inside

  From Russell’s front door, you can see the back door. There’s no hallway, just one door leading into the next room, leading into the next room. The living room, the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom, and the back room. Russell says it’s called a shotgun layout.

  When I asked why it was called that, he said, “That way if you stand at the front door, you could shoot someone in the back room.”

  I asked, “Who’s shooting people from the front door?”

  Russell shrugged. “That’s just what it’s called.”

  It made me laugh.

  Though, right now? I don’t feel like laughing. I want to go outside. But I’m stuck waiting by Russell’s phone.

  Any minute, someone could call and offer me a job interview. Or even better, a job. I want to be here to answer when they do. I’m getting desperate. I need work. All I need is one employer to call me back.

  Just one.

  I clean Russell’s house. I dust every surface. I vacuum the wooden floor and use the tube to get the corners and under the furniture. I wipe the counters and make sure the kitchen sink is empty of dishes. I even clean the bathroom. Shower, sink, toilet. All the while listening for the phone. Finally, I sit on Russell’s futon. Waiting.

  The house felt so big the first week I was here. The high ceilings. The tall windows. The shotgun layout. Russell’s presence.

  But when Russell’s at work, I feel like the last person in the world. Like nothing outside exists. No cities. No people. Just this one house. A prison cell.

  As I sit here, the ceiling feels lower. The living room walls seem to lean in. I want to open a window, but Russell asked me to keep them all closed, to keep the sunlight and the heat out. Still, the AC struggles to combat the humidity. And with the windows closed, the front rooms are dark. The bedroom is darker. And the back room, windowless, the darkest. The shotgun layout reminds me of a tunnel, leading farther and farther into a well of night.

  I turn on the TV. I flip channels for a while. Watching bits and parts of daytime talk shows, soap operas, and the news. Finally, I settle on MTV. They’re playing a marathon of The Real World: Miami. “This is the true story of seven strangers, picked to live in a house . . .”

  Seven young men and women, some only a little older than me, chose to leave the comfort of their homes and go to a new house. Just like me. Except they weren’t forced to do it. They moved for fun. To get on TV. To be famous. Me? No one knows who I am. No one except Russell.

  It dawns on me that he’s the only person I know in this whole city. In Alabama I knew dozens of people, mostly coworkers, but still. In Texas I went to a school of two thousand. I wasn’t popular or anything, but I knew a lot of people. I had neighbors. I had family. Even if they were awful. I still had people.

  Here . . . no one would know if something bad happened

  to me.

  An ache starts to crawl through my body. It starts behind my shoulders, in the center of my upper back. It’s just a flutter, not of pain, exactly, but not not pain. It’s something else. Like stress, only it hurts more.

  Soon it’s contagious. Catching in my other muscles. Even the flesh beneath my skin starts to gnaw at me. I try rubbing my arms, legs, shoulders. It doesn’t help. I have to stop myself from grinding my teeth. My whole body throbs, from toe to head. Like something is washing through it, some biological panic.

  I’m so angry and scared, I want to fight, I want to run. But who would I battle? Where would I go? I need to wait here. By the phone. Just in case . . .

  But it dawns on me, I have to move. It’s worse if I just sit here.

  So I force myself to stand. And I pace. The light-colored wood creaks underfoot as I walk the length of the living room. I put one foot in front of the other, trying to perfectly line up heel to toe. I count as I cross the room. Then I turn around and do it again. And again. As if the outcome will change.

  It doesn’t.

  I keep pacing, counting, breathing, until the ache lessens. It doesn’t go away. It’s just not as bad. Like I remembered myself.

  At the front window, I peek outside. There’s a few feet of grass and flowers, and then the street lined with trees. Across the road is a row of buildings. Some are more long shotgun homes, the others are full-on houses. One is a two-story. It doesn’t look well kept, but not quite falling apart yet. Painted white, with black trim. Vines overgrow one side, clinging to the wall, the way babies cling to their parents. I wish that I were a baby again. That someone would take care of me. That I could start over. But I can’t.

  This is my life now.

  Waiting in a dark house, staring at a phone, trying to will it to ring.

  It doesn’t.

  circles

  When Russell walks into the kitchen, I look up from my cereal bowl and say, “There’s my sexy man in uniform.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I would whistle at you, but I don’t know how.”

  “Baby doesn’t know how to whistle?” Russell hugs me, and whistles in my ear, then he starts kissing my neck up and down. I start to unbuckle his belt, but he pushes my hands away. “I want to, trust me, but that would make me late for work. Again.”

  “You didn’t mind being late yesterday.”

  “My boss sure did.”

  “Fine,” I say, backing off. “I’ll behave.”

  Russell takes me in, surveying me toe to head. “Damn, kid. You’re killing me.” He plants his lips on mine. Then says, “Oh yeah, I have something for you.”

  “You do?”

  Russell hands me a thick Sunday newspaper. “I know the job search isn’t panning out, so I thought you could check out the Employment section. Maybe there’s something there.”

  I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. It makes me feel stupid and guilty at the same time. I kiss Russell and say, “Thanks.”

  “Maybe you can get a job as a secretary.” He raises his eyebrows. “Or a sex phone operator.”

  “Har har,” I say.

  Russell barks at me. I can’t help but laugh.

  But as the door closes after him, like every day lately, my mood drops. When he leaves, it’s like the sun goes out of the room, and I’m left behind, alone in my head with my dangerous thoughts. I keep replaying my last days in Alabama. I keep considering the uncertainty of the future. I worry that I won’t get a job. That Russell will tire of me, get sick of me. That he’ll tell me to leave. Then where will I go?

  No, I can’t think about that.

  I fish around in the miscellaneous drawer in the kitchen until I find a red pen. Then I lay out the newspaper on the floor. I read over the descriptions, circling job after job that I think I could do. But they want résumés, which I don’t have. They want someone with work attire, which I don’t have. They want years of job experience, which I don’t have.

  It takes every ounce of restraint not to crumple up the newspaper and throw it across the room.

  The ache starts to well up inside me again. My head swims with pain. My stomach twists over and over. It’s just stress, I tell myself. But it’s not just that. Every time I think of my intended plan, it feels impossible. I need a job. I need my own place. I need to get back into school. The more my thoughts spiral, the more it feels like a weight is crushing me.

  Like my body has some terrible warning system, and it’s trying to warn me that everything is falling apart.

  No. I shake my head. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.

  It has to be.

  My skin crawls, and I’m ready to jump out of it. I find myself pacing again, in circles, trying to calm my thoughts. I place my feet down with purpose, stepping heel to toe, heel to toe, as if a controlled walk will give me some control over the rest of my life. But it helps me think.

  Okay, revisit the plan. Maybe I should go to all the places I’ve applied for jobs and remind them about me. Maybe they’ll appreciate my persistence. Or maybe it will annoy them. Maybe I should skip a step and go to a local college campus and see if I can apply for late admission. Maybe I should turn around and go back to Alabama.

  No. I’m not doing that. I won’t bow down to my father. I refuse.

  And Russell’s here. I don’t want to leave him. He’s the only thing in my life that feels right.

  But I need help.

  I think of my abuela. She’s always been there for me. She knows what it’s like to do without. She came from Mexico, born into poverty. She crossed the border into Texas to clean houses and save up money. She met my grandfather, married, and had five children, before her husband died in Vietnam. Once again, she found herself with next to nothing. She took a risk, moved her family from Kansas to Texas, where she found a community at both church and Abilene Christian University.

  But I don’t have a faith to lean into. I wish I did. I just don’t believe in god. I mean, I don’t think there’s some old man with a big beard sitting up on a golden throne in the clouds, condemning people to hell or sending them up to heaven. But every time I think of religion, I think back to going to church with Abuela. Driving up to her church, we could see a huge sign that read gay is sin, and sin is an affront to god. And the sermon called out Leviticus 18:22, saying a man lying with another man was an abomination. The pastor went on to say those who were gay would burn in hell. Their immortal souls condemned to suffer. For eternity.

  I find myself wondering, Maybe there is a god. Maybe he is punishing me. Maybe he has a terrible fate in store for me for making the choice I did. Maybe I should have caved. Maybe my dad was right.

  No.

  I can’t accept that. I refuse to go back. I refuse to beg for help.

  I just wish I didn’t feel so lost right now.

  There’s always been one person I could talk to, who would make me feel better, my whole life she was there for me. Maybe if I just heard her voice it would make me feel better. I don’t have to tell her anything. I could just call . . .

  I pick up the phone, and I stare at it for a long time.

  I know her number by heart.

  I dial.

  The phone rings. Rings again. And again.

  Her answering machine finally picks up.

  But I can’t bring myself to leave a message. What would I even say? “I’m gay. I’m homeless. I’m scared.” I can’t do it. I think of all the Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights she spends at her church. She loves her religion, and her god. And in their eyes, gay is wrong. It’s a sin. And I don’t want Abuela to look at me and see a demon.

  I don’t want her to see me that way.

  So I hang up.

  Outside the window is the rest of the world. The pastel houses and the colorful folks who live inside them. Farther down the streets, tourists take in the sights, locals leave their jobs to go to lunch. And here I am, locked inside like Rapunzel. Except no one locked me away. This is a self-imposed exile, while I try to save every dime, try to find a job, try not to feel desperately alone.

  I miss my stepsister. I miss watching TV with her. Going to the movies. Laughing at our parents behind their backs.

  The clock on the wall says it’s only three in the afternoon. My dad should be at work. Mona too. But Rebecca should be home.

  I dial the number

  She says, “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Rex?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh my god. Are you okay?!”

  I don’t even know how to answer that. Physically, I’m fine. Except for the ache inside me that won’t go away except when I’m with Russell. Mentally, I’m exhausted, and terrified. Spiritually? It feels like I’ve fallen away from my life. Like I’m lost.

  “Rex, are you there? Tell me you’re okay.”

  “I’m here,” I whisper. Sniffling.

  Then I’m crying.

  Then my sister is crying with me.

  vampires

  Russell and I are walking down Coliseum Street to go to dinner.

  His shoulder bumps into my shoulder playfully. His fingers tickle mine as they swing by. He glances over often to bark at me. After long days alone inside, it feels good to be outside with Russell, taking in the open night sky.

  Passing a cemetery, I can’t help but notice how haunting it is, yet so beautiful at the same time. It’s like a small city of markers and tombs made of marble and concrete, dirtied by centuries of weather and lack of care.

  I ask, “Why are all the graves aboveground?”

  “To prevent coffins from rising out of the dirt when it’s too wet,” Russell says. “The water table is too high in N’awlins, so nothing buried stays underground for long. Things float to the top.”

  I shiver at the thought of no longer living. I don’t want to spend eternity in a box, below- or aboveground. I ask, “You ever wanted to be a vampire?”

  “No way,” Russell says. “The sight of blood makes me queasy.”

  “So why do you order your burgers so rare?”

  “That’s different. Those are cows. I’m talking human blood.”

  “I don’t care. I want to be a vampire.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can live forever. So I can’t be hurt anymore.”

  “Won’t it hurt when people you love die?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Plus, there’s the whole-stake-through-the-heart-and-sword-to-chop-off-your-head stuff.”

  “True. But I’ll keep a low profile, and I’ll only drink animal blood. I won’t hurt actual people.”

  “You say that now . . . but I’ve seen your bloodlust. Well, your lust for me anyways. You wouldn’t be able to resist biting me.”

  I play-push Russell.

  “Is that why you read all those lady books?” Russell asks.

  “What lady books?”

  “Anne Rice.”

  “Those aren’t lady books.”

  “If you say so,” Russell says. Then adds, “You been to her house yet?”

  “Her house?”

  “Yeah. She lives in the Garden District, not far from here. They have tours that go through her place.”

  I go light-headed. I’ve always wanted to meet her. But now my mind races with the idea of going on the tour, of meeting her in the flesh, of her being drawn to me cause we’re kindred souls. Our eyes would lock, and we’d be drawn together like two magnets, like two characters from one of her books. Then she would ask me to come live with her, ask if she could adopt me as her own. It’s so unlikely, but I can’t shake the fantasy of having a new family.

  * * *

  The next day, I put on khaki shorts and my favorite shirt. I’m giddy with excitement, that today might be the day I meet Anne Rice. And the fantasy of her adopting me feels real. It feels possible. Like there’s a reason for everything, and this is why the universe brought me to New Orleans. To start new with a mother who I adore and loves me in return.

  I step outside, take a breath of the fresh air, and stride toward a home I’ve only dreamt of . . . the house on 1314 Napoleon Avenue.

  When I see the exterior for the first time, there is a pull in my soul. Both unsteady and steadfast, I move closer. A wrought-iron gate separates the three-story home from the street. Taking up an entire city block, the building is red brick on either side, but painted white at the center, with black shutters and eight columns. I remember a young Deirdre fleeing to this house in Anne Rice’s Mayfair Witches series. A sign over the door reads st. elizabeth’s, to match the name on the Historic Landmark plaque stating that this used to be an orphanage for children.

  The burly tour guide welcomes the small crowd. He says the cost of the tour is ten dollars. Even with so little money left, I hand over the cash without hesitation. I am ready to go inside.

  Two stone angels stand on either side of the stairs, as if welcoming me to a safe haven. The front porch’s Corinthian columns guard bare brick walls, elegant draperies, mirrors, and chandeliers. In the entry, we pass an old Victrola record player and a Saint Elizabeth statue. Soon after, I walk through a library overflowing with books. Antiques and artwork populate every room, including one that houses a massive collection of hundreds of dolls, whose eyes seem to stare back. Stained-glass windows illuminate a chapel with a wooden dance floor for balls.

  Any moment I expect to turn the corner and run into Anne Rice herself. That is, until the tour guide informs us that the famous author actually resides in her other home on First Street.

  My soul feels crushed. However unlikely, I honestly thought fate would bring me together with the writer I love so much. That we were destined to meet. That we might be swept up together in some secret world of vampires and witches and immortals that view me as special, unique enough to turn me into one of them.

  But that’s not going to happen now.

  It was silly of me to think so.

  I try not to pout. I try to stay in the present and appreciate all the magic of this house, but I can’t focus. I can’t shake the thought that the universe is purposely working against me. Cause I am unable to get out of my own head, the tour is over too fast.

  After, I find myself standing outside, staring back at one of Anne Rice’s two homes, wishing that I just had one.

  dancing

  I’m standing awkwardly in the corner, taking sips of ginger ale. Russell is on the dance floor, waving me over. I motion that I’m fine where I am.

  Thump thump thump. The bass of the music drums through my whole body, punishing my ears. The darkness of the club is split up by rays of light. Red, green, white flashes off the disco ball until a strobe takes effect. The hiss of a smoke machine goes off, and puffs of white waft over the crowd before sinking to the floor. Across the dance floor, a sea of shirtless men undulate and rock side to side like trees swept up in a storm. They kick their feet and punch the air to the rhythm of the beat. It’s tribal and beautiful.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20