Catching Raven (6 page)

The idea wasn’t far-fetched. Raven did just turn eighteen. And what
better way to celebrate? I should’ve trusted my instincts when they told me
something weird was going on. For instance, why wouldn’t Tori and Mia tell us
where we were all going? Where were the exotic dancers? And why the lack of
men? It’s Friday night. Ideally, this place should be packed.

Now it all makes sense. I guess that’s where the joke’s on me, because
nothing could’ve prepared me for the moment when my eyes settled on the stage
and a transvestite named Coco Butter took the entire club by storm in a shiny
dress, black wig, and nearly a pound of makeup.

And here we are. Back to the present. How on Earth do I continuously get
roped into these situations? If I’m not helping Mia pick out bras, buying
chocolate ice cream for Tori during “Aunt Flow’s” monthly visit (I refuse to
pick up tampons for someone who isn’t my girlfriend, and yes, in case you’re
wondering, she’s asked), and still trying to retain some semblance of
masculinity, then I’m here. At a drag show.

Again, WTF?

Coco grabs the mic and flips her hair over one shoulder, commanding our
attention with one helluva stage presence.

“Ladies and Gays, welcome to the show! Up first we have the fabulous Miss
Ruby Redd performing, “I Kissed A Girl” by Katy Perry. Let’s give it up for
Miss Ruby Redd!”

The estrogen-heavy crowd goes nuts—no pun intended. I glance over at
Emilio and shake my head and shrug in disbelief. It’s all I can do at this
point. He mirrors my actions.

I whip out my phone and text Mia and Tori the exact same message:
I
hope a colony of fire ants infest your vagina while you’re sleeping. Also, I’m
drinking all your beer tonight. Go find someone else to be your errand boy.

I slip my phone back into my pocket. Ruby Redd has started making rounds,
grabbing tips from various customers. Who knew you’re supposed to tip a drag
queen? Tori, Mia, and Raven all pull out singles and raise them up high,
dancing in their seats while they wait. Thank God I can legally drink. I remove
myself and make a beeline for the bar.

A man dressed like Marilyn Monroe hands the customer in front her drink.
Raven would be giddy over the fact that Marilyn is serving drinks. I recognize
the dress from
The Seven Year Itch
—one of the many of old movies she’s
forced me to sit through. The things I do for that girl.

Marilyn eyes me up and down. “What can I get you, handsome?”

“Uh, a gin and tonic, please.”

“Can I see your ID?”

I flash my driver’s license.

“One gin and tonic comin’ right up.”

I sift through my wallet and pull out a five and some ones. Might as well
use the Washingtons on the bartender. I’m gonna be smashed by the time this is
all over. As Marilyn pours my drink, my phone vibrates.

Mia:
So tell me, what should I do when I get that burning sensation?
You’re the expert.

Smartass.

Me:
I may be a slut, but I’m a clean one. Can you say the same for
yourself?

Mia:
Of course. After all, my track record is better than yours.

Me:
And how would you know?

Mia:
Girls talk.

Me:
Really? All the way in Kansas? Because that’s where you live nine
months out of the year and I don’t recall ever fucking anyone from out of
state. I like my pussy local. Good try, though.

Mia:
Whatever. Enjoy the show because you’re gonna be here for another
two hours. Cheers!

Me:
Funny, I keep rereading that last text but all I see is defeat,
defeat, defeat.

My suspicions are confirmed when she doesn’t reply. What can I say? Some
people can’t hang. When I look back up, Marilyn is watching me intently with
one hand perched on her hip.

I slap the cash down and grab my drink. But before I can walk away—

“You don’t come here often, do you?” she inquires.

“What gave me away?” 

“Who are you here with?”

What’s with the game of twenty-one questions?
I point in the direction of our
table. “I’m with them. It’s my friend’s eighteenth birthday.”

“Which one?”

“The girl in the plum colored dress.”

“She’s pretty.”

“She’s stunning,” I correct.

Marilyn smiles and winks. “Enjoy the drink, honey. And relax. We don’t
bite.”

I smile back and raise my glass. “Thanks for this.”

“My pleasure.”

I take a sip and saunter back over to our table. The girls are all
singing at the top of their lungs. When I pull up a seat, Emilio eyes the drink
in my hand. “Dude, you couldn’t wait?”

“Nope.”

He leans in further so I can hear him over the music. “We need an escape
plan, ASAP.”

“I’m working on it.”

He nods and leans back.

“What are y’all talking about over there?” Tori yells over the table.

“Prostate exams,” I shout back.

A look of pure disgust paints her face. It’s comedic. Makes me remember
the text I sent a few minutes ago. “Hey, check your phone.”

I fold my arms over my chest and lean back against the chair with a
shit-eating grin spread across my face. Tori opens up her clutch and pulls her
phone out. As soon as she reads the message, I receive the death stare.

Eric: 1

Tori: 0

When the first performance ends, Coco reappears to make an announcement.
“Alright, y’all. Give it up one last time for Miss Ruby Redd!”

We all oblige.

Coco continues. “We’ve just been informed that there’s a birthday girl in
the house tonight. Where’s she at?”

Raven stiffens and glances at Tori and Mia, no doubt believing they’re
the culprits. They shake their heads simultaneously.

“Stand up, birthday girl,” Coco orders.

Raven takes a quick inventory of everyone in the club and stands up on
shaky legs. She adjusts the bottom of her dress and raises her hand. “Over
here.”

Coco’s gaze finds Raven. She crawls off the stage and sashays over to our
table, coming to stand right in front of us.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Raven leans into the mic and answers.

“How old are you, Raven?”

“Eighteen.”

“Well, on behalf of myself and every queen in this place, we’d like to
wish you a very happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

Marilyn emerges from behind the bar and casually passes Coco a sparkling
tiara.

“Tell me, Raven, how would you like to be an honorary queen for a night?”

Raven lights up and nods her approval. Coco delicately places the crown
on top of Raven’s head, takes her by the hand, and leads her up to the stage.
Tori and Mia shout encouragements from their seats.

“Now, if you wanna be a queen for a night, you’re gonna have to own the
stage. Do you think you can do that?”

Raven motions for the mic. Coco hands it off.

“Can someone give me a beat?”

The crowd cheers, luring the inner diva we all know and love to come out
and play. The DJ selects “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga. Raven begins to sway her
hips sensually, teasingly. I perk up and give her my full, undivided attention.
This earns a sharp glance from Emilio. Aside from that, this might not turn out
to be such a bad night, after all.

About halfway through the number, an ensemble of drag queens join her
onstage. She looks so happy and carefree. I was worried we wouldn’t be able to
salvage her mood, but based on what I’m seeing, nothing remedies a bruised ego
faster than being the center of attention.

Her eyes lock onto mine from across the club. She continues to dance as
if I’m the only one watching, single-handedly torturing me with a wicked gleam
in her eyes. What’s happening right now? Why does she have so much power over
me? If only I had that same hold over her.

Suddenly, inspiration strikes in the truest form. I know exactly what I’m
going to do to give her that feeling. Too bad she’ll have to wait until
Thursday night to find out. What I have in mind is arguably the greatest idea
in the history of great ideas. Move the fuck over, Edison.

I pound the last of my drink, feeling a renewed sense of confidence.
Here’s to hanging with cool people, taking big risks, and obliterating comfort
zones. Oh, and to the fire ants. May their colonies always be vast and
merciless.

r     a     v     e    
n

“Tori, where are my sunglasses?” I
yell through the wall.

The sound of squeaking bedsprings resonate, followed by a loud thud.

“Ah, fuck! That hurt.”

I shake my head and chuckle. Padded footsteps travel across the hall. Two
seconds later, my door swings open to reveal a half-asleep Tori, clad in sweats
and a sports bra, massaging the side of her head with an irritated expression
on her face. “Come again?”

“Were you napping?”

“Yeah. Kickboxing wore me out.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She yawns and stretches, waging a war with grogginess that will no doubt
become second nature once college hits. I can already see the late-night study
sessions on the horizon. Might as well introduce coffee and Adderall to my diet
now.

“It’s all good. What’s up?”

“I need my sunglasses.”

“Which ones?”

“The Gucci ones.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I had no idea where those were?”

I stop applying mascara and glance at her through the mirror. “Not for a
second. And if you did lose them, you’re dead. Those cost a fortune.”

She wanders back into her room to grab them. “What are you getting all
dolled up for, anyway?” she hollers.

“I’m going over to Eric’s.”

“Oh, right. It’s Thursday. How was your shift?”

I screw the lid back on the tube and double-check my eyes to make sure
they look even. “Insane. We were on an hour-long wait most of the night. I’m
surprised I got out of there as early as I did.”

Ever since my birthday last week, I’ve been picking up extra shifts at
the restaurant to replenish my pitiful excuse for a savings account.
Apparently, time isn’t the only thing that flies when you’re having fun. Money
goes just as fast.

When I initially told my parents I was moving out, they offered to pay my
portion of first month’s rent as a birthday gift to help ease the transition. I
took them up on it. That’s how I knew I’d officially reached adulthood. Bills
trumped presents. The days of scoring fabulous shoes and accessories are
virtually over. I’m on my own now. College tuition is the last remaining link
keeping me from somersaulting headfirst into this scary thing known as
independence. Failure and poverty are imminent threats.

Tori struts back in and hands me my sunglasses. “Here ya go.”

I slip the sunglasses on top of my head. “Thanks.”

“You know, you’re putting an awful lot of effort into tonight’s
appearance. More so than usual, which is saying something.”

“Your point?”

“Just making an observation.”

I lock eyes with her in the mirror and bring my index finger up to my
lips. “Shh.”

She grins and nudges me from behind. “Busted.”

I spin around to face her. “Verdict?”

She takes a step back and examines the whole outfit from head to toe. I’m
rockin’ a gray, V-neck, vintage tee with a black blazer, a pair of boyfriend
jeans, and black Steve Madden suede pumps. It’s the perfect blend of dressy
cas, without looking like I tried too hard. Eric will love it.

“Slayin’. Very California girl.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

I fluff my hair one last time, letting the loose curls cascade down my
back, then secure my favorite Audrey Hepburn pendant around my neck. It’s a
still photograph from
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
that my mom gave me for
Christmas one year
.
Grabbing my clutch and keys off my dresser, I make a
dash for the hall. Tori follows me out.

“Twenty bucks says you won’t be back tonight.”

“Oh, whatever.”

“Y’all are going to happen. It’s inevitable at this point. If you’d pull
your heads out of your asses and admit how you really feel about each other,
then we could all move on already.”

I wink over my shoulder, then close the front door behind me.

* * *

I tiptoe over the grass, being extra
careful not to dig my heels into the ground. Instead of using the front door
like I always do, I head straight for the back. I make a leap for the
less-than-impressive slab of concrete Eric insists on calling a patio. Believe
me, it’s not a patio.

I adjust my shirt and peer inside his windows like a bona fide stalker.
His eyes are glued to the TV screen, enraptured by his Xbox game.

Shocker.

I press my torso up against the door. He does a double take and pauses
the game. I take it a step further by smushing my nose up against the glass and
making a pig face.

He sets the controller down and comes to stand directly in front of me.
His gaze drops to my cleavage, then travels back up to my pig face. He leans
forward and uses his breath to fog up the glass and writes a message.

I lean back to read the word “sexy” spelled out backwards.

“It’s backwards you idiot.”

“No it’s not, dumbass,” he says, his voice muffled by the glass.

“Let me in.”

“Say pretty please.”

“No way.”

I seize the handle but he locks the deadbolt before I get a chance to
turn it.

“Eric Matthew Hansen, open this door right now.”

He laughs. “Or what? You’ll take away TV for a week?”

I rattle the door and search my brain: What do I have the power to take
away? There’s gotta be something he loves. Clarity strikes. “I’ll refuse to
make you homemade lasagna for a year.”

His smile disappears. “You’re bluffing.”

“Try me.”

His eyes dart back and forth between the doorknob and me. Reluctantly, he
succumbs and unlocks the deadbolt. He drags his feet over to the couch and free
falls backwards into the cushions. “That threat was uncalled for.”

I squeeze inside, shut the door, and carefully remove my heels.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

He saves his game and turns off the console. I toss my clutch, keys, and
sunglasses on his coffee table and head straight to the fridge for a drink.

“Stocked up on snacks.”

“Which is why I stick around,” I retort.

I steal a tall glass from one of the cupboards and fill it up with
Gatorade. I down the first half and let out a satisfying moan, because I was
parched, but it comes off erotic. That sound is all it takes to set the tone.
Eric’s intense gaze falls on me. I pretend to ignore it by staring down at my
beverage. It’s awfully quiet in here. Why is it so silent? I’m pretty sure he’d
be able to hear my stomach gurgle all the way from the couch. I swallow thickly
and raise the glass back to my lips, eager to drink my way out of the sexual
tension. If this glass doesn’t do the trick, I’ll just pour another. And
another. And another. Until there’s no more Gatorade left.
Shit.
Then
what am I supposed to do?

Why are things weird between us? Is it because I broke up with Brandon
last week? Is it because I’m eighteen? Is it because we’re all alone? We’ve
been alone a bazillion times before, but it’s never felt so...acknowledged?
Maybe it’s because for the first time in four years, we’re both open to
blurring the lines. No more pretenses. No more hiding. No more friend zone. A
scenario I’ve fantasized about since freshman year. So why am I such a nervous
wreck? And why is he still looking at me like that? It’s distracting.

I tap my nails against the counter and purse my lips. “What movie did you
say we’re watching again?”

“We aren’t watching a movie.”

My surprised eyes flick to his. “We aren’t?”

“Nope. I owe you a belated birthday present.”

My nerves dissipate. “Oh, my God! Where is it? Show me the package. Size
is important. I don’t care what the other girls say.”

He closes the distance between us and takes my hand. “Follow me, smart
ass.”

He leads me to the bedroom. I’m intrigued, to say the least. Eric’s not
one to get overly excited about anything, so this must be good.

In the twelve steps it takes to go from the kitchen to his bedroom, my
heart rate has doubled. He reaches over to flip the lights on. A warm glow
casts over the room. A plastic tarp is spread out on the floor, protecting the
carpet. There’s an easel with a blank canvas staged in the center of the room.
I haven’t seen him whip out one of those since we were neighbors. We’ve
upgraded to painting walls since then. I’m sure you can imagine how ecstatic
his landlords get. To his credit, he always paints them back to white before he
switches places.

“What’s up with the canvas? Are we kickin’ it old school?”

“Not exactly.”

My brows furrow in confusion.

He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and pins me with his stare. “I
want to paint a portrait of you.”

 Best. Present. Ever. “I’d be honored, Eric.”

“There’s something else,” he says cautiously, studying my reaction.
“Promise me you’ll keep an open mind.”

My breathing slows. “Why? What do you have in mind?”

“You. Topless.”

I blink a few times, processing his request.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he assures. “But if you’re into
the idea, I’ll make sure everything’s covered. I have a certain pose that’ll
prevent anyone from seeing anything on the painting.”

Sounds very Titanic-esque.

“What’s the pose?”

“You’d be standing with your back towards me, looking over your shoulder.
Only your back would be exposed.”

I’d be way more exposed than that, but I don’t bother to correct him. Am
I comfortable with being partially nude? In front of him? He’s never seen that
much of me. No one has.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

His face goes serious. “You have no idea.”

I bite my bottom lip and glance around the room. My eyes settle on the
window. I nod in its direction. “Will that be open?”

“I’ll need to keep it open to air out the fumes but the blinds will be
closed.”

Before I can list all the reasons why I shouldn’t do this, the more
daring side of me pipes up. “Alright, I’m down. But I have a couple
stipulations.”

“Name them.”

“The blinds stay closed, and your mouth stays shut. No exceptions. If I’m
gonna do this, I can’t have you making side comments and psyching me out.”

He slips his hands into his front pockets and rocks back and forth on his
heels, struggling to contain his energy. “Deal. I’ll grab the brushes and paint
while you get situated. If you need to use the bathroom, now’s the time to do
it. I’m using spray paint and acrylics. The acrylics dry really fast, which
means no breaks. Holler when you’re ready.”

He turns and exits the room, leaving me with some much-needed privacy and
a ton of information to digest. I crack the window open and draw the blinds.
Incessant pacing and nervous knuckle popping help kill the time. I can’t seem
to make myself stop. What if I look better with clothes on? I don’t want him to
be disappointed by what he sees. Sometimes what’s left to the imagination is
better than what’s presented in reality.
Please, God, let me look good
naked.

I conjure every last shred of boldness and shrug off my blazer, letting
it fall to the floor with a
whoosh.
I yank off my tee and unhook my bra,
adding them to the pile.
Deep breaths,
I remind myself. I look down at
my bare feet and wiggle my toes. My eyes scan the room for a mirror. Much to my
dismay, there isn’t one. I flip my hair over my shoulder and take my place in
front of the easel. A light knock on the door catches me by surprise.

“You ready?” Eric checks.

So much for waiting on a cue.

My eyes flutter closed. “Yeah?” It comes out more as a question than an
answer.

I mentally kick myself for my lack of confidence.

The door creaks open. He sucks in a sharp breath, making me all too aware
of my current state. I swallow hard and open my eyes, keeping them fixated on
the wall in front of me. Rustling noises commence. After what seems like an
eternity, he speaks.

“Look over your right shoulder, Rave.”

I follow directions without giving an ounce of sass. I’m not sure whether
I should feel proud or disappointed by this unusual turn of events.

He emerges from behind the easel.

“Don’t panic. I’m just going to make a few minor changes. I won’t peek, I
swear.”

He tilts my chin a little further down and fixes my hair. His warm hands
caress my shoulders. A rush of chills break out over my skin and I tense up.

“Relax, Rave.”

“I can’t. I feel like I’m being put on display.”

“That’s because you
are
on display.”