XXV
Heaven help me, this is it. I’ve fallen in love.
And I’m a new woman because of it. Suddenly this skittish little drag queen has been transformed into a sultry woman of substance. From crusty gargoyle to blushing bride. From Queen of the Pig People to Fairy Princess.
And that’s a long road to travel.
I’ve never felt like this before.
Whenever I’m near him, I’m on the verge of some great emotion. I cry easily; I’m quick to laugh. It’s like being at a very high altitude—the blood thins; the pulse quickens—sometimes I can’t quite breathe right. What if he thinks I’m stupid? What if I have bad breath? What if, what if, what if . . .
But then I see him in class; I quickly turn and take a peek. Sometimes he catches me and, miraculously, smiles, and I start to tingle all over. My blood is happy; my bones are happy; in fact, my whole body is happy. My feet start tap-tap-tapping to the mambo beat in my head. My heart, once dry and shriveled from lack of use, is now big and wet and doing flip-flops inside my rib cage.
And now—behold!
I have his picture from last year’s yearbook! There he is! Now I can stare at him without fear of being caught.
Just look:
Flip Kelly—pride of the Fighting Manatees! The Most Beautiful Boy in the World!
Superstar/quarterback/all-around golden boy.
Bambi-eyed pretty-boy/surf-punk/he-hunk.
A dewy, chewy, girly-gooey, moist and oozy sex god.
A hot and heaving hump muffin.
The Prince of Pouts. Duke of Drool. Man of a thousand sighs.
Blonder than blond. With the face of God. Or maybe Speed Racer.
He’s a double dreamboat deluxe.
“Flip!” Consider the name: pre-ironic, neo-nostalgic, retro-golly gee . . . impossibly wholesome . . . impossibly good-natured . . . destined for dreaminess . . .
“Flip!” Sing it. Sigh it. Whisper it. Oh, Flip! Flip!
Have I mentioned yet how beautiful he is?
I’m not sure you get it.
Look! Look!
White-blond hair, like Icelandic royalty.
And such killer bangs.
Bright green eyes, like kryptonite.
And have you ever seen such lips? Like two night crawlers.
And that nibbly little nut of a nose.
And his skin, white, like arsenic.
Truly a legendary beauty. Someday there will be songs about him.
He sits in the back row with the other Fighting Manatees—with them, but not one of them. That much I know.
He glows with inner goodness. A saint among Satanists. No, he does not participate in their Billy-bashing games. I know that. Whenever things get out of hand, and I have no choice but to turn to face my attackers, well, that always seems to be just when he looks up, too—surprised at the commotion. He looks up, smiles sweetly, as if noticing me for the first time, then goes back to work, unbothered by the great apes that surround him.
Of course, he smiles at everybody—he’s not stingy with them. Regular smile slut, he is. But WHAT A SMILE! He is happy to spread the love, and I’m happy to bask in the glow. Why, it almost makes the protractor stabbings and the spit balls worthwhile!
(Um . . . not really.)
Oh, he’s just the most magnificent boy EVER. So handsome. So wonderful.
I love him.
I do.