Study break, p.8
Study Break, page 8
I look down at the bedspread, which I’m only just now realizing is Rugrats themed. I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t, but then I hear myself say, “Okay. Well. My parents hate that I’m an architecture major, and every week one of them calls to tell me I’m throwing away my life and career. I don’t know why, because neither of them has a stable job and I’m paying for school myself.” I lie back against the bed so that I’m saying this not to Cal, but to the poster of Selena Gomez looming above. “And my dad is definitely clinically depressed and seeing a therapist, but my mom keeps pretending it isn’t happening, and so he, like, performatively lies and says he’s going to play tennis with his friend every Thursday, even though we all know his gym membership expired.” I turn back to Cal. “Does that earn me admission?”
“Okay, yes, that passes.” They lean in closer. “We love a parent who pretends they aren’t mentally ill. Such a classic story. My mom was like that for a while when I was a kid, but she sort of came to her senses by middle school and forced not just herself but all of us to see a regular therapist. It was actually good, I think. Probably why I’m so, you know”—they gesture at their outfit, which is far too small for them and reveals several inches of their stomach—“well-adjusted.”
I laugh. “A well-adjusted queer. Iconic, really.”
“So your parents don’t know,” they say. “About, you know.”
“God no. It was a whole fight to get SSRIs. Layer on homosexuality, and I think they might actually drive down here and kidnap me.”
“Down here?” they say. “Are you from the city?”
“I wish.”
“Ah. A country boy?”
“Hardly a boy.” I’m surprised I actually say it out loud.
“Ah,” Cal says, “I know about that. You’re beautiful, you know.”
They reach out a hand and glide their fingers across my cheek, so softly, before letting them dangle on the edge of the bed, just to the side of my eyes. I don’t flinch.
“Glad someone thinks so.” I’m pretty sure now my cheeks are actually red, because even the alcohol can’t bottle up the sense of nervous excitement brewing inside me. They’re totally hitting on me, right? On one hand: This—calling a person beautiful and then caressing their cheek—feels like totally unsubtle flirtation. On the other: There’s something about the ease with which Cal moves that makes me think this is, somehow, the kind of thing they do with all of their acquaintances.
“Have you ever done your makeup?” they say. “I think you’d look really good in eyeshadow. I’m thinking gold, maybe.”
“Ugh, I’ve tried.” I think back to Ivy’s makeup bag, currently sitting in my room. Last time she left it there, I messed around with her eyeshadows for about twenty minutes in the bathroom. I turned on the shower so my roommate wouldn’t know. “I always look vaguely like I’m auditioning to play a clown.”
“We can fix that.” They pump their leg and send their chair gliding across the room. I watch, back still flat across the bed, as they rummage through a Ziploc bag on the bottom shelf of their dresser, pulling out and inspecting a series of eyeliners and lipsticks and eyeshadow palettes. There must be at least three dozen items in there, the kind of collection that you really only accumulate after years of visits to Sephora. I wish I was like that—the friend who just has a bunch of makeup, or shimmery clothes or whatever it is, to give out to anyone who visits their room.
Cal seizes on something—I watch their eyes light up as they hold up an eyeliner. Purple, maybe. Then, with another pump, they’re leaning over me again. “Okay, eyes closed.”
I look up at them, watch their eyes scan my face. I like being looked at that way—studied, I mean. That sensation when someone isn’t just staring at one part of you, but sorting through all of it, because they think there’s something in your features worth uncovering.
“Closing my eyes in a stranger’s room seems like a recipe for disaster,” I say. “I don’t know that I trust you enough.”
“Yes, you do,” they say, and of course they’re right: Somehow, I know they aren’t going to hurt me.
“Fine.” I let my eyes close. “Don’t tell me you’re the prince who kisses me to wake me from my slumber, though.”
“I’m not going to kiss you,” they say. “Promise.” Which, I have to say, makes my stomach sink a bit too sharply.
Cal’s fingers are on me again, one hand on either side of my face, holding me in place. They lean in—I can tell because of the way their breathing gets louder, the smell of spearmint gum filtering out—and I am deeply aware that their thighs are pressed against mine.
I jump slightly when the eyeliner hits my skin—it’s colder than I expected, gel. Cal drags it across my eyelids, back and forth, brushstroke after brushstroke. They pause, lean away. I open my eyes, only to catch them looking at me—just standing back and taking me in. When I squeeze my eyes shut again, Cal presses the brush along the rim of my other eyelid.
Around us, I hear the beat change to “Señorita” by Justin Timberlake, followed by a series of muffled whoops. I can hear the faint trace of Pharrell’s ad-libs and a voice singing a little bit louder and a little more off-key than everyone else—I recognize it as Ivy’s.
“When did you start doing your own makeup?” I say to Cal as they switch over to dusting my eyelids with a thicker brush, which I can only assume means eyeshadow.
“Hmm. Halfway through high school, maybe? End of sophomore year.”
“That’s early,” I say.
“Early is relative, I guess. Given the decade that I tried to hide the fact that I was different, I could make a pretty solid case that it was very, very late.”
“Well, you beat me by four years. What made you start?”
“I was just watching so many makeup tutorials on YouTube. And I told everyone I didn’t actually care about the makeup itself, I was just doing it for the ASMR, but I have … had … this friend who knew me better than that. They bought me an eyeshadow palette for my birthday. And I started using it, like, secretly in my bedroom at first, and then also started buying more femme clothes, and it kind of clicked for me that, oh … you know, kind of like you said … oh, I’m not a boy.”
“So it was like that?” I say. “Just a moment where it all came together?”
“I mean, more like a thousand little ones that built up. But yeah, at some point they all kind of collided at once.” They pause, lift the brush off my eyelids. They tilt their head from one side of my cheek to the other, checking to make sure the lines are even. Their eyebrows are narrowed, deep in concentration.
“I don’t know that I’ve had that moment yet,” I say. “It’s more like, most of the time I think the gender options don’t make sense on me. But then sometimes I’m like, I think I’m okay just being a more femme boy. You know?”
They nod as they reach over to grab something else from their makeup bag. “I think for some people the answer to, like, this is my gender is clearer than for others. People don’t really talk about what it’s like not knowing. But I think there’s a process to all these things.” They pause. “Okay, pucker up,” they say. I close my lips, and I watch Cal’s eyes as they trace a tube of pink lipstick along the outlines of my mouth.
“Okay.” Cal pulls back. “Mash your lips a bit to make sure it’s even.” They do a mashing motion with their own lips, and I follow their lead. “I think you’re done,” they say. “My masterwork.”
“Are you sure I have what it takes to count as a masterwork?” It’s my best attempt at a flirty voice.
“Just barely,” they say, “but I think you pass.”
They usher me over to the body-length mirror across the room. When I stand up, it takes a moment to find my balance—okay, truly, fuck this tequila—but I manage to make it over to the mirror without stumbling and making a fool of myself.
I’m surprised how much I like the person looking back at me through the mirror. I feel, like, actually pretty: Cal layered a thick line of purple eyeliner just below some bronze eyeshadow. It burns a little, but not in a painful way. The lipstick is pink, and there’s a dash of highlighter along my cheekbones.
“Not to compliment myself,” they say, “but you look good.” They’re standing just a few inches behind me. They’re taller than me, and they lean in slightly when they say it, so that their lips are almost touching the strands of my hair just above my ear.
I let my gaze drift up, up past my own face, and over to the reflection of Cal’s tall, lanky body. Our eyes meet in the mirror. They lean in and kiss my cheek, holding their lips there for one beat, two beats. A chill races through me. I turn around to kiss them back, kiss them on the lips, kiss them for real, because if there’s any signal that proves that this was not a platonic makeup session it has to be this, right?
But by the time I turn, Cal has slipped across the room, picking up a bottle of water, handing it to me. For just a moment, as they press the water into my hands, their fingers thread through mine. “Keep it,” they say, “and go check on your friend.”
I want to tell them no, Ivy is probably fine, that leaving this place—leaving their room—is the last thing I am prepared to do right now. I want to lean in and kiss them. Tell them, Ask me to stay.
Then I think of how pathetic I would look if it turned out I’d misread the situation. A stupid kid who thought Cal was offering something they weren’t.
Once I take the water bottle, they untangle their fingers from mine. I nod and say, “Yeah, okay, you’re right, I will,” and then I head to the door. I take one last look at them, at their beautiful, glittering face, and whisper, “Thank you,” before slipping back out into the drunken mass.
* * *
I don’t see them the next day.
For brunch, I tell Ivy and our friend Ruby that I want to go to the dining commons at the upperclassman dorms. Before we can use a meal swipe, I look around and realize Cal is not there. So I say, “Sorry, I changed my mind,” and we go to another commons instead. They aren’t there, either.
“Is everything okay?” Ivy says, because she knows I hate eating here. There’s this blue-and-green abstract painting that hangs in the entryway, and every time I look at it, I’m convinced that the collection of spheres is supposed to represent a platypus. And platypuses creep me the fuck out.
“I was just hoping to see someone.”
Ruby waggles her eyebrows. “A lover?”
“No.” Which is technically true. “Just someone I met at the party.” I hold open the doors leading into the dining hall and make a point not to look at that horrible painting. It’s a cavernous room with dark wooden tables and windows that stretch nearly from the ceiling to the floor.
“I’m sorry for leaving you. Literally I just tell myself, okay, I’m going to get us a drink, and then the next thing I know, I’m talking to every person in sight,” Ivy says. “It’s a brain disease.”
“It’s okay.” If it weren’t for Cal, I probably would be more annoyed.
Ruby, who has dealt with Ivy like this almost as many times as I have, says, “You’ve had that brain disease for a while.”
I follow them into the kitchen, barely glancing at the tubs of flabby eggs and half-thawed frozen berries. The whole time, I watch the door for telltale signs of Cal—a pair of black boots, maybe, or some kind of pink jacket, or that familiar buzz cut peeking out through the entryway. Or even one of the suitemates from those photoshopped Pokémon pictures in front of their door, because at least then that would mean Cal might be nearby.
“Quinn,” Ivy says once we’ve sat down, and I’m absently twirling my spoon through a bowl of berries and Greek yogurt. “Who are you looking for?” She gestures to the entrance to the dining hall. Then she cocks her head to the side. “A crush?” And when my cheeks start to heat—barely a prick, but enough that Ivy, for one, can sense it—she grins at me. “Shiiiit.”
“They did my makeup,” I say, like it’s an answer. “Last night. It was just really nice.”
“Okay.” I can tell she’s watching me, trying to pry apart my words for subtext. I watch the throng of people pushing into the dining hall. I’m afraid if I look at Ivy too closely I’ll give myself away. Ivy must know something about my gender, but we’ve never discussed it outright. I’m not sure I’m ready to now. Even the fact that she saw me last night, in full makeup, still makes me queasy to remember.
“You looked good like that, you know,” Ivy says. “I was thinking about it the whole time we walked home, but I was drunk and I’m not sure if I actually said it. All those extra sparkles, you absolutely pull them off. We should go shopping for some makeup. All three of us. I mean, if you want.”
“Yeah, I’d like that,” I say. “Okay, so that aside. Tell me about your night.”
I try my best to listen as she unspools a story about how she made out with her friend’s friend’s writing tutor, then immediately found out that the tutor has a boyfriend, but in truth, as Ivy talks, I keep looking back at the door, just in case Cal walks through.
* * *
Later that week, I am sitting with Ivy and a bunch of her econ friends at Aesop’s Café.
I know I’m getting drunk because I’m a little louder than usual, interjecting in places I normally wouldn’t.
After a while, as the conversation drifts to the topic of Christine Quinn in Selling Sunset, I pull out my phone and type—like I have maybe ten different times this week—Cal’s name into Instagram, TikTok, and Facebook. I’ve tried every spelling variation of their first and last name, even though I’m pretty sure there are only so many ways to spell Cal, just in case they didn’t want to use their actual government or it wasn’t available as a username. But Cal seems to be totally off the grid. There isn’t anyone with that name who has mutual followers and friends with me.
Yesterday I finally gave in, walked back over to the suite, and quickly copied down the names of all of the residents listed out front before someone caught me. Cal’s name is there, but since Cal is very much not online, I figured it’s time to move on to their friends to see what else I can learn. Yes, fine, it’s a creep move, but I did look them all up on Instagram, hoping they might have tagged Cal in something. I found photos of Cal—posing in front of a cup of soft serve or on top of a boulder—but never with a tag.
At some point during this conversation, I stand up and announce I’m going to get pizza for the table. Ivy shoots me a quizzical look—like, Are you okay? Do you want to get out of here? I think because she is overcompensating for ditching me last weekend—and I give a quick thumbs-up before walking over to the cash register.
The way Aesop’s Café is set up, there’s no wall between the front counter and the kitchen, and you can see the cooks flipping burgers or heating pizzas or falafel in the oven. I order pizza for our table, and when I tap my student ID card to pay, I glance over at the kitchen, just to see if I know anyone on shift.
In the back, I see them. Dressed in a white apron, spatula in hand, laughing about something to the person next to them. At first I think I’m hallucinating. But then I watch them shuttle a packet of falafel from the freezer to the fry pan, watch the ease with which they weave between the other employees, and when they turn to talk to someone, I catch a flash of glitter streaked along their cheek.
I don’t know what compels me to do it, but I shout their name. And of course—nothing.
So I do it again. “Cal, it’s me!”
This time, their ears perk up, and I watch Cal turn. I can sense other people looking at me, but I don’t care. When Cal’s gaze settles on me, they grin. They wave. Nice to see you, I think they say.
For a moment, it feels like vindication: They’re happy to see me. So I wasn’t imaging the connection. Now they’re going to walk over, and I can ask them if they want to go get dinner with me sometime, and then I can actually tell them how I feel.
Instead, they gesture at the falafel, as if say, I have to work.
I nod a little too vigorously, because, right, maybe their manager is strict and they can’t leave their shift to talk to me even for a few minutes. What a monster I would have to be to interrupt the vital role of the fry cook on a Friday night. So I gesture over to the table where I’m sitting, which I hope says, Come get me later, and Cal nods.
Except they don’t come get me. I pick up my pizza, I sit down, and I keep talking to Ivy and co., glancing back every few minutes to watch Cal work.
Eventually, I don’t see them in the kitchen. I whip my head around the room, suddenly frantic, because they must be looking for me and I didn’t even notice. The place is so crowded, groups of drunk kids crowding around bar chairs and spilling onto the pool tables. It takes me a few seconds to locate Cal: standing in the doorway, phone clutched to their ear.
I try to meet their gaze, give a wave. When they don’t notice, I look down at my phone to see if maybe they’re calling me. Then I remember we don’t have each other’s number. A second later, I see Cal walking up to a curly haired girl, hugging her and laughing. I watch, nausea sinking in, as the two of them slip through the doorway and disappear into the night. Cal didn’t even remember to come say hi to me at all.
I slump into my seat. I’m at the point of intoxication where it’s not that fun anymore, where my head hurts and I realize just how dehydrated I am. I mumble something about going to get water and stumble over to the bathroom. My plan is to cry a bit, but before I can lock the bathroom door, Ivy’s standing in the doorway.
“You don’t look good,” she says.
I don’t argue. I gesture for her to come inside. I sit on the toilet, and she crouches down next to me. “I just thought they were into me,” I say, looking at the white tile floor instead of at her. “The person from Saturday night, I mean. I don’t know. I’m being stupid. I just thought we had a connection.”
“What’s telling you that you didn’t?” Ivy places her hand on the back of mine. “Maybe they were busy, or meeting someone. Or, like—I don’t know. Even if they don’t like you in the way you think, I’ve never seen you invested in a person like this. Clearly there was some real feeling there.”
