John pressed his lips together, rolling them on top of his bottom teeth. "Do I look effeminate?" Maybe that was it, that was the simple, rational answer, he thought briefly and then he forced the thought to disappear. Not here. Not here. Not when the mirror and the makeup were not in front of him.
"What? No. You look distinctly male." John looked down and smiled, embarrassed for a moment. He went back the showering and trying to think of nothing. "What are you doing?" John looked over; his fingers paused on his shoulder, pinching a piece of hair.
"I hate it when my hair falls out... sticks to me. Grosses me out." Mr. McFarland nodded; his eyebrows raised and watched him hold his fingers under the spray, letting the strands wash off. He turned to Mr. McFarland, twisting his body to face him from the chest up. "You done?"
Mr. McFarland nodded, jerking himself back into Now, and buttoned up his pants. John had noticed that after Mr. McFarland finished, he'd sometimes throw in extra money if John stretched out the shower as long as possible. The whole set up wasn't too bad and it wasn't like Mr. McFarland was moaning his name or anything when he came; much as John hated to admit it to himself, staying in the embrace in the hot water was better than going back to his house, feeling his hair slowly soak his pillow and knowing his father never noticed.
John shut off the water and stepped out, taking the towel offered to him and wrapping it around his waist. Mr. McFarland had to use the expensive detergent or just never washed his towels, because they all had that brand-new fluffiness. And the color changed every time, a thick dark brown, burnt- tan, gold-brown, and now a faded reddish tan that was just as thick as the others. Guess they all were to match the bathroom's red walls (not bright red which always made John think of electronic clocks, but a deep color, the kind that reminded him of dried flowers or broken in T- Shirts) the chrome décor, the soft-gray tile. "So do you date or anything?" he asked his back, as Mr. McFarland began to leave him and his clothes the privacy to dry off and change, to lean against the wall of his bedroom and fold the money.
He turned in the doorway. "Actually, I was going to ask you for a favor. A few friends and I are getting together tomorrow and I was wondering if you'd want to come. I'd pay you for your time."
"And I'd be your date?"
"Just so I don't look pathetic." John contemplated for a moment, mindful of the water slowly dripping down his body, off his legs and onto the rug, the way Mr. McFarland's eyes had started to follow the drops.
"I'll meet you here."
"About eight o'clock?" John nodded. "Dress would probably be a nice shirt, nice jeans or pants if you have them. It's only dinner and drinks. I'd pay for your meal and all that. Is 70 alright for your time?"
"Sounds fine." Mr. McFarland nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.
John showed up at the corner home ten minutes early, no longer able to wait and afraid that if he continued to play with his lighter he would end up burning part of his room or the package Bobby had sent him, the art book pushed deep between his mattress and the wooden slats above the drawers that made up the base of his bed, bumping corners with old and new sketchpads. He tongued his chin labret as he waited for Mr. McFarland to answer the door and self-consciously picked at the cuffs of his shirt. He was lucky it still fit, lucky that all those shirts he had bought two sizes too big tapered perfectly to his body now. Thank God it was dark and the neighbors couldn't (hopefully) see him. "John," Mr. McFarland smiled, "you look nice." John looked down automatically at a pair of jeans his father had bought him- the hems still unbroken, the cleaned sneakers, the black dress shirt and the red tee the peaked out from the bottom of the V formed by two rows of unfastened buttons. "Come in for a minute, I just need a second."
(later)
John leaned against the car window, watching the lights of Dover grow larger. "Wasn't that bad, huh?"
"No. Your friends were nice." His mouth still felt full of nicotine and alcohol, no one asking his age as he bummed cigarettes or Mr. McFarland bought him drinks. He had played his part well, hadn't said much. He didn't even have to hold his hand or anything, just sat next to him in the restaurant and in the bar, and ignored the leg brushing against his, the fingers tracing shapes on his thigh, that touched when he passed him bottles of beer. It was worth the money and free dinner, he guessed. "So are they all writers?"
"No. Tim works in advertising, Fiona is an art therapist, Matt does voice work in commercials and shit-"
"Yeah, thought he sounded familiar." Mr. McFarland looked over and nodded.
"Natalie does theater and gives work shops, and Daniel manages his father's hardware store. He's trying to open a sister store in Dover, actually."
"Oh." John rested his head on the window again.
"How'd you get that cut on your cheek?" John shrugged.
"Fight at school." The lights of Dover were around them now, as they drove into the downtown and began to head west, towards East Chestnut Terrace. "Do you mind if I smoke? Tim gave me the last of his pack. I mean, you could have one or whatever and I'll open the window-"
"Go ahead. And I'm fine, but thanks." John pulled out the crumpled package, and lit a cigarette, Mr. McFarland rolling down his window for him. The brief appearance of his flame added with the nicotine made his stomach unclench a little from the initial worry that came when anyone questioned his bruises. Not that any one really did anymore, most had just gave up on him, assuming he was the trademark bad kid or that he was clumsy as hell. Ellis occasionally asked about a particularly bad one, as would Mark and Rachel but even they were more or less numb to his half-assed stories. "Do you want me to drop you off at your house or-"
"I could just walk from the corner. Probably better that way." Mr. McFarland nodded and pulled into his driveway, John stepping out and absorbing the small flame into him before making the motions of crushing the cigarette under his heel.
"I'll see you John?" Mr. McFarland said as he handed the money over.
"Yeah. Thanks for dinner." John slipped the money into his pocket and walked home.
He sat on the floor of his room, leaning against his beg, flipping through the book Bobby had sent, slowly tracing his finger tips over the pictures of the sculptures. Taking a pencil that rolled under his desk, he traced the loops and swirls of glass, his mind etching out his own variations and ideas.
"What are you doing?" John jerked his head up and dropped the pencil into his lap, closing the book quickly. He stood, hearing the pencil roll off, palmed the book into his thigh with the flat of his hand, slowly shifting it to the back of his leg.
"Nothing. Reading a book for school." John's other palm rubbed against the lump in his pocket where his lighter was and John would give anything for the little ember of his cigarette again.
"Lemme see." John felt his shoulders drop and slowly he handed over the book.
"It's for English- it, it ties into one of the books were reading."
"Don't lie to me, St. John Allerdyce."
"I'm not- it does, I can bring you the book from school. Dead set-"
"Don't lie to me! That was your mother's game, remember?" His father was clenching the book tight now, between his hands, starting to bend the thin hard-back cover.
"Really-"
"I told you to stop with this art shit! It's stupid!" His father was ripping pages out of the book now and John reached forward to grab it out of his father's hands.
"Dad please, don't! It's not mine! You can't do that!"
"No, I make the rules, not you! I told you none of this crap! No more acting like a fucking queer! Art is for queers and rich people!" He pushed John back; he fell against his bed and sat there, frozen, watching his father destroy the book. "You will not waste your life on art! You will not! Think you're better than me? Is that it? You think you're better? Think you're going to university? Huh? You're fucking kidding yourself! Do you hear me?! No more art shit! Do you hear me?!"
"Yes." His father threw down the book, a few pages still barely holding on to the empty covers, fluttering to the floor like a moth weighed down with pins.
"Good. Clean this shit up. And if I ever see or hear about this art nonsense or that music crap, so help me God, you'll regret it." John nodded; his eyes not strayed from where his book had fallen to the wood. Slowly, after sitting there for some time, he got up and closed his door, hearing the TV on downstairs. He knelt in front of the torn pages and slowly gathered them into a pile. After checking again his father wasn't coming, he chose the best pieces and the pages that he had liked and seemed able to piece together, he glued them slowly, one by one into his sketchpad. He hid it in his book bag with the others dug deep from the center spot under his mattress, and threw the rest of the book and the ripped pieces of the glass sculptures away.
He opened his window wide and perched himself on the sill, dropping his legs over the side to hang against the house, and had another cigarette from the pack buried in his pocket, taking the tiny ember ball and letting it roll over his knuckles like a coin trick and form a very small sculpture of his own, a boy grinning, holding a snowball in one hand with no gloves or scarf or extra winter covering. He seemed to smile that everything would work out. The lump in John's stomach started to unclench as he felt the fire on the back of his hand, burning slightly the small hairs there.