“How’s the fit?” Denise asks the door.
I really like Denise, maybe even more than I like Dr. L. She’s super smart, but not the kind of smart that demands to be acknowledged: more the kind of smart that makes you want to bask in her knowledge in the hopes of absorbing it via photosynthesis. She’s got porcelain skin, hazel eyes, deep dimples, and hair that would probably be curly if it wasn’t buzzed short. She’s in a black Foo Fighters T-shirt that stretches across her big boobs and bigger belly.
Behind the door, Liam says something I can’t make out. We’re in the dressing room, backstage left. Racks and racks of costumes line one wall; a row of mirrors and lights line the other. Two doors lead to the actual changing rooms.
Denise bites her lip. “Well, come on out and we’ll take a look. It’s just me and Jackson here. If you’re comfortable with that.”
The door swings open. Liam steps out, and I have to try really hard to not let my jaw drop.
Dr. Lochley’s going for a sort of vaguely-apocalyptic post-modern vibe for the show, so people are in distressed jeans and tank tops and T-shirts. Liam’s in a pair of low-slung black jeans with the right knee ripped. And that’s it.
My mouth goes dry.
I’ve seen him shirtless before, in a Speedo no less, but that was with the whole Natatorium between us. Not close enough to touch.
He’s too tall, taking up all the space and all the air in the dressing room. His chest is the same alabaster as his face, though it looks carved, his pecs firm and strong, rising and falling with his breath. The cords of his neck slope gently into strong shoulders. The warm overhead lights turn his abs into a valley of shadows. The jeans are low enough to show the V leading from his hips to his crotch lower waist.
“Are these okay?” He tries to catch my eye, but I look at his knees instead.
I’ve lost all power of speech, but thankfully Denise speaks up.
“Turn around. Let’s see the fit.”
Liam does so, and I can see exactly what years of swimming have done to his back, because it’s Dorito-shaped, with little dimples at the bottom of his spine.
Right above the flattest ass I have ever seen in my life. I’ve never had a close-up look before. Despite what swimming has done for his back, it hasn’t done anything for his ass.
Denise steps closer to him, which is a relief, because then she can’t see me readjust my pants blushing.
“Are you okay if I touch your waistband?” Denise asks.
Liam looks over his shoulder, and this time he catches me studying him. My face burns hotter.
“Sure.”
Denise grabs the belt loops and tugs them up. The jeans rise three inches, exposing his ankles and probably giving him a wedgie from the way he flinches. She turns, pulls down another pair off the rack. “Try these instead?”
Liam nods and heads back into the changing room. I remember that I have lungs and start breathing again, willing my heart to beat normally and keep blood flowing to my brain and nowhere else.
Because he’s absolutely, 100 percent off-limits. He and Jasmine like each other, even if they’re still doing this weird dance around the issue. But damn.
“Jackson?”
“Huh?”
“Can you stay here in case Liam needs anything? I’ve got to check on the scene shop.”
“I can check—”
But she’s already on her way out. There’s a bunch of Theatre I students getting their volunteer hours by helping clean out the scene shop.
I cross my arms and pace, until the door cracks. Liam pokes his head out.
“Where’d Denise go?”
“Scene shop.”
“Oh.” Liam’s face turns a bit red. “These don’t work.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
Liam opens the door a bit wider to show me. Despite him having an ass flat as the Kansas prairie, the jeans won’t go up past his thighs. He’s in a pair of black boxer-briefs, and though the ass is flat, the front is definitely not. The image is seared into my brain; even when I blink I see it. I keep my eyes fixed on his face.
“Oh. Yeah. Let me look through and see. It’s funny, you know, sometimes the costumes get mislabeled or just organized wrong. I guess I need to do a proper sorting, but that’ll have to wait until we’re through with the show. Maybe that’ll be my winter project, especially going into the spring play, you know, just to make sure everything’s in good shape.” I realize I’m rambling and clamp my mouth shut, digging until I find a better pair of jeans.
“Try these.” My mouth tastes like I’ve licked a fire curtain.
“Thanks.”
He takes them with one hand, and reaches behind me to tuck in my tag with the other, and I stifle a squeak, because I hate it when he does that.
Except I don’t hate it. No matter how much I lie to myself, the truth is, I like it. I like him.
I like Liam.
“You okay?” he fingerspells. It’s still weird, seeing him do it. I guess he and Bowie had a few more lessons this past week, though, because he’s a little more fluid and confident with it.
But it snaps me out of my panic.
“I’m fine.” Even I can tell my voice sounds weird. “I’m thirsty. You need any water?”
He already drank the shmoodie I brought him. Frozen blueberries and vanilla Greek yogurt. There was no more fresh fruit: Dad wasn’t back from City Market by the time Amy had to drop me off for our Saturday work day.
“I’m good,” he says. Then he signs, “Thanks,” and disappears behind the door.
Once we finally find the right jeans for Liam, I label them. He’s the last fitting for today, so I go find Denise, who’s closing up the scene shop.
“Good work today,” she tells me. “You get Liam squared away?”
“Yup. Labeled and everything.”
“Great. Hey, do you know Paige?” She gestures, and a girl comes over, white with brown hair and striking green eyes that are only enhanced by an epic application of eyeliner.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey. I’m Jackson.” I shake her hand; it’s got a few calluses on it, like mine. “Thanks for all your hard work today.”
“Sure.”
Denise says something to her; she nods and goes to collect her backpack, while Denise turns back to me.
“I was thinking somethingsomething.”
“Say again?”
“Sorry. What do you think of her being your assistant stage manager?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She’s interested. Hard worker. I think she’d be good at it.”
I’ve never had an ASM before. But maybe I could mentor her, like Caprice mentored me.
“Yeah. That’d be great.”
Denise grins. “Good.”
Me. With an assistant. I’m still kind of floating as I head back to the dressing room to grab my backpack, but Liam opens the door before I can. He’s dressed again, in a worn RHS Swim & Dive T-shirt and black sweats. I back up before I bump into him.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. Just . . .” I point inside, and he opens the door a little wider. I still have to squeeze by him, though; he smells like the pool, and soap, and blueberries.
I shake myself off and grab my backpack.
“You good?” he asks. “Need a ride?”
“Bowie’s got me.”
His brow furrows. “They’re here?”
I nod; wave at Denise, who’s wheeling out the ghost light; and head down the hall toward the choir room.
“GSA thing.”
Mr. Cartwright is the GSA Sponsor, so they use the choir room for planning.
Sure enough, Bowie’s in there, along with a couple other GSA members—including Braden Campos, who’s kneeling over one of the risers, working on a poster board.
“Jackson!” He smiles at me as I come in. He’s got inky black hair that does the sort of effortless swoopy thing mine will never do, and a tooth gap that is kind of adorable gives him character. “How’s it going, bro?”
Braden joined the GSA last year, after coming out as bi. I actually used to have a little bit of a crush on him. We had PE together first year, and he was always really nice to me, which felt homophobic at the time, but then I realized he was just . . . genuinely nice. And I guess the crush resurfaced, once he came out, but then he went and joined the GSA.
PLAYS FOOTBALL
WHAT IS A LINEBACKER ANYWAY?
WHAT LINES ARE BEING BACKED?
CUTE TOOTH GAP
GOOD HAIR
CALLS ME “BRO”
TRIED TO USURP BOWIE
RAN AGAINST BOWIE FOR VICE PRESIDENT
GSA MEMBER!!!
Actually, aside from the GSA stuff, it was hard to come up with items for Braden’s list. It would be like making a list for a golden retriever.
“You’ve got some . . .” I gesture to my own cheek; Braden’s got glitter across his. I stay well back to avoid contamination.
Braden scrubs his cheek with the back of his hand. “Thanks. Hey, bro.”
He cocks his chin in Liam’s direction.
“You guys here to help?”
The whole crew is spread across the choir room, making posters for National Coming Out Day. Some are already finished, with slogans like Take pride in who you are and Welcome to the family and Come out at your own pace and Out or not, you are valid.
I wish someone had told me that when I was younger. But in seventh grade, when everyone was talking about crushes and dating and first kisses, it felt like I had to come out. Like if I didn’t I’d just . . . disappear.
I kind of wish I could’ve taken my time with it.
Braden waves his hand. And not in the politely trying to draw your attention kind of way but in the is there anyone in there? kind of way.
“What?” I say, harsher than I mean, but I hate when people wave at me like that. And I hate that I snap at Braden in front of Liam because he probably didn’t know any better and is mostly cool to me. Even if he does bro me.
“I said, Bowie’s in the office.”
“Thanks.”
I weave my way toward the back, careful to avoid anything that looks even slightly sparkly; Liam follows close behind.
“Uh,” I say. “Did you . . . did you need Bowie for something? Another sign lesson?”
“No. Just . . . didn’t feel like going home yet.”
“Oh.”
The office door is open, so I poke my head in. It’s a small, cramped space: a desk, a laptop, way too many coffee mugs, and shelf upon shelf of music. The soft scent of paper and toner fills the air.
“Hey, Jacks. Hey, Liam. You all done?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry. I need another hour.”
“I can give Jackson a ride,” Liam says. “If you need to stay.”
If I have to ride in a car with Liam, alone, I think I might explode.
“It’s all good, me and Bowie are hanging out after anyway.” I turn to Liam. “You don’t have to hang around. Hey, did Jasmine text you?”
Deflecting seems the only safe choice. Jasmine likes Liam. Liam likes her.
I’m not crushing, I’m not anything. I’m just a gay boy that saw Liam’s abs up close and needs some time to decompress. That’s totally normal.
Liam’s cheeks color. He looks at me for a long moment, and then past me at Bowie, and then back.
“Uh. Okay. See you, I guess.”
“Yeah. See you.”
Once Liam’s gone, Bowie switches to sign.
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
Bowie’s nostrils flare. “Why are you trying to foist him on Jasmine?”
“She likes him. He likes her. They’re just being weird.”
“You sure about that?”
“You didn’t see him after Perkins. He was all . . .”
“All what?”
But I don’t want to tell Bowie what Liam told me. That felt like the kind of thing told in confidence.
“Trust me. He definitely does.”
Braden appears in the doorway.
“Hey, bros.” To him, everyone’s a bro, regardless of gender. “You two done fighting?”
“We’re not fighting.”
He just laughs, showing off his tooth gap. “Okay. You two somethingsomething.”
“Huh?” I glance at Bowie.
“Fight like a married couple,” they sign to me.
“We do not!” I say aloud. Too loud. Liam’s still watching from the doorway.
“If you say so.” Braden runs a hand through his hair. “You got any more glue sticks?”
Bowie stands to help. I give Liam a last wave goodbye and watch as he finally leaves.