M or F? (13 page)

“Black pants, then,” Belina suggested. “You have a hundred pairs of those.”

“Purple is the new black,” Jenn chimed in.

“Jenn, I wouldn't wear purple pants even if I owned them,” I said patiently. “My butt would look like two giant eggplants in a catfight.”

“I love your butt!” Jenn cried. “Mine's so tiny.”

I rolled my eyes. Jenn has a real gift for compliments. “Okay, everyone,” I said into the receiver. “Thanks for the help—I think that about wraps things up here.”

“So what are you wearing?” Belina asked.

“I have no idea,” I told her. “See you guys at the carnival.”

“Don't you want to hear what
I'm
wearing?” Jenn asked Belina as I clicked off.

I dug around for the jeans one last time, but it was no go. They had disappeared. The only thing at the bottom of my closet was an old pair of purple cowboy boots. I'd bought them at a flea market a few months before because I fell in love with the flowers stitched on the sides. Hmmm, I thought as I held one up. They're a little bit country . . . a little bit rock and roll. . . .

Oh, who am I kidding? I chucked the boot back into the closet. Jeffrey would think I was nuts if I wore those. I definitely got the sense that he thought I was kind of borderline insane ever since the whole movie-night-with-Jeffrey evening.

Which, if I tell the truth about it, was kind of disappointing. I know that not everyone is tuned into Marcus's and my wavelength . . . but I somehow thought that Jeffrey would be. After all, he's a sensitive guy. He's not hung up on being trendy, and he does his own thing. But it hadn't turned out that way. He'd hated
Sholay
, and he hadn't even bothered to hide it.

And to tell the truth, it kind of bothered me.

I really hate it when you try to share something with someone and they just stare at you like you're nuts. That was part of what I loved about Marcus. You could say something like, “The way the afternoon light is shining on that trash can is really beautiful,” and he would know what you were talking about. He wouldn't feel the need to point out that trash cans aren't beautiful, that they're just trash cans, made of green plastic and overflowing with broken and rejected objects. He would see the light too, and he would agree. . . .

Stop it, stop it, stop it! I told myself. Don't compare Jeffrey to your best friend. And
don't
do that thing where you pick out every little flaw in a guy and then tell him to get lost before you've even given him a chance. Jeffrey's great. He's sensitive, and smart, and sweet. So what if he doesn't like Indian musicals? Besides, he could have just been having an off night, or maybe he was nervous or something. I know I was.

But you know what really bugged me about the whole thing? I could see how hard Marcus was trying to help me out. He wanted the date to be perfect
so badly
that when it wasn't, I almost felt more disappointed for him than for myself.

“Hey, Frannie,” my dad said, yanking me out of my thoughts. He was standing in the doorway to my room, this half-amused, half-confused smile on his face. “Doing some cleaning?”

I looked down at my cluttered bed and sighed. It is a sad, sad commentary when a father thinks his teenage daughter might actually be spending a Friday night cleaning out her closet. Although I could see why he'd gotten that impression. I'd spent the last hour tearing through my closet, tossing all of my clothes into three piles: “maybe,” “no,” and “no way.” Basically, my room looked like a landfill. “Just trying to find something to wear,” I told my dad.

“Ah.” He nodded, like I'd just said something perfectly rational. My dad is a man of few words, but he does have an amazing ability to humor people.

“I have a date,” I said. For some reason, I felt like I needed to offer him an explanation. Because he was still standing there, I guess.

“Yeah,” Dad said slowly. “I do too.” He sighed heavily. “Your mom has this book. . . .”

I nodded.
“The Romance Handbook.”

Dad looked at the ceiling. “Tonight it's chapter one: ‘Relive the Magic.'”

“Well . . . that sounds like fun,” I said in my most encouraging voice as I twirled a chunk of hair around my finger. “Everyone likes magic.”

“We're supposed to re-enact our first meeting,” he said darkly, folding his arms across his chest.

Whoa. “So . . . you're going to a church potluck supper?” I asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Dad nodded miserably. “And we're supposed to pretend that we don't know each other at first. Mom is insisting that we take separate cars.”

I didn't know what to say. “Sounds really . . . magical.”

Dad snorted. “Two cars to one supper,” he repeated. “Do you know how much gas costs these days?”

“Well . . .” Only my parents could take a handbook on romance and use it to create the world's most unromantic evening. I decided to change the subject. “What's chapter two?” I asked.

“‘Recapture a Sense of Spontaneity.'” Dad sighed again. “Next week, Mom wants us to just drive into Chicago. With no plan!” There was horror in his dark eyes. My dad is heavily into planning. “She doesn't even want to make dinner reservations because that isn't ‘spontaneous' enough.”

I winced in sympathy. Poor Dad, I thought. He has to humor so many people in this family. “Does it get any better?”

“Well . . . chapter six looks pretty good,” Dad admitted.

Oh,
ew—
the parental sex chapter! I had to force myself not to clap my hands over my ears and sing lalalalalala at the top of my lungs. Instead, I let out a nervous giggle that made me sound like a crazed cricket.

Dad leaned against the door frame. “So—where are you and Marcus off to tonight?”

“I'm not going out with Marcus,” I told him, picking a blouse out of my “maybe” pile and studying it. “I have a
real
date, with that guy who came over the other night. Jeffrey.” No to you, red satin shirt, I thought, tossing it aside. I regret to inform you that I will never find your missing button. Go make someone at the Salvation Army happy.

Dad rolled his eyes. “Women,” he said in this jeezyou're-all-alike kind of voice.

I looked at him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You just love to have two guys fighting over you.” Dad gave me a knowing smile.

A giggle bubbled up at the back of my throat, but I swallowed it. Wait a minute, I thought. Is Dad joking? Actually, I wasn't sure. Dad's humor is usually deadpan. . . . Then again, he looked pretty serious right now. “Dad, you know Marcus isn't interested in me—he's gay.”

“What?”
Now Dad looked like his eyes might just pop out of his head and roll around on the floor. Apparently he hadn't been joking after all.

But how could my own father have not noticed? I mean, I knew the minute I met Marcus that he was as gay as the Easter parade. Don't get me wrong—he doesn't wear European clothes or talk with a lisp or carry around a Lhasa apso named Trixie like queer people on TV. He's just . . . so . . .
gay
. I can't explain it. Maybe it's because he's interested in old movies, or because he doesn't follow every fashion trend, or because he isn't afraid to order Frosted Flakes with a grilled cheese sandwich. Not that any of these things are automatic “you're gay,” signals. No, I decided, it was more that I hadn't felt uncomfortable around him. I'd known right away that he wasn't checking me out. And I'd known that the fact that he wasn't checking me out wasn't some kind of dis, either. I guess it's just a vibe.

“How long have you known?” my dad asked.

“From day one,” I told my dad, suddenly wishing that I hadn't brought up this whole subject. Where is Mom? I wondered. I guessed she was still at work. My dad doesn't usually just come and start chatting with me, and it was kind of freaking me out. And the subject matter wasn't helping, either. Even though I always think of my parents as pretty open-minded people, you never really know how someone of their generation is going to react to the whole queer thing.

“Wow,” Dad said, folding his arms across his chest.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“It's just . . . interesting.”

“What's so interesting about it?” I demanded, maybe a little sharply. The thing is, I know that being queer isn't easy for Marcus. Not like it's some major disadvantage or challenge or whatever—but things are harder for him than for an average guy. And if my dad was going to say one single thing—

“It's just . . . interesting that you can never really know what's going on in someone else's mind,” my dad said finally, the words spilling out of him slowly. “If someone chooses not to tell you something, how would you ever know it? You'd think you could guess, but . . .” He shook his head.

Wow. Deep thoughts, by Dad. I knew that there was something to what he was saying, but I just couldn't wrap my brain around it. After all, I had a date—or whatever it was—in two hours, and I still needed to find an outfit. But my dad was still standing in my doorway, staring off into space, as though mesmerized by the workings of his brain.

But at least he wasn't a homophobe. That was a relief. Marcus is so in love with my family, I knew it would just kill him to think that my dad didn't approve of him.

I cleared my throat, which sort of snapped Dad out of his reverie. “So, uh—I'd better get ready,” I hedged.

“Oh, sure.” Dad looked like he wanted to say something else but stopped himself and just nodded, smiling. “Well, I'm sure you're going to have a great time with Jason.”

“Jeffrey,” I corrected.

“Jeffrey,” Dad repeated. “Right, right. Have fun with Jeffrey.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I told him. “Have fun at the potluck.”

Dad gave me a final smile and loped down the hallway to his bedroom. It was funny to think about it, but I definitely got the impression that Dad was kind of disappointed that Marcus wasn't interested in being my boyfriend after all. The whole idea made me giggle. I mean, maybe he and Mom had been planning our wedding behind my back. It's funny how everyone is so eager to couple us up. Because we're so alike, I guess.

I yanked an orange miniskirt out of the closet and held it up. Does orange send out “I care enough to volunteer” signals? I wondered. I chucked it in the “maybe” pile and tried to quiet the nerves in my stomach. At least this is a group thing, I told myself as I pulled a pair of red velvet pants from my closet and tossed them in the “no” pile. That should take some of the tension away.

Besides, we'll be working the STF booth, I told myself.

Whatever that is.

 

 

The school carnival was already buzzing when I got there. It was a cool night—the first traces of the waning April chill hung in the air as the sun started to set. The decorations committee had strung white fairy lights between the booths, and the football field lights were on. People were running around adding finishing touches to booths, and someone had fired up the grill—the scent of cooking meat hung in the air, reminding me that I had forgotten to eat dinner. Oh, well, I thought as I looked around for Jeffrey's booth. Maybe I can take a break from collecting tickets or whatever and run and get myself a burger. A veggie burger.

“Francesca!”

Looking over, I saw Marcus's grandmother, Patricia, standing with a group of old ladies in outrageous hats. Patricia herself was done up like some kind of color-blind bag lady—she had on two feather boas—bright purple and fuchsia twisted together—an orange hat with cherries on the brim, a brilliant green dress, red pumps, and glitter eye shadow. I'd seen her in some pretty wild outfits before—including, once, a purple bustier and leather pants—but this really took the cake.

“Hey, Patricia,” I said.

“Hey, girl!” She gave me a huge, brilliant grin. “Look at you! You're just as pretty as you can be!”

“Thanks.” I smiled warmly, glad that my outfit had already received a thumbs-up. I'd struggled for an hour and forty minutes, trying on everything in the “maybe” pile—then trying on the “no” pile, just in case I'd missed something. I was about to start on “no way,” when I decided that I had to pick something or I'd be late, so I went with a clingy black V-neck sweater and vintage silver-and-peacock-blue cigarette pants. It was kind of borderline dressy casual, which—given that I had no idea what Marcus had volunteered me to do—seemed the safest bet. And it was kind of low-cut, so I knew that Belina would approve. “Um . . . love your outfit too,” I told Patricia, because I felt I had to say something.

Patricia let out this huge belly laugh. “Oh, now, go on!” she said, giving her outfit a twirl, so that I got the full effect. I hadn't noticed the big yellow bow in the back. “The Wailing Grannies and I are here to do a little a cappella. Gonna rock this place! Right girls?” she called.

The Wailing Grannies let out a cheer, and one of them said something that sounded like “Bust out the beats!”

“I didn't know you were in a singing group.”

“Well, it's sort of a combination singing group and drinking club,” Patricia confided. “Once we do our thing, it's Miller time!”

The Wailing Grannies let out another cheer.

“Bust out the beers!” one of them said.

“Which brings me to my question,” Patricia went on. “Have you seen Marcus? He's our ride home tonight.”

“Uh, no,” I said, relieved that this was actually the truth. I wasn't sure that Marcus would be thrilled to find out he was the Wailing Grannies' designated driver. “But if I see him, I'll let him know you're looking for him.” More like warn him, I added mentally.