Part 7—And It's Beginning to Snow

Angel and Mimi sat in Mimi's bedroom—or rather, her segment of the tiny apartment. It was a little bigger than an office cubicle, and contained very little. Mimi's small bed, pushed against the wall, a mirror with stickers on it, a shelf containing books and a little-girlish flowered makeup case. They sat on the little bed, its comforter soft. Angel drummed with his hands on the bed's frame. They sat rather silently.

Angel wanted to tell Mimi about him. He hadn't told anyone, ever, not even his mother. But he and Mimi had made such good friends over the last two weeks, since he'd met her. She had such a fire in her; he'd loved that immediately. There was no reason he shouldn't tell her; she'd already been okay when he told her he was gay. If she wasn't okay with this, he couldn't be her friend at all. It was better now than later.

"Mimi, chica?"

"Yeh?"

"I…you know I'm gay, right?"

"Yes, honey, you told me."

"Well, there's a bit more."

"Yes?" Silence. "Angel, honey, you can tell me anything."

"I…I want to be a girl," Angel told her. "I had that lipgloss, remember?"

"Yes…" Mimi seemed unfazed. Angel took heart and kept going.

"It wasn't for Mami, it was for me. I go to the stores and try the makeup samples. I try on wigs in costume stores. I…I'm pretty as a girl."

Mimi hugged her friend tightly. "I'm glad you told me, Angel." She let him go. "Would you like me to make you up?"

"I'd love it, Mimi," Angel whispered. A huge weight was off his shoulders now.

Mimi left the bed and bustled over to her shelf, where she plucked her makeup kit from its resting place and zipped it open. She rooted around in it and pulled out a few little cases.

"Okay, Angel. C'mere."

Angel was mesmerized as the younger girl snapped the case open and methodically rubbed the little brush over the colored rectangle. She smeared a brown around his face ("to take the shine away," she said) before dusting his cheeks with blush. After studying for a moment, she selected a palate of eyeshadow and applied a few coats to Angel's delicate eyelids. For good measure, she put mascara on his wispy lashes.

"Didja bring your own gloss?"

Angel nodded and held up a LipSmacker.

"Oh, that won't go. Here." She pulled out lipstick—real, beautiful red lipstick—and uncased it like a knight unsheathing a sword.

"This is new stuff; I haven't used it yet. It can be yours."

Angel told himself not to cry at his friend's generosity. Don't smear all this lovely makeup.

The lipstick tickled as it went on. Angel's lips were full and pouty. Mimi recapped the lipstick and handed it to Angel, who accepted it wordlessly. Mimi added a tickly trickle of liquid eyeliner to finish up before declaring him "beautiful." The word rang in Angel's head before he stood to face Mimi's mirror.

His throat caught. He had to reach out and touch his reflection, to make sure it wasn't a mirage; that it wouldn't melt in his hand. It was amazing. "Mimi, you are a genius," he whispered.

"Angel…wow." The two stared silently at the face in the mirror before Mimi became the businesslike costume artist once again. "You need clothes. You're small; you can use some of mine."

She pulled two drawers from under her bed. She rooted in them before selecting a flowered skirt and a burgundy crossover sweater. "This goes under it," she said as Angel picked up the sweater, tossing him a white t-shirt. "I'll go, and you change."

She shut the door as she left, and Angel, shaking, shed his jeans and his too-big shirt. He pulled on the skirt awkwardly over his bony knees and tossed the t-shirt on, the sweater following on top. "Mimi, I'm done," he called. He couldn't look at the mirror without her.

She came in and looked at him, wide-eyed. "Angel…"

"Does it look that ridiculous? I'm sorry; I'll take them off right now." Angel blushed through his makeup.

"Oh, honey, no…" Mimi was speechless. "It's gorgeous. You are…you are really beautiful."

Angel turned and looked. He couldn't breathe. The colors picked out red in his cheeks and brown in his eyes. He wanted to hug his reflection, kiss it, jump up and down and scream. Instead he stood on the spot and shook.

A beep from the pile of clothes he'd shed brought him quickly back to earth. "Oh, God!" he yelled. "Mimi, I have to go!" She left the room, and he shed the beautiful clothes quickly, tossing them at the door, and replacing his own clothes. The beeper continued to make its dreadful sound.

"Take the clothes, Angel!" Angel grabbed up the clothes.

"Thank you," he whispered, and ran with all his might back to his own apartment.

"Mama, I got your beep, Mama, are you okay?" His mother lay on the bed, coated in all the blankets and clothes they had.

They didn't know what was wrong. A few years ago she'd begun to get sick more and more, worse and worse. And now she'd picked up the cold from hell. She ran a high fever and coughed as though her throat was being scraped out. Last week she'd finally left her ill-paying job, and lay in bed. Angel only briefly left her side, and was summoned back by the beep. He was the only one who could do anything for her; they certainly couldn't pay a doctor.

"Angelo mio," she whispered, and Angel's heart twisted. Angelo mio: angel of mine.

"Mama, do you need to eat?" There was no food and he knew it, but he'd find her some if it was the last thing he did.

"Angelo, no puedo comer."

"Of course you can eat, Mama."

"No…Angelo, mirame."

He looked at her. She reverted to broken English.

"I love you, Dumott, and you know it. I shiver here in this filthy room, and I know I no may get up off this bed."
"Mother, don't say that, Mama, please…" Angel looked down. His mother weakly cupped his cheeks and made him face her.

"I need you to be strong, Angelo mio. I need you to be my little man."

Little man. That was it. He had to lie to his mother now.

"Yes, Mama, of course, I will be your little man."

"Good," his mother said. She laid her head back and fell asleep.

Angel sat up with his mother all night, refusing to cry. He could see she was near death. She wasn't the first to die in this slum of a building. Whatever had weakened her would take its toll soon.

In the morning she awoke and cradled him gently. Then the tears fell. They burned on her hot arms.

"Angelo," she whispered late the following night, and he looked up from his vigil—he thought she'd been asleep.

"Mama?"

"Play for me. Only you can make me happy."

A lump swelled in his throat. He knew what was coming. He took the plastic tub from beside her bed and flipped it upside down, and the discarded chopsticks from a Chinese place. He laid the sticks on top of the tub and began to tap out slowly and quietly, a steady rhythm. A single tear spilled. More came as he crescendoed, whirling faster and faster, vision blurred. The world was a painful swirl of color and sound—the beat of his drum.

When he couldn't go on, when he'd hit one more time, he saw that his mother's labored breathing had ceased.

He laid a kiss on her cooling forehead and covered her with the blanket. He then rose and crossed to the doorway, and stood there, with only his tub, his sticks, and the outfit from Mimi.

Then he turned and ran, wherever he could. He'd have to go on his own now, armed with little education and only one friend. His mother was gone, and his father had left a long time ago.

He went down to the super to let him know that his mother was gone. That was all he said. He didn't want to deal with the fake sympathy, or the questions. He just left.

I'll have to earn a living somehow, but I have nowhere to go now. Mimi, Mimi might help him, he could find a job and pay some sort of rent to them…

He couldn't think anymore. He sat on the curb and watched a man with a squeegee almost get run over. He shivered in the cold, knowing he'd have to utterly reinvent his life. And then it hit him. If he were going to reinvent, he might as well really reinvent.

I can be a she. A girl. Finally. I have the clothes now. I can be…I'll be Angel Dumott Schunard. And…he picked up the drum and started to play again. He didn't mind the cold. People passed by him, and, when he finished, he was surprised to see a few quarters on his drum.

It's a start, Miss Schunard, he thought, and couldn't help but grin through his misery.

He picked up his drum again and turned to go back to Mimi's.

It was a few minutes before he realized that the first flakes spiraled around him.

I'm sorry it's so short! Don't kill me! I had lots of work and you do want my holiday chapter. I hope to have it on Christmas (in my fantasy world) but it'll probably be a day or two after.