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“What’syour name, young man?”Thephotographer props his heavy camera on his hip and checks the list on the table next to him.
Iglance over my shoulder at the petite woman waiting in the hall.Eventhough she likes to dress impeccably, she’s wearing the silly “Checkout my moves” t-shirt my chess club sold last year as a fundraiser.Shedoesn’t flash me a thumbs up or anything cheesy, just raises her eyebrows and nods.
“DallasSantra,”Ianswer.Myvoice sounds even higher and squeakier than usual, and it makes me want to die.Iwait for him to do a double take, use his x-ray vision, and correct himself to ‘young lady’.Ithappens every day, no matter howIstand or whatIwear.
Allhe says is. “Great.Sitdown and smile for me.”
Isquare my shoulders and try to remember my posture.Myface feels stiff asIstretch my lips into a perfect smile.Blinkingfrom the flash,Iclimb off the stool and go to sign the sheet he’s holding out for me. “Havea great year, dude,” the photographer says asIalmost write my old name, catch myself, and scrawl down the new one. “Loveyour shirt, by the way.Ihave one just like it.”
“T-thanks,”Istammer, backing away before he can get a closer look.Asthe girl in line behind me heads for the stool, her eyes catch mine and she smiles in a wayI’venever been looked at before in my life–the curious, hopeful grin of a girl meeting a boy she thinks is cute.Imake probably the weirdest face in the world and almost crash into the door frame becauseI’mtoo busy staring at her.
“Hecalled me dude,”Ihiss asIsprint over to mom, grabbing her arm and jumping up and down. “Andhe liked my shirt, and did you see the girl?Ohmy god, oh my god.”
I’mnot nearly old and complicated enough yet to understand everything in the smile she gives me.Sheshakes her head teasingly. “Noteven your first day in school and you’re already breaking hearts.You’llhave to start learning how to be a good boyfriend, won’t you?”
“Ican’t believe it.”Ithrow my arms around her and bury my face in her shoulder.Thelast six months have been horrible in so many ways.Ilost most of my friends from my middle school whenIcame out.Myextended family smiles to my face, but they refuse to use my new name andI’veoverheard horrible screaming arguments between my mom and my aunt.Ican’t count the number of timesI’vewondered how this could be worth it.Butright now,I’mthe happiestI’vebeen in my entire life. “Canwe still get pizza?”
Shelaughs, her eyes still gentle. “Verywell, but you’re going to treat me with some of that paper route money.”Mom’sa pediatrician–she doesn’t need my money, andIdon’t need a job, but she insisted on making sureIlearn the value of hard work and budgeting.
“Deal.”Iskip toward the exit, too excited to wonder if boys skip or not.
Behindme,Ihear her voice. “Dallas?”
Iturned around.IknowIdid.ButIcan’t remember what she said.Everytime, the dream slows down and freezes here, asIstruggle desperately to turn and see her face one more time.Tolook into her eyes and let her see the manI’vetried so hard to become for her.ButInever–
“Mom!”Ijerk upright, gulping in air.Myhead hurts, andIhave no idea whereIam.Hugewindows overlooking empty concrete, line after line of tightly packed chairs, moving walkways–Ilook around frantically, shivering.
“Dallas.Wakeup, baby.”It’snotMom’svoice.It’sanother voiceIknow.Myother home, my safe place.Mylungs finally decide to work asIturn towardBeck. “You’reokay,” he soothes, brushing his fingers along my jaw. “Youwere dreaming.”
WhenIseeScoutandRomanbehind him, picking at the single bag of chips we could afford for dinner,Ifinally remember where we are.Wewandered all over the huge airport, asking staff members where to go and what to do.Mostof them probably thought we were crazy.Insecurity, we lost three knives, all our shampoo, andScout’shair gel.Thisis what happens whenI’mnot allowed to research our plans in advance.Beckmight have lost his temper and fought them over his favorite knife, but he held his tongue so that we could spend tonight inCaliforniainstead of in jail.
“I’mscared.”Irest my head on his shoulder. “Whatif everything’s messed up?”
“Thenwe’ll come home,” he says simply, kissing the top of my head. “Andyou’ll spend the rest of your life stuck with me, and a house full of annoying-ass people, and a bunch of stinky pets–because you knowRoman’snever gonna stop.”
“Thatsounds like heaven,”Imurmur into his t-shirt, and feel him chuckle.Hedoesn’t realize thatI’venever been more serious in my life.
22
BECK
“Braidit again.”Yankingout his hair band,Dallasstruggles to twist his back toward me in the back of the rental carMs.Santrareserved for us at the airport.
“Itlooked perfect,”Iprotest, resting a calming hand in the middle of his back. “Ican’t do it any better.”Myeyes catchScout’ssympathetic glance in the rearview mirror asRomanhelps him navigate city traffic.We’refifteen minutes into a twenty-five minute drive, andI’vealready rebraided his hair four times.
“Pleasejust try.”Hisshaky voice cracks. “OrshouldIdo a ponytail?Fuck,Idon’t know.”
Ismooth the dark strands back from his face and try to tidy it with my fingers. “Wearit down.Itlooks really good.”
“Iguess so.”Hestares at me without actually seeing me, then sits back in his seat and fixes his eyes on the back ofRoman’shead.Reachingacross,Igrab his hand and squeeze gently.Hedoesn’t squeeze back, but over the next ten minutes his grip tightens and tightens until his fingernails feel permanently embedded into my skin andI’mfighting not to grimace.Whenwe turn off the highway into a residential neighborhood full of a million samey-looking nice houses, he squeezes his eyes shut.Mythumb can feel his pulse fluttering frantically in his wrist.Ihave no idea what to do for him, soIjust sit there and let him mangle my hand.
Thehouses are pretty–three stories with little turrets and flourishes that make them look historical, even though they’re new.Everydriveway has a sports car or a high end hybrid, shadowed by mature trees and flowering bushes.It’sweird to think thatDallaswould be living somewhere like this if he hadn’t gotten kicked out.He’dnever be cold or hungry.Ifthat sick bastard hadn’t ruined his life,Iwould never have met him.Iwouldn’t even know he existed, except for thatDallas-shaped hole in my chest that would have stayed empty forever.
Thisis whyIdon’t think about shit.Ijust get all mixed up.
Dallasis radiating so much stress into the car that my heart starts hammering when we turn onto the last street.Wedon’t have to check the address, because there’s a short-middle aged woman who looks just like my boyfriend waiting at the end of one of the driveways with her arms wrapped around herself.
“Baby.”InudgeDal’sarm. “Openyour eyes.”
