Mum and Anna call; together
they sing “Happy Birthday” to me.
Mum asks what I have planned today.
I say I don’t have any plans; I have
too much work to do, so much reading,
and two essays due next week.
It’s so much harder than high school.
I miss Daisy and not just how she helped me
with my schoolwork. She stood by me
when I came out and became
a part of my family. The one
I could speak to about Rowan and Kieran.
I didn’t tell her everything,
but almost. And she wasn’t my girlfriend,
but almost.
LENNIE: HBD! Want a birthday spliff later?
MICHAEL: I forgot I told you it was my birthday.
I must’ve been high
LENNIE:
LENNIE: So?
MICHAEL: Thanks for remembering.
I just want to ignore this day
LENNIE: Want a non-birthday spliff instead?
MICHAEL: No
But thanks
I’ll see you tomorrow
LENNIE:
I pause when Daisy’s name
flashes on my phone screen.
I didn’t expect to hear from her.
We haven’t spoken since summer.
Why is Daisy calling me?
I guess to say, “Happy birthday!”
And, yes, that’s how she begins
and when I don’t say anything,
she continues, “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” I ask.
“You know what for,” says Daisy.
“For what I said at the club.
I didn’t realize how offensive
I was being. My girlfriend—
yes, I said girlfriend—
Chloe explained to me
it was because I was in denial
about my sexuality.
Chloe’s amazing, I met her
on my first day here
and we’ve been inseparable
for the past six weeks
and yesterday I told her
about our argument.
I told her what I said, even
though I was embarrassed.
I think I needed to come out
to her about it, you know?
I already knew what I said
was awful. I’m sorry, Michael.
Chloe said that I said
what I said because of
internalized homophobia.
That I was homophobic
toward myself as well
as toward you. I think
that’s what Chloe said.
Does that make sense?”
It does kind of make sense
and I’m relieved, in a way.
It turns out my homophobic
best friend is actually gay.
I tell Daisy, “I’m glad you called,
we should speak again soon,
maybe meet up over Christmas.”
I don’t tell her I’m lonely.
I just want to get off the phone.
It’s making it worse.
I mostly keep to myself but for Halloween
my flatmates are having a party.
I’ve not told them it’s my birthday but I join in.
We bring autumn leaves into our flat.
We make the most typical choices
of costume: a witch, a vampire, a werewolf.
I’m a ghost.
My costume is a white sheet
with two holes cut out for my eyes.
I guess it’s more of a disguise.
No one who comes to the party knows
that it’s my birthday. Most bring
their own booze and ask me who
I know here. I tell them I live here.
They say, “Great party!” and offer me
one of their beers or a swig from
whatever spirit they are clutching.
I like being around people this way.
Somewhere I feel safe. I can retreat
to my room if I want to at any time.
After seven beers, I retreat to my room
and sit on my bed.
I imagine removing my white
sheet to reveal I am wearing a tutu
and ballet pointe shoes. I go en pointe.
Everyone at the party begins to sing
“Happy Birthday.” Kieran appears holding
a cake with just one candle. I look closer
at the candle and it’s not a candle.
It’s Rowan, in miniature, his red hair standing
upright like a flickering flame. I make a wish as
I blow and Rowan disappears
and so does everyone else except for Kieran.
He says, “Happy birthday, Michael.”
He leans in to kiss me and I close my eyes.
His lips feel light as a feather and I open
my eyes to find one black feather on my lips
and no Kieran and I cough and I cough
and I cough up black feather after black
feather.
I leave the house party
and decide to go to
Omen,
the gay club in town,
dumping my white sheet
in the dustbin on my way
to the bus stop.
I’m wearing my Converse,
navy blue Levi’s jeans,
and a light blue Levi’s shirt.
I think a club is better than
an app. It’s real life
and I can dance there.
The first thing I notice
when I get there: the outfits
are not like any Halloween
costumes I’ve seen before.
Lots of men have thick beards
and hairy chests. A topless DJ
with a smooth chest and chiseled abs
plays a pounding music
I don’t recognize.
Most men look straight
through me or perhaps they don’t
see me on the dance floor
when they bump into me.
No one says sorry.
No one speaks to me.
No one smiles at me.
Someone runs their fingers
through my hair. Startled,
I turn around to see him.
“I love your costume,” he says.
“Sorry?” I reply, forgetting
what I might look like
in this sea of white.
“That’s a wig, isn’t it?
Your costume, you’re Bob Marley?”
Before my seminar the next day,
I tell Lennie about the club.
“What did you say to him?”
Lennie asks with a grin.
“I just walked away,” I reply.
“I’m sick of hearing it, Lennie.”
“But you do look a bit like him,
you have to admit.” Lennie tilts
his head to the side and raises
an eyebrow, then laughs.
“You should’ve invited me.
I could’ve been your wingman.”
“Time for class, Mike,” says Sienna,
a girl in my seminar group,
as she floats past us
in a long, dark green dress
with tiny white polka dots;
with books under her arm,
she glides into the seminar room.
My eyes follow her in but my feet
stay grounded. When she’s out of earshot,
Lennie exclaims, “She’s hot!”
I pretend I haven’t noticed.
“Really? Come on, Mikey, you might be gay
but you’re not blind,” says Lennie.
“You better get in there,” he continues.
He waves to Sienna, who is looking at us
from her seat, and she waves back.
She brushes her long red hair off her shoulder,
leans forward with her chin in her hand.
I go in and take my seat next to her.
“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Angeli,”
says our tutor, closing the door on Lennie.
LENNIE: You’ve got to introduce me to her
I hold my phone with both hands under
the table and turn my body so my back is
to Sienna and she can’t see my screen.
MICHAEL: You can introduce yourself
LENNIE: Come on, Mikey. Be my wingman.
Do you know if she’s single?
MICHAEL:
LENNIE: Do some detective work
MICHAEL: Okay. I’ll see what I can do
Our tutor asks: “Mr. Angeli, are we keeping you
from something more important?”
I didn’t realize the seminar had started. I reply,
“No. Sorry.” I put my phone away.
Sienna is shaking her head at me but smiling.
At the end of the seminar,
Sienna turns to me.
“A group of us are going
to a club in town tonight.
Do you want to join us?”
“Who’s going?” I ask her.
She lists six names, I don’t know
any of them. But I see
my opportunity. “Can I bring
my friend Lennie?” I reply.
“The more the merrier,” says Sienna.
Later that evening, Lennie and I approach
Sienna at the bus stop. I’m still wearing
my blue jeans, white T-shirt, and denim shirt
from earlier but Lennie has changed.
He is wearing a dark green Nike tracksuit.
Sienna is wearing a red jumpsuit and red
stilettos. Lennie’s tracksuit would match what
Sienna was wearing earlier. I notice clothes
more since joining Drag Soc. Sienna’s outfit
clashes with her hair.
I take a breath and prepare myself to be
introduced to more people, but Sienna
steps away from the crowd. “Hey, boys!
The others have all bailed on me. It looks like
it’s a threesome.”
“Oh, I thought those were your friends,” I say,
pointing to the people under the bus shelter.
“No,” says Sienna, “it’s just us. Tonight can be
about making new friends.” Sienna smiles at
Lennie and Lennie smiles at Sienna. I feel like
I should leave them to it.
When we get to the club,
they’re playing Little Mix.
Sienna wants to dance but Lennie doesn’t.
He says, “You two go for it.
I’ll get the drinks in. Rum and Coke?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“Vodka lemonade for me,” says Sienna
as she takes my hand and leads me
to the dance floor.
It’s a rainbow sea of girls in jumpsuits.
I’m amazed at how well Sienna can dance
in heels; occasionally she puts her hands
on my shoulders to steady herself.
When she’s close like this I study her
makeup, the flick of her black eyeliner,
the contouring on her cheek, her bright
red lips with a darker outline.
“I love your makeup!” I shout over the music.
“What did you say?” says Sienna.
If I can hear her why can’t she hear me?
“Shall we go back to Lennie?” I point to him.
Later, in the smoking area,
while Lennie rolls us a spliff,
I tell Sienna what happened with Jack
and what Simon said to me.
“He sounds like a right idiot,” she says,
sympathetically squeezing my arm.
“Which one?” Lennie asks, handing
the finished spliff to Sienna.
I didn’t think he was listening.
“The both of them, actually,” says Sienna,
and she takes just one toke
and passes the spliff to me.
There’s a comfortable silence
as I take two tokes—one for Jack,
one for Simon.
I pass the spliff on to Lennie.
“I could never do it,” he says.
“I couldn’t have sex with a guy,
no matter how drunk or high.”
I reply, “You never know until you try.
Maybe I’m just that irresistible.”
Lennie chokes on a mouthful of smoke.
“If you were, Jack would’ve called you.”
He pulls no punches, says it straight.
He passes the spliff to Sienna,
who is trying hard not to laugh.
Sienna skips her turn
and passes it to me, asking,
“So, what’s your type, Mike?”
I immediately say,
“Tall, white, big biceps,
and a killer smile.”
I’m describing Jack
but Sienna and Lennie
haven’t met him
so they don’t know that.
I take a toke of the spliff.
“That’s messed up,” says Lennie.
He looks serious.
“What is?” I say softly,
passing him the spliff.
“That she asked your type
and you said ‘white.’”
I turn to Lennie and say,
“I don’t know anyone
black and gay.”
And it’s true, but it feels
“I only date black guys,” says Sienna.
“That’s messed up, too!” shouts Lennie.
“Do you two hear yourselves?”
“You both need to understand
the black woman, black man,
black trans person is always last
to be thought of as attractive
in this white supremacist society.
We are all—black and white alike
—shown a beauty standard of light
skin and ‘good hair,’ maybe big lips,
maybe a big bum, but hardly ever
on someone with darker skin.
When a black person says
they’re only into white people,
that’s internalized racism.
When a white person says
they’re only into black people,
that’s fetishization, which is also
a form of racism. If their skin
or racialized features matter more
to you than the person within,
that’s racism. I can’t be your friend
without calling this out. Your ignorance
may be innocent but the racism is real.
I want both of you to think about how
what you said might make me feel.”
Lennie takes a long toke on the spliff,
which he has been holding on to
the whole time he’s been talking.
He holds his breath, then starts laughing,
smoke spluttering from his mouth
like a backfiring engine.
He passes the spliff to Sienna. “I meant
what I said, I just didn’t mean for it to come out
as angry as that.”
Two bouncers come over to us.
The bigger of the two points to Lennie
and me and says, “You two need to leave.”
“Why, what have we done?” asks Lennie.
The smaller bouncer replies, “You’re making
a scene”—he sniffs—“and you’re smoking weed.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sienna
edge away and pu
t out the spliff under the toe
of her red stiletto. She goes back inside.
“Off you go then,” says the bigger bouncer,
“unless you want to do this the hard way?”
MICHAEL: We’ve been kicked out
You gonna come meet us outside?
SIENNA: I’ve just bumped into some friends
So I’m gonna stay
Lennie and I walk along the seafront.
The bars and clubs are in full swing
but we don’t have a plan as to where
to go next. “I still can’t believe Sienna
didn’t leave with us,” I say to Lennie,
who shrugs.
“Oh, well,” says Lennie, “this can be
a lads’ night out instead. We could
go to that gay club you told me about.
I can be your wingman. Find you someone
new to help you forget about Jack.”
I reply, “I’m not in the mood. Do you
mind if we just head back to campus?”
“Good idea,” says Lennie. “I’ve got
more weed in my room. Do you wanna
come for a smoke?”
At that moment, two drunk white guys
in suits stumble into us. They’re in their
twenties but don’t look like students. One
of them asks me: “Got any weed for sale, bro?”
He has crooked teeth and a patchy beard.
I’m not sure if he overheard what Lennie
was saying or if he just saw two black guys
with locs and jumped to conclusions.
I reply, “No, mate.”
His suit is light gray with a white shirt
and black tie. He turns to Lennie and
asks, “How about you, big man?”
The second guy, who had been quiet
until now, gets in my face. “You’re a liar!
I can smell it. How much?” He is clean
shaven and his breath smells of beer.
His suit is navy blue with a white shirt
and red tie; he reaches into his blazer
and pulls out two twenties and a fiver.
Lennie pushes Blue Suit away from me.
“Back up, man. My friend told you no.”
Lennie stares him down. “And I’m telling you
both to keep walking.”
Fight or flight?
Money still in his left hand, Blue Suit puts
his hands up in the air in surrender, says,
“Sorry,” first to Lennie, then to me: “Sorry.”
Gray Suit stands tall, smooths down
his black tie, and buttons up his blazer.
“Put your money away, Colin. Let’s go.”