“Yes, of course I did, because that’s the only way I am capable of dressing up.” This sarcasm is superior to explaining that my best friends mistook me for a dude and, double whammy, I had a sex dream where I was the guy.
When she refuses my help with the glass, I pour orange juice and await additional commentary. Mom’s staring over her bifocals, directly at my breasts; I wish she didn’t appear so stupefied. “You do look incredible, Billie.”
When someone dies, I safety pin the neckline. Without the pin, I have the illusion of cleavage. “I’m a frickin’ clown,” I say.
“Don’t say frickin’, baby. It means the same thing as that other word.”
Dad arrives in the kitchen waving the morning newspaper. “Clare, did you see this? Tawny Jacobs is on the front page.” Last night’s argument is gone. He hasn’t noticed Mom sweeping glass into a plastic bag. He keeps babbling about the festival without having her attention—he has a gift for this. “This article is basically rubbish. Ada May’s supposed to be impartial, but I swear she’s advocating for—”
He sees me. If he had a glass, it would also be broken. He tosses the newspaper on the table and presses a kiss against my cheek. I am pinned against his suit coat, against the front pocket where he always carries a tiny Moleskine notebook and fountain pen.
“Did someone die?” he asks.
“No one died. I did not lose a bet. I wanted to wear a dress.”
Dad kisses my cheek again. He does not know Littlewood’s Law by name, but his expression titles this a miracle. “This getup is perfect timing.”
Mom dumps the dustpan of glass in the trash. From the clanking and slamming, she doesn’t like the implications of “perfect timing.” We concern ourselves momentarily with breakfast. Toast, coffee, bacon. I’ve missed the Hexagon at the elementary school to do this, and have to text Woods for a pickup. I’m pressing Send and then removing crumbs from my bodice when Mom prompts Dad to explain why it’s perfect timing.
He taps the newspaper article with the photo of Tawny. “We’re all going to need to be on our best behavior with the Corn Dolly stuff.”
I shouldn’t ask. I do anyway. “What about me wearing a dress puts us on ‘our best behavior’?”
You know, his slack jaw says.
“I gotta go,” I tell them before I start another fight Mom has to finish. Yeah, Dad, me wearing a dress is like a receiving a Crown of Righteousness from God himself.
“Take a coat,” he yells. “Chilly out today.”
I clomp to the front deck and await Woods’s pickup. The day is every shade of blue and one or two shades of gray. Warm air comes from the west, cool from the east. It’ll storm before lunch. Woods’ll probably have his own commentary on my attire. He might even think I’m trying to impress him, which I hadn’t considered when I got dressed. No matter what he says, I will girl to the fullest girl today.
Eight hours later, I wish I’d worn a steel corset.
Here are stats on a day with Billie in a dress:
41: Classmates who reference the apocalypse upon sight of me.
1: who questions if I triggered the earthquake.
53: Double takes I witness. (A lowball estimate; I couldn’t possibly have seen them all.)
17: Catcalls.
9: Times Fifty says, “Damn, McCaffrey.”
2: Times Mash offers to get an umbrella so I won’t get rained on while going to the C wing. “You sure, B? It’s no big deal,” he promises, even though he has never offered me an umbrella before.
4: Comments from the girls who often hassle me. They say, “OMG, Dyke Bike, someone should have nominated you years ago.”
I’ve been Dyke Bike to them since seventh grade. In fairness, I called them things too. But I’ve managed to go years without mentioning that their cumulative IQ is a number I can count on one hand.
I tolerate everything for the sake of two compliments. When I scooted into Woods’s truck this morning, he said, “That’s a 9.2 on the Richter, Elizabeth McCaffrey,” and Janie Lee followed his comment with, “No, it’s a 10.” Neither of them asked me why. Maybe they still felt guilty about Einstein.
The person who asks why is Davey.
The last bells rings. I’m careening toward the parking lot with the rest of OHHS, eyes on the books in my arms. A body, tall and compact, falls into purposeful step with my boots. “You’re coming with me,” Davey says. The Camaro transports us to my house first. I am told to return to the car in comfortable clothes because we’re going on an adventure. Under this circumstance, I do not mind being told what to do.
I shed the dress and thong, leaving clothing strewn across my bedroom. When I settle into Davey’s front seat wearing black athletic pants and a T-shirt, the pent-up parts of me finally free, I flap my knees about widely as if I have been wearing a straitjacket.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Somewhere I love.”
“Why?” I say instead of asking where.
“Why the runway event?” he answers. This is a brand-new question, not just a repeat of mine. He wants an explanation for the dress.
Ignore him, be sarcastic, tell the truth? I weigh the options equally and say, “I’m still working that out. I needed to know if I could.”
“Because of the Hexagon of Love? Or the Corn Dolly?”
“Well, that happened,” I say.
“Not many things unnerve you, Billie McCaffrey, but that board did,” he says sympathetically. “Well . . . not many things unnerve you in a way you can’t hide.”
I draw my legs under me, cross my arms over my chest. “Give me your theory.”
“O-kay,” he starts. “Thinking of yourself as boyish is one thing, but your friends assigned you a gender—without asking—and that flayed you. If I had to speculate, you’re actually upset because you believe they should know you well enough to avoid such an error. Which isn’t totally fair to you or them. Gender, sexuality, fluidity: those areas require stumbling around in the dark, feeling, and bumping into things. But even if you can admit that, you still feel out of control. And probably lonely.” No stutter. No question. He delivers this analysis as if he has thought about it all day long.
I find my fist unwittingly clenched around the door handle. Except I am not angry with him. This experiment: why did I do it? Janie Lee’s Instagram account? Proving Woods and Einstein wrong? I hate dresses.
“Please don’t be mad. You asked for the theory,” he says quietly, eyes never leaving the road.
I retaliate with a single sentence. “Why did you put Elizabeth Rawlings on the board when we both know she’s not your first choice?”
“Woods put Elizabeth Rawlings on the board,” he answers.
Davey is inside himself thinking inside thoughts. I’m inside myself hating how exposed I feel. He interrupts with another conclusion. “You give him too much power.”