Dodging Trains (6 page)

Keyon.
Eyes of whiskey-gold staring into mine on the back doorstep of our house. Mom isn’t home. She never is nowadays. It’s always work, work, work, and I miss Cugs and Dad so hard it hurts. But Keyon is here, and his fingers are entwined with mine. He’s holding them up between us as if we’re touching each other through a mirror. The air has frozen, like the dirt under our feet, but my hands are warm because of a grasp that feels safer than any fifteen-year-old can back up.

“I like you,” he says to me. I want to conceal my face, but he has me open with my hands in the air. My heart hammers. I have nowhere to hide.

“Can I kiss you?”

“I wish you didn’t say that out loud,” I blurt out.

“What, that I like you?”

“No, the… asking.”

“You’d rather I just kiss you without asking first?”

“I—” I’m nervous and flustered. I tug on my hands to be free so I can turn away from him. I know I’m not doing this moment right, and I’ll be running the film clip of it in my head for days once I’m done butchering it. “I don’t know.”

He lets go of my hands.

He cups my face and pulls me closer.

I gasp.

Boy lips are as soft as girl lips. They’re dry at first, but once they start kissing, they moisten. I’m stunned at how his mouth gives against mine when we press them together. A shameful slurping sound erupts as our mouths separate again. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me?”

I bite my lip and lift my eyes from an indistinct place somewhere between us.

“Are you shy, Paislee?”

“Pfff, thanks. Now I definitely am.” I grumble-speak the words, which makes Keyon snicker. I push him a little in the chest. It doesn’t mean that I want him to leave me alone.

“Because we kissed, right? That’s why you’re shy. Did you like it? I did.”

I scrunch my eyes shut against all the questions and words and step out of his arms. How am I supposed to know what I feel when I haven’t had a moment to think?

“I’m gonna go inside, all right?” I force myself to meet his stare. He’s still waiting, a smile on his beautiful face. He’s so full of himself, thinking he knows my answer.

“All right then,” I repeat, nodding. “See you later.
Mañana
.” That’s me being cool, changing up the language. It’s his mother tongue—his
mother’s
tongue, actually, which I suddenly realize makes it less cool.

Keyon grabs my arm before I can climb the second step. He doesn’t pull me down to him but holds me still instead. “Did your lips tingle?”

Christ!

“Keyon,” I growl. “Okay, fine. I liked it. You have pillow lips,” I tell him, rip my arm free, and dive into my house.

I hear him laugh through the front door. “No, you’re the one with pillow lips, and I can’t wait to kiss the heck out of you.
Mañana
, chicken shit.”

PAISLEE

H
ave you ever swayed your hips
to the music like nothing matters, like no one watches, with abandon, in oblivion, in bliss, and with everything good swirling inside?

I sway them in wide ribbons, knowing I’m alone. People have judged me. I’ve done what I’ve done. But here with my music, this song—these dreams—I’m me, all they don’t know and what I’ll never reveal.

I’d be free in Murano, I think as I sway. No one has heard of Paislee Marie Cain there. I’d stride into that ancient factory, let my gaze caress artisan glass and inhale air I wouldn’t be able to let out.

I’d be in Heaven and searching for more, begging to enter those remote rooms, the holies of holies where golden mirrors flutter fragile fantasies your way, treating your image with unheard-of forgiveness.

I’d swell with it. My ribcage would become too narrow for it. I’ve seen the beauty of Murano mirrors in pictures, but in person, in person, how could they not be too much for a girl to absorb?

I wear forest-green tights. A matching jacket that hugs my torso and ends in a short-short skirt that swishes over my hips. A frilly shirt peeks out in the front, but it’s wide open and my boobs look pregnant in the décolletage.

My wig is short and blonde as opposed to my usual mahogany locks. On my head, an old-fashioned hunter’s hat tips toward my Mur
ano, and even in the gilded veil of my reflection, I catch its original color, chocolate and with a feather pointing proudly at the ceiling.

Never do I sway in public. Already I miss this abandon. So I purse my mouth and sway again, a last liberty before I leave for the party. I raise a hand and touch the fragile skin below a brow as I do. My eyes are wide, expressive, fringed in black and as green as my jacket in the mirror. I plump my lips. They’re cherry-red even before I put on lipstick.

The definition of beauty changes according to culture and time. I’ve read this. What people look like means nothing in the big scheme, and with my bony hips and sunken cheeks beneath visible cheekbones, most cultures would have deemed me ugly a thousand years ago.

Tied to a moment and place, beauty is subjective, and at present, America’s standards shine favorably on me. I’m the ideal, some beauty incarnate, a curse and a blessing that sustains my lifestyle.

Don’t listen when the world implies that beauty breeds happy; it doesn’t. It does not. See, with beauty comes prejudice, and me—I know this all too well.

But tonight I don’t hate myself. Tonight, I’m a scientist analyzing what guys lose their heads over, accepting that my face and body are why men crave me and women abhor me.

“Centuries ago, you’d have been burned as a witch.”
My eyes widen, round and catlike at the memory of cruelties flung after me by heartbroken girlfriends.
“I’d have lit that fire myself.”

I crush my eyes closed. Those girls don’t know. If they were in my shoes, they’d do the same thing. They’re lucky. All they have to worry about is a mate cheating on them a time or two. No one ever locked them up in a stall before they were old enough to feel.

I could say that I would swap my beauty for a life like theirs. But whom would I swap with? Not even the awful women of Rigita deserve to live through what it has cost me.

Suddenly, I’m in a mood. It’s dark in my apartment. I need to get my shit together. I stalk to the TV and turn on our local station, allowing Keyon’s father’s big moment to flood my den with superficial fun.

I inhale. Exhale. I’m a pro at reeling myself in when I start down this track. There’s music at the Civic Center, some quartet of violins playing in long dresses. I grab a bottle from the table–an old Spanish liqueur I’ve liked for a while—and pour another glass over ice while I apply war paint.

War paint, indeed.

Mack will pick me up. He’s the best. He’ll be a cowboy, he said, and he’ll escort me to the mayoral mansion. I’m not allowed to wear a mask there. It’s out of security concerns for the mayor, because what if some loony decided to go rogue in his house?

But I’m Robin Hood, and I need to hide. Black. Is black the color of Robin Hood’s mask? It’s the only color I have. I search the Internet and find out he wears no mask. I don’t care. I paint it on thickly.

“A quickie before we leave,” Mack pleads when he picks me up. “You’re so fucking hot right now.”

I don’t feel it. I rarely say no to anyone, especially not to a friend, but I’m nervous, and all I can think about is getting a real-life glimpse of my childhood crush. “Not tonight, Mack—we’re late. I’d rather get going.”

“Really?” Mack’s brows bunch together. “You’re not putting out? What did I do? Come on, you know I’ll take two minutes flat if I have to.”

We make it halfway down the staircase before I relent. I roll my Robin Hood tights down enough for him to get in while I lean over the banister. It’s worth it when I hear his happy groans. “I’ll be fast,” he pants behind me. “Can I take your boobs out?”

“No, this cleavage took some work,” I say, “with the ruffles and all.”

He squeezes them from the outside, which I don’t mind.

“Coming,” Mack announces his moment. I jut my butt out to make it better for him, and his hands dig into my hips, holding me there. “Damn, hottest Robin Hood ever,” he groans. Then he draws out of me and tries to pull my undies back up in place. The man is not good at dressing others—good thing he doesn’t have children, I think as I straighten myself out.

Relieved, he chatters about the party and ties the condom on our way to the car. He tosses it in the big trash bin on the corner while I check my wig in the rearview mirror. It’s all in place. It’s like no one just gave me a ninety-second fuck. Good.

The Coral Mansion occupies an entire square downtown. People stream up the cobblestoned driveway to the oversized entrance. The front doors are wide open, and even from where we park I glimpse silver trays with flutes held high over waiters dressed like penguins.

Flickering lanterns and string lights lead the way to the Greek columns that frame the entrance. There seems to be a fire roaring in the lobby. I guess it isn’t every day Keyon’s dad becomes the mayor of Rigita.

Greeters smile and nod us up the granite steps. My heart’s skipping beats as Mack’s hand finds my spine and guides me up.

I feel like Cinderella about to get an eyeful of the prince. I’m scared he’ll see me—and somehow hope for it too. Keyon might not even be here. Maybe he went to the Civic Center for the ceremony, and then he got right back on a plane to Florida?

Paislee. Stop. Fretting.

“Ma’am, I need you to take your mask off. No masks allowed,” someone stern and customs-officer-like says.

“It’s not a mask. It’s makeup,” I say.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s a security issue. There are porta-potties in the front.” The guard jerks his head in the direction of the mobile bathrooms on the sidewalk. “You’re welcome to clean it off there and come back afterward.”

“I can’t.” I shake my head. “I need this makeup. If I don’t wear it, I can’t go in.” I’m not making my case, but no points, not even remotely valid points, occur to me. Even my voice sounds childish and petulant.

“Sir,” Mack says in his grown-up pitch. “With all due respect, you should be able to see the difference between a young woman wanting to experience a wonderful party and a terrorist. Don’t ask her to ruin her perfect costume because you’re interpreting your rules in a square way.”

Customs Guy puffs his chest out, rightfully offended.
Thanks for helping, Mack
.
Yay.
“Sir. I have my orders, and I’m here to make sure the mayor remains safe. Now, please, step out of the line until you have decided what you want to do. You have two choices: leave or get rid of the mask.”

“It’s
makeup
. Touch her if you don’t believe me.” Mack enunciates clearly, raising his voice. We’re earning looks from people around us. I want less, not more attention than usual, and the last thing I need is for anyone to recognize me thinking that the town slut’s making a scene.

It’s futile at this point, but I try again in a hushed tone, compensating for Mack’s vehemence. “Please, sir. I promise. All I want is to be a part of this, dance a little, maybe have a drink.”

“What’s going on, Eric?” someone says. I’ve never heard that voice before, but when I glance up, the first thing I see is the mouth talking. His lips are plump, soft in the middle with a double arc at the top and a small scar at the right corner.

There’s no air left in my lungs. For a few seconds, I struggle until I pull in a harsh breath.

“Keyon,” Customs Guy replies, sounding servile. “Sorry about that. I was just instructing these guests, here, as to the policy on masks.”

“I’m not wearing a mask,” I whisper. It’s the best I can do. Makes sense too, because Keyon, up front, center, in my face, is so much more than on TV. He used to be this little boy. Now, he’s a big, tall man with meaty shoulders and thick arms straining against a white dress shirt, and his eyes—

His eyes, they turn to me,
bore
into me. He’s holding my gaze, honey-whiskey irises simmering and moving, and I can’t look away.

He sees me. I know he’ll recognize me, and then the awkward dance will begin: him, wanting to polite-chat about our lives. Me, having nothing to tell him besides how I barely finished high school and now work in a mirror factory.

That’s it. That’s it. And then, if he stays in Rigita for a few days, he’ll find out who I am to this town. He’ll learn of my notoriety, learn how everyone looks down on me. How they hate me or take me, or both.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“I think this one will be fine,” Keyon murmurs. “It
is
makeup, and I think I can take her if she acts up,” he jokes. Keyon must be six-foot-four, at least, and I’m—a foot shorter. “But Eric, make sure she goes through the metal detector, all right? Gotta strip her of all the guns and knives.”

“All right, sir. Makes sense,” Customs Eric says, not catching Keyon’s joke. He swings to me and changes his pitch into drill-sergeant mode. “Get movin’. Up the stairs and to the left until you hit the Old West station. They’ll tell you what to do next. I’ll be giving them a buzz, so don’t try anything stupid or there’ll be no partying tonight.”

“Thanks, man,” Mack says to Keyon, who grabs his outstretched hand. “I’m Mack Sonnenhaus, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Mack. Keyon Arias.”

“Great fight the other day,” he fakes. Mack must have watched thirty seconds tops. Keyon grins back, eyes floating to me, ready for an introduction.

“Oh yeah,” Mack begins, “this is my friend—”

“Rubina,” I say. “Rubina Hood.” I wink to both of them.

“Ah.” Keyon laughs softly, a sound that travels through my body. “Of course you are.”

Disguises are amazing. In this moment, I can talk to Keyon, even flirt without my life tearing open and flooding him with its gore. I can be glamorous or my quirky, real self. I can be “adorbs” as Mack calls it, a word he’s borrowed from his niece.

I’m back in control. Like in bed, I’m in control. It’s a rare sensation, because outside of Win’s Hall of Mirrors I never know when someone’s going to insult me or when a pissed-off wife will attack. This is why I used to love dressing up.

“Champagne, guys?” Keyon asks, swiping a few glasses of crackling gold from a passing waiter. Wooden floors stretch below expensive stilettos and shiny dress shoes in the enormous hallway.

Piano trills reach me from the open doors into a living room. I take a sip of my glass and close my eyes briefly. Moments like this one, full of scent and color, need to be frozen into a film clip. I suck it in, memorize it, and open my eyes to find Keyon staring right at me.

I smirk. Pull my lips up on both sides, but keep the middle part of my mouth pouted. It’s an expression I’ve perfected, and it drives guys crazy. One of Keyon’s eyebrows tilts upward like he’s trying to figure me out.

“I like your house,” I say.

“My house, huh?”

“Yes, yours. You’re Fighter Boy who came home to see his dad get into his position,” I purr in a voice that’s right up there with Marilyn Monroe’s. It’s another thing I’ve perfected over the years.

Keyon breathes a quiet laugh. “You’re a handful, aren’t you?”

“She is,” Mack says. “Sure as hell. Be careful with this one.” He sends me a side-glance, recognizing the gear I’m switching to.

Keyon stares at Mack, eyes squinted in concentration. “You know her well, don’t you?” he asks like I’m not even there.

“Can’t say I don’t,” Mack replies, straightening so he can meet Keyon’s gaze. For a second, I catch possessiveness in my friend. After the first times Mack and I slept together, he acted jealous. Funny how guys can be that way: they don’t want to be exclusive, but they still want your exclusive focus.

Mack and I have worked together for years, and I’ve provided him with sexual relief for most of that time. He’s seen my game, been present when I’ve shown interest in new men. He’s got experience now, is aware of our non-status, so his flicker of possessiveness dies as quickly as it appeared.