“Retract the claws,” Lua said. “I’m not after Jaime. Actually, I think you two are better together than he and I ever were.”
I shared Birdie’s suspicions. Lua was not a graceful loser, and for all I knew, this was Step One of Lua’s nefarious plan to break Birdie and Jaime up by drowning them in compliments.
“Uh, yeah,” Birdie said. “Thanks?” We sat at the table enduring one of the most awkward silences in the history of awkward silences until Birdie grabbed Jaime’s hand and said, “I wanna dance, babe.”
Jaime, Birdie, and their friends meandered to the dance floor. Jaime glanced back once and mouthed, “Thank you.”
“What was that all about?” I asked as soon as they’d gone.
Lua shrugged. “He looked happy, didn’t he?”
“I guess.” I was honestly shocked Lua hadn’t grabbed one of the picture-holder centerpieces and beaten Jaime or Birdie or both with it.
“I gotta say: This new mature Lua is freaking me out.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Lua said. “I still want to yank out Birdie’s weave and dump a bucket of pig’s blood all over her pretty dress, but she makes Jaime happy, and after the train wreck formerly known as our relationship, he deserves it.”
Lua was right, I’d just never expected that brand of rational, self-sacrificing logic from him. I wondered if he’d finally looked in the mirror and recognized who he saw. I’d always found it odd that Lua possessed so much confidence when it came to his music and his gender identity, but still seemed so uncomfortable in his own skin. Apparently, that had changed. Lua was still my Lua—I still recognized him—but he was also different.
“Hey,” Lua said. “I really am sorry Calvin’s not here.”
“It’s okay.”
“I tried to call him a couple of times. He didn’t answer, but I may have left some long, rambling messages explaining why he should forgive you and come to the dance.”
My eyes shot open. “You didn’t.”
“I really did.”
“Lua . . .”
“You’re my brother and my best friend, Ozzie.” Lua turned to face me, so close our knees touched. “If you think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you, you obviously don’t know me well.”
I couldn’t help myself. I hugged him until he pushed me away.
“Gross! No PDA. I have a rock star reputation to protect.”
“I love you, Lu.”
“Yeah, yeah. I love you, too, Ozzie.”
Eventually we joined the dancers tearing up the floor even though Lua wouldn’t stop complaining about how terrible the band was, and we caught Dustin and Priya dancing intimately during an odd slow cover of “Happiness Is a Warm Gun.” I wondered how it was possible the universe was only the size of Cloud Lake but that the Beatles still existed. If there was no England, where had they been born? I could’ve gotten my phone out and searched, but I suspected the answers would simply lead to more questions, like how we had phones and where they were manufactured.
I left Lua, Dustin, and Priya shaking their asses on the dance floor and went to use the restroom. When I returned, the band was playing another slow song. Dustin was standing against the wall holding Priya’s purse.
“So . . . Priya?”
Dustin shrugged. “What can I say? She’s a champion cuddler.”
I couldn’t help laughing at the mental image of Priya and Dustin all snuggled up together. “You seen Lua?”
“Yeah . . . about Lua . . .” Dustin pointed at the dance floor. I followed his finger, searching the crowd.
And then I found Lua. Dancing. With Trent Williams. Trent’s arms were wrapped around Lua’s waist; Lua’s head leaned against Trent’s chest. I stood there with my mouth hanging open until Lua caught me staring and shot me an I-will-kill-you-if-you-say-one-damn-word look. I smiled in return.
I danced a couple of songs with Priya, a couple more with Lua. Dustin even forced me to dance one with him, and we cracked up the whole time.
I kept hoping Calvin would surprise me. I imagined him walking through the doors in a black hoodie tux, catching my eye from across the room, his smile all the forgiveness I needed. I imagined us dancing until we were the only two people left on the floor, dancing long after the band had played its last cheesy song. I imagined kissing him.
If my life had been a movie or a book, the night might have ended that way—I might have gotten my happily ever after—but my life was neither of those things. No one’s life is. Life is life. It happens, it goes on. Eventually, it ends, but other lives continue, new ones begin. That’s just the way of it. My life would keep going on until the day it didn’t, and I could either make the best of it or waste it wishing for what I didn’t and might never have.
TOMMY
TOMMY DIGS THROUGH THE BAG of candy, picking out the banana Runts for himself, before passing it to me. We walk through the mall with no particular destination. He’s been quiet since I picked him up, but I can tell by the way he breathes shallowly and winces that he must’ve gotten into a fight with his father.
“You still up for fireworks on Dustin’s boat Tuesday?” I cheek a couple of strawberry candies. Tommy chews his candy, but I suck on mine until they disintegrate. “Dustin said he managed to get a bunch of illegal shit—M-80s and stuff.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Sure. Sounds fun.”
I’m dying to ask Tommy what happened, to make sure he’s not seriously hurt, but he won’t talk about it until he’s ready.
Tommy veers toward a tux rental shop. He stands at the window, so close his nose touches the glass.
“Are we shopping for formal wear?”
“Just looking,” Tommy says.
The mannequins in the window—rigid and frozen in time—masquerade in various getups. Everything from classic penguin suits to flashy, brightly colored tuxes only Dustin or Lua would wear.
“Just a few months and we’ll be picking ours out for prom.” I nudge Tommy with my shoulder. “You’re going to look so hot I’ll probably jump you before the dance.”
Tommy nods. “I guess.”
I’m pretty certain his father is the source of his mood, but I’m worried. I’ve spent so many nights considering calling the police or child protective services to get Tommy’s father out of their house, but I never make those calls because Tommy would never forgive me.
“Come on.” I grab Tommy’s hand and pull him into the store. I tell the salesperson a lie about attending a ritzy fundraiser for my father’s imaginary company, and before I know it, I’m standing in the middle of the store in a slim-fitting black tuxedo. The salesperson goes on and on about how handsome I look and how it fits like a latex glove. I’m not paying attention because I’m waiting for Tommy.
“I’m not coming out in this,” Tommy calls from his fitting room.
“Why not?”
“Because I look dumb, Oz.”
The salesperson tries to coax Tommy out of the fitting room, but I shoot the guy a look that shuts him up.
“Don’t make me bust down that door and drag you out, Thomas Ross.”