Chapter 30
LACHLAN
Isak is late to rehearsal—the director called him in to talk about something—and Jamarr, the assistant director, gathers everyone milling around onstage and says, “Okay, Ms. Laurent is keeping Isak away so we can surprise him with a ‘dress like Isak’ day. We’re thinking of doing it tomorrow.”
Everyone laughs, but I’m not sure what this means. Is it like the binder clip thing? That felt like I was being hazed, until I realized that just about everyone ended up being clipped. Then I felt kind of honored that Isak did it to me. I’ve been missing him.
Don’t think about him.
“You mean, like, wear a long black skirt and boots?” I ask.
“And army jackets with patches. Flannels. Black and olive green. Chains. Tweed. You get the idea,” he says. “You know as well as I do that Isak’s got his own vibe going on.”
I do, but. “How is he going to react? Will he think we’re making fun of him?”
Everyone looks at each other.
“What? I’m the only one who’s worried about that? I don’t want to be a spoilsport. I just don’t want him to be hurt.”
“I think he’ll take it well,” Jamarr says. “He’ll be flattered.”
The other cast members seem to agree, though I’m still a bit concerned. “If you say so.”
Mindy, the choreographer, says, “He dresses so distinctly because he wants to express himself. We want to show that we appreciate him.”
“Okay, fine.”
“And … we want to tell him that we support him. That we like him how he is. And that no matter what the outside world or the critics might say, we have his back.”
Ah. This is to make him feel better about what happened last time he was in a production. Well, okay. I’m in.
But now my mind starts reeling. Because how the hell am I supposed to wear clothes like Isak’s? I’d look absolutely ridiculous. That style isn’t me. It’s … him.
I suppose that’s the point. I guess I could wear some black jeans I already own and a black T-shirt and call it good, but that seems like taking the easy way out. I pull Jamarr to the side. “Is there something in the costume closet I could use? I don’t have anything like what Isak wears.”
“I bet there is. We have some old army fatigues from a previous production.”
I smile gratefully. “I’d like to see them. Can we take a look now? I’m not in the next scene.”
I follow him to the backstage area, where he opens a closet that smells like a thrift shop. There are tridents and sparkly roller skates like for a roller derby. Top hats and nun costumes. “This gets organized periodically,” he says, “but right now it’s controlled chaos.”
“Talk about a place where you could lose yourself,” I muse. “Be someone else for a moment.”
I always want to be someone else. To live someone else’s life.
“That’s what the theater is all about.”
I swallow hard as Jamarr digs in the closet and unearths an olive green jacket that looks like it was last worn by G.I. Joe. But it does seem like something Isak would wear. The fabric is stiff, thicker than denim, and there are a bunch of pockets.
Slipping one arm in, then the other, I pull it up. “A little tight,” I note.
He shakes his head. “No, you look great.”
From anyone else, I’d think it was flattery or flirting, but Jamarr seems the kind to give honest feedback. He keeps digging. “What shoe size are you?”
“Eleven.”
“Then how about these?” He emerges with a pair of tactical black boots.
I flinch. I could sort of see Isak wearing those, but they remind me of the boots my uncle was wearing when I was thirteen and he caught me looking at gay porn. He kicked me black and blue, and I told everyone I fell out of a tree.
“Do you have any others?” I ask.
“Not in your size.”
I realize I’m trembling. “I don’t think those will fit,” I say slowly, hoping he doesn’t notice.
Jamarr is rustling around in the racks of clothing again. “Why don’t you try them on and find out?”
I don’t want to. There are so many things I’d rather do than explain why, though. I’d rather do a thousand sit-ups and push-ups, run a marathon in the rain, climb stairs until my thighs burn and give out. Lift weights until I puke. So I sit on the floor and put the boots on. “They’re okay,” I say.
“Wanna wear them?”
No. But I do want to make sure Isak knows I support him, and he might enjoy seeing me dress like him. “I don’t have a place to put them right now, and I don’t want to take them home. I might lose them.” More like they’d get noticed, and I don’t want to answer the questions that might ensue.
“Why don’t I leave them here for you?” he asks, and points to a spot in the corner. “You can come back and grab them before we do the surprise.”
I exhale. “That’d be great.” I put my own shoes back on and join everyone onstage.
“How are you feeling, with this being your first production?” Zanita asks during a break.
“Good.”
She looks at me, clearly expecting a better answer than that.
“I guess … I’ve never experienced anything like this,” I tell her. “On a sports team, there are moments when we come together as one unit. But that doesn’t feel as expressive as this does.”
“I bet.”
“And then I wonder, why didn’t I do this sooner? I could’ve been in shows since freshman year. I’ve missed out on so much. I like being a part of it.”
“Well, at least you’re doing it now,” she says.
And I adore watching Isak perform. There are some other students in the show who are great, too. Zanita is making a particularly vicious and delicious villain.
Isak has something special, though. His voice projects well into the seats, and he’s got a terrific sense of comedic timing. He sings well, and you feel everything he’s emoting. It’s so cool.
Except … working this close with Isak is making my longing for him increase steadily, like water heating up. It’s not at a boil yet, but I fear it might get there soon.
I haven’t kissed Isak since the first day. I respect his wishes. I’ve only done the stage kisses where I put my thumb on his lip so that there’s a barrier between us.
Which sucks, because I really, really want to kiss him. I wish I knew how to tell him that. But I can’t bring it up. That would be awkward.
Hey, Isak. You know how I basically told you in October that it would never be more than you sucking me off and liking it, and me never touching you? Well, that was a lie, and I’m really into you.
I want to kiss you again. I’ve spent so many nights kissing you in my imagination—tasting your cola-candy flavor and wondering what your tongue would feel like against mine. I know my uncle would tell me it’s wicked to want that.
But as we agreed, I stay away from him when we’re not onstage. I ignore him.
Even though it feels like I’m ripping out my hair one strand at a time—a single one doesn’t hurt, but add them up and it starts to be a real loss.
I’m eating cereal on Saturday morning when my sister and uncle start fighting.
It turns my stomach. At least Q isn’t here to witness it. Ivy’s screaming that she’s going to move out and leave the family forever, but that’s a bigger fantasy than me being able to date Isak.
I toss the rest of my breakfast down the drain and dump the bowl into the dishwasher. I don’t have time to get involved in their argument. I have rehearsal all day, and I’m supposed to get there early so I can dress like Isak.
I toss some snacks and a water bottle into my backpack and race out the kitchen door, not saying goodbye to anyone. They won’t miss me anyway.
I slide into the driver’s seat and twist the key in the ignition.
The old Porsche is silent.
I pump the gas a few times and try again. Sometimes it needs a little … encouragement. Eventually the car turns over, but it never catches. I’m going to flood the engine or something.
Shit.
I put my head down on the steering wheel. What am I going to do? It has to run. I’ve been ignoring that pesky check-engine light, but I didn’t want to bother my family for help to fix it. It was Dad’s project car, and though driving it helps me feel close to him, it’s a sore subject for them.
I try again, and it makes that half-hearted noise like it’s trying to start, but it doesn’t do anything else.
Please don’t be completely dead. Please just be a battery issue or something.
Shit, shit, shit.
I don’t want to be late. I glance back at the house and hear Uncle Norm roaring at Grandma and Ivy. So I’m not going to ask any of them for a jump—if that’s even the problem. Mom lost her license years ago.
Backup plan: public transit. I pull out my phone and google the bus schedule.
Looks like there’s a stop about three blocks away where a bus will come in a half hour or so. I’ll have to change buses and it will take me forever to get to school, but it is what it is. At least I’m getting out of here. It sucks that I’m going to be late for Isak’s surprise, though.
I’m walking down the street when a black truck drives past. The brake lights flash, and it comes to a stop a little ways ahead.
Isak.
I catch up to him, and he rolls down the passenger window. “Hey, why are you walking? Do you need a ride?”
I gulp. Is this allowed? I don’t want to violate his rules.
He asks more quietly, “What’s going on?”
I close my eyes briefly and then open them again. “My car won’t start, so I’m taking the bus. Please tell Ms. Laurent I’ll be late.”
“Get in.”
“I’m fine. I can catch the bus.”
Isak rolls his eyes in an epic fashion. “Don’t be stubborn. Just get in.”
I nod and open the door.
“Thanks,” I say, once I’m buckled up. Isak’s truck is clean, although there are some receipts in the cup holder. He’s dressed almost like me, which makes me smile inside. Little does he know …
“Do you want some hot chocolate?” he asks, indicating an insulated mug. “I don’t usually get up in time to make it, but today I did.”
“No. I’m good. Thanks.”
We drive along in silence.
Finally, Isak huffs. “I know I said we shouldn’t talk, but I’m changing my mind. I don’t like not talking to you.”
My entire body relaxes at his words. “I don’t like it, either.”
Isak gives me a tight smile. “Just talking, though.”
“I know what you meant.”
We drive a few blocks and turn into the downtown area. “How are you going to get your car to the shop?” Isak asks.
I sigh. “Tow truck, I guess.”
“Do you think they’ll fix it over the weekend?”
“Unlikely. I mean, we’ll be in rehearsal all day today, and tomorrow’s Sunday. Besides, when I’ve had to get it fixed before, they’ve needed time.”
“I can drive you until it’s fixed, if you want. We have the exact same schedule most days now.”
I look at his freckles, his rumpled hair, and his dark, baggy T-shirt and jeans. His bicep flexes as he turns the steering wheel, and he glances at me.
“Thanks.” I quickly face front. My cheeks flame.
When we get to the theater, we walk in together, but Ms. Laurent diverts Isak, which gives me time to sneak my borrowed things out of the costume closet.
By the time I’m dressed, everyone is gathered onstage, and seeing the assembled group does something to my insides.
He’s such a leader, and he doesn’t even know it.
“I’ve never seen so many snap-front caps, wallets with chains, or skirts and boots,” I whisper.
“I know, isn’t it great?” Zanita says excitedly.
“Hush,” Jody says. “He’s coming.”
Isak walks onto the stage from the side, and we all shout, “Surprise!”
“It’s ‘dress like Isak’ day,” Jamarr says. “We wanted you to know that we think you’re a great actor and a badass.”
Isak’s eyes go wide as he takes us in. He blinks fast a few times, but he’s smiling, so I think it’s a good thing. “You guys,” he mumbles. “Oh my god, you’re all impossible.”
My heart leaps. “You’re worth celebrating,” I say, and I don’t care that the entire cast can hear me.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
When that moment comes in the second act, I hold his face and look deeply into his eyes. We’re acting. It’s only an act.
His breath hitches. Part of the show.
I lean in slowly, and he grasps my face. Then I place a finger over his warm, plump lips. I respect his wishes and kiss my thumb.
I ignore his freckles. And his dimples.
Mostly.
Late in the afternoon, after a full day of rehearsal, I climb into Isak’s Ford.
“So, it was fun to be you for a day,” I say, glancing down at my black clothes, grateful I’m not wearing those damn boots anymore.
“Yeah, that was something,” he says, shifting into reverse. “Do you think they’ll do any more of these? Are they going to do a ‘dress like Lachlan’ day?”
I snort. “You’re the unique one.”
“I dunno,” he says thoughtfully. “I think you have your own personality.” He puts the truck into drive, and we pull out onto the street.
“I’m not like you,” I say. “I wear what everyone else does, and I do all the mainstream stuff. I have no idea who I really am.”
“I don’t think it’s safe for you to be yourself at home.”
“No. It isn’t.” That’s the first time I’ve ever acknowledged that, and I think he realizes it, because his eyes widen.
Isak reaches out and squeezes my hand. His nails are a chipped purple. Well, most are. A few are black.
Fuck, we’re holding hands. I think my “it doesn’t count if I don’t touch him” rule is in the trash.
That rule sucked, anyway. I like holding his hand. It feels safe and warm. It also feels deviant. Like I’m doing something wrong, even though I’d argue it’s utterly right.
And I guess what it says about me is … well, I’m not sure I’m ready to say the words, even inside my head.
What would it be like if I could hold Isak’s hand and not worry that someone would yell at me? Or do worse?
But right now, no one can see, and it’s freeing.
Our hands stay linked until he has to turn onto the main drag and needs both of them on the wheel.