That night, I dream I am a guy. One hundred percent all-American boy.
There’s no easing into the dream. No sense of being asleep. I close my eyes, and when my brain wakes up, I have a penis and a problem.
I live in the same saltbox parsonage. My father is still an issue. My mother is made of monograms and flowy shirts. My Grandy is still a thunder cat. I have the same friends. Own the same clothes. But I ride a green bike to school. My real bike is black.
Woods calls me dude and bro and hits me on the shoulder. Mash throws up. Fifty makes sex jokes. Davey is missing.
These things are banked in my dream memory, and I am aware of being me as I move through the dream. Only . . . Dream Me is a dude.
I am in the youth room. There is a wine cooler on the floor and an unopened bag of Twizzlers peeks out from behind the couch cushion. There is a stack of Bibles there too. I think . . . I am going to hell for this. Einstein says WAYS FOR BILLY TO EMBARRASS SCOTT.
I am on the couch with Janie Lee.
She’s wearing her big, gaudy glasses, and she is under me. Entwined with me. Her UGGs are scattered, as if she took them off in a hurry. The soft flannel of her pajamas is against my leg hair. I slide my hand under the black Victoria’s Secret cami she wears beneath her sweatshirt and tug until it’s over her head. The sweatshirt that is already on the floor. The sweatshirt I pulled off her.
I inch my fingers around to her spine and press my chest against hers. She is insanely warm, but shivering.
I am shirtless. She’s kissing my Adam’s apple; working her mouth around my neck, under my chin. I didn’t shave today, and the way she’s kissing me tickles. I am familiar with this body I’ve had for dream seconds, as if I’ve had it for years.
“Shhhhh,” she tells me. “We’re going to wake up Mash and Fifty.”
She says shhhhh, but doesn’t say stop. She means, Be quieter, Billie. Don’t let them catch us. They are propped on the opposite couch five feet away. Mash is wearing one of those Breathe Right strips over his nose. Fifty’s snoring. Even though it’s blazing hot, I stretch a fuzzy blanket over us in case they wake up. We whisper. We giggle. I want to know every part of her.
I am scared of being caught. But I am terrified of losing her or hurting her or going too quickly. I want to live on this couch for the rest of my life.
Neither of us is scared this is the wrong thing. She is worth polishing all the pews in every church in America if we are caught. Worth all the service projects we might be assigned. Worth my father hating me.
I tell her that.
She touches my stomach like she did the night at the dam and says, “I feel love right here.”
“Me too.”
Mash coughs once, twice, three times. Smoke seeps under the door, starts rolling in like a fog. It is somehow dark in the room and light enough to see gray clouds consuming the mini fridge. Consuming Einstein. The church alarms go off, the phone rings, and I think, Please don’t interrupt us. Why didn’t we put a Do Not Disturb sign on Youth Suite 201?
“Mash cooked socks in the microwave again,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, as if I care about Mash right now.
Around the room, there is suddenly an orchestra—every player a twin of Janie Lee. Violins, cellos, upright bass, viola. With perfect timing the musicians draw fingers and bows across the strings, manipulating the air with an emotional, haunting melody.
Janie Lee tastes like Gerry. She tastes like music. We’re biting each other’s lips. I lean away from her, realizing again how beautiful she is.
The orchestra sounds like it’s grieving.
How I love her glasses. Her toothpaste has Scope in it. Her blush smells like sandalwood. The song is between us. I taste her soul on my tongue.
I promise I won’t tell Woods that this happened.
She says, “No one has to know.”
Gray clouds of smoke engulf Mash and Fifty. The cello is the only instrument I hear.
Dad bangs on the door. “Billie, the church is on fire. Billie.”
“Ignore him,” I say.
“Ignore everyone.”
“I love you.”
Words I’ve never said in real life.
“I love you too.”
We keep right on kissing until the flames singe our skin.
17
Six hours have passed since I put my head on my pillow. Five minutes have passed since I woke up from that dream. That dream. That sex dream.
My first sex dream. My first sex anything.
And . . . I was a guy.
And . . . I was with Janie Lee.
And . . . I don’t know what to think about anything.
Light spills into my room through my curtains. Mom’s frying bacon in the kitchen. I don’t have any clean socks. Morning is here. Morning doesn’t care about my sexuality.
Jesus, when I see Janie Lee in first period, I’ll be thinking about that thing she did with her tongue instead of dangling participles. That’s an improvement to language arts, but a danger to friendship.
Before I further question my sexuality, I consult the internet’s opinion on sex dreams. According to “experts” I am starved for intimacy and have “a masculine mind-set.” “No,” I tell the internet, and then scroll mindlessly through Janie Lee’s Instagram account, registering photos of her, the Hexagon, and us. In each one, her expression is unshakable. Even when we’re all making silly faces, there she is, perfect mascara and straight white teeth.
There’s one particular photo from three months ago. It was taken at the wedding chapel on Highway 62. Woods and Janie Lee share a piano bench. Violin in her lap, grin on her face: she’s full, bright. Woods has his mouth open, singing. His hair is gelled as straight as it’ll go; he looks about ninety-five years old. The caption reads Carson Wedding #fallingslowly #once #happyforthem #happyforme.
Janie Lee’s wearing a sexy black dress. And I suppose it strikes me for the first time that dress clothes are like jewelry—accessories to skin. I’ve been using wardrobe as a fuck-you statement for so long that it hasn’t occurred to me clothes aren’t what I’m seeing when I look at Janie Lee. It’s her in all her Janie Lee–ness. The same way I put on different clothes and went to a costume party with Davey, I can costume any part of myself I want.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the kitchen sporting one of my two funeral dresses. A juice glass smashes against the porcelain tile. Shards and slivers land in the grout. Glass scatters all the way to the laundry room.
“Did you . . . lose a bet?” Mom asks, but not cruelly. “Or is it one of those specialty dress-up days?”
I might not get fancy very often, but I understand the requirements. Real bra. Grandy’s necklace. Mascara and lip gloss. By God, I am even wearing a thong. These are items I own because my mother has to buy me something for Christmas each year that is not LEGOs and odd art supplies.
I’m uncomfortable as hell, and as hot as I can manage.