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“You need something more celebratory,” he says. “Take your pick.”
As a child, Avery had always loved this tie-sorter. Not just because of the colors and the patterns, but also because each tie seemed to have its own story, its own place in the chronology of his father’s life. The ties Avery had picked out as gifts for Father’s Day had their own special section, beside the tie Avery’s dad had worn on his first date with Avery’s mom, an ambitious paisley that seemed, years later, beamed from another world.
Avery’s fingers touch these ties now in greeting as he bypasses a series of stripes and any tie that might most easily be described asnautical. His mother says, “There,” just as he finds the right one: a pink tie with white polka dots. The pink perfectly matches his hair, as if a decade ago, his father or mother walked to the counter at Macy’s and gave the salesperson a lock for guidance.
So that’s what Avery’s wearing now as he and his classmates pile into Lana’s van to drive over to a town none of them have ever seen before, to a place promising a welcome it is rare for them to receive. At first, the van is full of music and conversation—the front seat calling to the backseat and the backseat calling back. But about halfway through, they all fall quiet. Hannah leans into Liz. Pope leans back, stretches out their legs. Lana leans into the steering wheel. Jesse leans into their seat belt. And Avery—Avery leans his forehead against the window and looks out, even though there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, to see. For some reason, this gives him hope—and the reason is this: Already he knows that in order to get to what you want, you often have to cross a vast emptiness. How much nicer it is to cross it in a van full of kindred spirits, rather than crossing it alone.
Pope sits up abruptly and calls out, “Ohmygod, turn itup!”
A song has come on the playlist—a song that’s rude and bombastic and the opposite of timeless, because it will be always married in everyone’s mind to the year they first heard it. It will only take another year or two for them to be embarrassed by their love for it, but even as they’re embarrassed, the love will thrive in a soft spot in their hearts. A one-hit wonder is still a wonder, and even when you get to the point of disowning it, a memory like the one forming for Avery right now will make you cherish it.
Lana and Jesse reach for the volume at the same time;Jesse gets there first, but only because Lana is keeping an eye on the road.
Avery pulls back from the window and into the song. The bass throbs through the van so it feels like they’re in the belly of a friendly, wild beast.
This is how Avery wants the night to be:
He hasn’t come looking for love from one person. He’s come to dance with his friends.
—
The municipal centerlooks like it always has to Ryan, blandness incarnate. That’s actually what it says on the outside,Municipal Center,notCommunity Center,as if to remind people it belongs to the town. The pool is in the basement, about as far away from the entrance as you can get, and yet when Ryan walks in, there’s still a gust of chlorine, a tang of humidity. A local cop checks him out as he steps into the lobby; Ryan imagines it’s for his security, but all he feels is an instinctive insecurity. There’s a homemade banner hung over the front desk that saysPride Prom.The Magic Marker rainbow letters don’t mark much magic for Ryan; it’s surreal that his town is making this attempt, but less surprising to find it presented in such a ramshackle way.
Ryan knows he isn’t being generous. This isn’t how he’d phrase it to himself, but that’s what it is: a lack of generosity to the people who worked hard to make this night possible, a lack of generosity to himself for being here.
There is music pulsing from the gymnasium, thepromise of a heartbeat. There are teens in the hall, and Ryan doesn’t recognize any of them. Some kids have really taken the queer prom thing to heart, wearing dresses that don’t conform to the current decade—some puffy, some sleek; some bubblegum pink, some striped like animals who’ve lived to tell the tale. Gender has been rendered beside the point; people are wearing whatever they want.
It’s an alternate universe. Ryan likes it and doesn’t like it, feels encouraged by it and doesn’t feel like he belongs here at all. He used to like it here, back when they called it the rec center. He and six or seven other boys would swim, then leave time to hang out by the vending machines before their parents came to pick them up. They were a pack. He was part of their pack. Until they grew up some more, until the jokes were less funny, until suddenly he was different, and they recognized it. They still have a pack, in a way. Ryan doesn’t miss it, but he knows his life would be easier, maybe better, if he’d stayed inside it rather than been wary of it. Not afraid—never afraid. But wary. The thing is: None of them are here now. There’s no way any of them would go near a pride prom, except maybe to throw some eggs at the windows. Instead there are all these strangers, traveling in their own packs, the kids in bold dresses hanging out with the kids in skinny ties and skinny jeans.
For the first time since he dyed it, Ryan’s hair doesn’t seem out of place.
He knows Alicia is here somewhere; she’s texted him a few times, to see if he’s arrived. Other kids he knows are here, too,probably dancing already, or standing to the side making comments about the kids who are dancing. Not in a homophobic way, but in a people-watching way. That’s what they do.
Ryan knows they’re around, but he doesn’t seek them out, not yet. He detours to the bathroom first, startled, then amused, to find that theMenandWomensigns with their sexless symbols have been completely covered by construction paper signs that say, simply,Whoever.The markers’ magic is beginning to work.
Finally, Ryan heads into the gymnasium, which in the nighttime dim doesn’t look like a gymnasium at all. The basketball nets have receded, unobtrusive chaperones. Colored lights have been borrowed and installed, so that everything has a purplish cast. A DJ spins where a referee might usually sit; the speakers aren’t crystalline, but they do the job. Ryan sees Alicia and some other kids dancing in a corner, talking to each other as they jump and sway. He should go over to them. He knows he should go over to them. But he stops. He stays alone a little longer. He doesn’t feel lost, but he’s still waiting to feel found.
This night is supposed to be different. He needs it to be different.
He stands there waiting. He doesn’t make his next move, because none is occurring to him.
—
Avery and hiscrew spill out of the van laughing. The number of cars in the parking lot is already a kind of amazement;each of the kids from Marigold thought at some point in the ride it was possible that they’d show up in Kindling and find an empty prom. But no—queerness is representing. You can tell it from the bumper stickers and the items dangling from the rearview mirrors. Not with all of the cars. Not even close. But enough. More than usual.
As they get to the entrance, they find a school bus dropping other kids off. A school bus at night feels like a school bus on a secret mission, and in this case it has delivered its students closer to their authentic selves. Avery is relieved to see he won’t be the only trans kid at the prom; at least two, maybe three, have arrived on the bus, looking dapper or delinquent, diva or dork. The group is chaperoned by two small-town drag queens in full regalia.
“Incredible,” Pope murmurs, pronouncing itincredeeblay.Pope and Jesse and Hannah have never seen a drag queen in person before, and Avery, Lana, and Liz have only seen them a couple of times, mostly from afar at parades or rodeos. Close up, they are more intricately impressive. The illusion holds; you cannot picture anyone underneath, nor would you want to. But at the same time, you have to appreciate the achievement, the after has so thoroughly eclipsed the before. The queen has not erased herself to do this, but has instead enhanced herself into the character she’s become.
One of the drag queens, Noxema La Crème, sees them staring, but knows it isn’t a bad stare.
“Aren’t you pretty in pink?” she says to Avery. “Nowdon’t go breaking Duckie’s heart, you hear? That boy’s been through enough.”
Avery has no idea what she’s talking about, but promises nonetheless to be an upstanding citizen of the heart. (Those aren’t his exact words. Instead he tells the drag queen, “Okay!”)
Before they get to the door, Pope tugs on Avery’s sleeve.
“How do I look?” they ask. And on their face, Avery can see the thin ice that Pope’s bravado skates atop. They’ve only driven to another county, but Pope is worried that suddenly their schtick won’t work.
