blue tights. She’d slicked back her hair and layered pale makeup and bright rouge on her cheeks so that she looked like a weirdly sexy porcelain doll reject that had crawled from the depths of my nightmares. Lucky on bass, Poe on guitar, and Claudia on drums wore conservative blacks and grays like they were trying to blend into the background, though it truthfully wouldn’t have mattered what they wore. Lua was a star, and everyone else but a dim shadow in comparison.
I didn’t know Lua’s bandmates well—she kept that part of her life oddly private—but they, along with Lua, played the roles of time travelers who zipped back and forth through history and sang about their adventures. It was kind of a gimmick, but also kind of awesome.
Lua’s groupies—who called themselves Lunettes—screamed when she leaned toward the mic, drowning out the smattering of applause from everyone else. Dustin and his new friend pushed their way through the crowd to stand beside us.
“Yeah,” Lua said in a disaffected, flippant tone I knew she’d spent countless hours in front of a mirror perfecting. “So we’re Your Mom’s a Paradox, and we’ve traveled through time to rock your asses off.” Without further introduction, Lua launched into “Heretic in Hosen.”
Lua seduced the crowd with her raspy, raw mezzo-soprano. Her voice strutted and clawed into the club’s dark corners, daring us not to fall in love with her. Lua inhabited every note, allowed the music to possess her. And we were mesmerized. I’d watched Lua play dozens of times, and even I fell in love with her a little more that night.
The crowd bounced to the frenetic rhythm and sang along even though most didn’t know the words. They pumped their fists in the air and howled their approval at the end of each song.
“Damn!” Dustin shouted into my ear. “Lua’s killing it tonight!”
He wasn’t wrong. The band played “Swapping Petticoats for Rifles,” “No One Died in the Longest War,” and “The Enchantress of Numbers.” Lua had just traded her keyboard for her guitar to play a jaunty song called “In the Future We All Eat Bugs” when the hairs on the tips of my ears rose.
I stood on the balls of my feet and scanned the crowd. I recognized some of the a/s/l regulars, most of whom were watching Lua and definitely not looking at me. The one person I wasn’t expecting to see was Calvin Frye, leaning against the bar, wearing his familiar black hoodie despite the oppressive heat. He looked like he’d wandered into the wrong club by accident.
What the hell is he doing here? Since Fuentes had assigned us to work together, Calvin had continued his habit of sleeping through class and acting like the rest of us didn’t exist. I certainly hadn’t anticipated running into him at a/s/l. I considered ignoring him, but I remembered what Trent had said earlier and curiosity overrode good judgment. I zigzagged through the press of bodies until I reached Calvin. He kept his hands buried in his pockets but nodded when I approached.
“What’re you doing here?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I leaned closer and repeated my question louder.
Calvin motioned at the stage with his chin. “Came to see the band.” He said it casually, like he snuck into club shows every weekend. “They’re good.”
“I know. How’d you get in?”
Calvin smiled. His front teeth were crammed together and crooked. “Fake ID.”
“For real?”
“Uh . . . yeah?”
I pointed at the X on his hand. “If you have a fake ID, why not make yourself twenty-one?”
Calvin shrugged. “Do I look twenty-one to you?”
“You barely look sixteen,” I said. “Are you really here for the show?”
“What?” he shouted.
The music made conversation practically impossible, and I was torn between watching Lua play the best show of her life and wanting to know why Calvin had invaded my club. “In the Future We All Eat Bugs” ended, and I recognized the opening notes to Lua’s cover of “Ziggy Stardust.” I made up my mind and tugged Calvin’s sleeve. “Let’s go outside.”
“Why?”
“Glitter cannon,” I said. “Lua always brings out the glitter cannon for ‘Ziggy Stardust.’ ”
Calvin nodded. We slid and shoved our way to the back of the club, outside through a door that opened onto a walled patio surrounded by palm trees. The graffiti decorating the walls changed constantly. Last time, a spray-painted anthropomorphic banana had adorned the bricks. Tonight the cast of The Muppet Show—gruesome and zombified—loomed menacingly over us.
Though we hadn’t completely escaped the music, I could at least hear myself think again. Most everyone was inside, but a few people had migrated to the patio, probably to escape the heat of over two hundred bodies packed together. They relaxed on benches, smoking and chatting. An enthusiastic and oblivious couple pawed at each other shamelessly in a corner.
I perched on the edge of the large circular planter that dominated the patio, and in which grew no actual plants.
“Do they really fire a glitter cannon?” Calvin asked. He sat bes
ide me and folded his hands in his lap.
“They do,” I said. “And it’s awesome until you spend the next month picking glitter off your skin and out of your hair.”
“Oh.”
“Why are you really here?” I asked.
“Why do you care?”
Under different circumstances I wouldn’t have given Calvin’s presence much thought. But we’d hardly spoken during the last three-and-a-half years of high school, and now not only had Ms. Fuentes thrown us together to work on a project, but Trent had specifically warned me about him, and then he’d shown up at my club, none of which I believed were coincidences.
“It’s just . . . it’s weird.”
Calvin fidgeted with his hands. “I guess I thought we should discuss our physics project.”
“At a gay club? How’d you even know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t.” Calvin spoke tentatively, like I was a teacher calling on him to answer a question he was unprepared for. “Lua posted the show’s details on SnowFlake, and she’s your friend, so . . .”
“So you’re a stalker?”
Calvin inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. A vast-ocean sigh I couldn’t tell whether he was swimming or drowning in. “I know you don’t like me.”
“I don’t know you well enough to not like you.”
“Then we should get to know each other.”
The door banged open, releasing a pent-up cheer. The audience’s lusty voices surged into the starry night.
There goes the glitter cannon.
Before Calvin’s transformation from most-likely-to-succeed-at-everything to most-likely-to-spend-the-weekends-writing-bad-poetry, I’d admired him. According to my journals—the ones written by the me who’d never known Tommy—I’d even crushed on Calvin in tenth grade. But I didn’t know him, and getting to know him would distract me from finding Tommy.