Rainbow Body

Chapter 1DYKE. It’s an echo that bounces off the tall, industrial brick buildings. It reaches my ears several times, milliseconds apart, sounding like it’s coming from every direction, fainter and fainter until it’s gone. The utterer is never seen, perhaps ducking behind a car or into the shadows of an alleyway, probably laughing triumphantly to themselves or whoever is in their captive audience. It has nothing to do with the way I look; from a hundred feet away, I show no signs—I have no buzz cut or steel-toe boots to give me up. One must get close to see the rainbow bracelet on my right wrist. Its strategic placement: the hand used to shake for a greeting. The shout’s got everything to do with which side of the street I stand on. Fifty feet to my right, the bouncer is placing a stool outside the door. She’s just my type. The rest of the block is parking lots and deserted warehouses. I pretend to toy with my cell phone: 10:55. No one worth meeting is ever inside before eleven. I laugh to myself. Part of me would like to call back to the mystery screamer. As if that’s an insult. As if I’m ashamed. We appropriated the epithet years ago, learning to use it for ourselves—Get with the times. But I know better. It’s not worth the potential worst-case scenario—whoever it is could be bigger, stronger, driven by hate, out for the thrill of a gay-bashing. Any and all of these things would ruin my night. Instead, I hold my head high in quiet pride. My cell phone strikes a silent eleven, and like clockwork, lesbians arrive in droves. A line forms and I linger so as not to seem overeager. I’m alone for the moment—my friends are late, as usual—momentarily, I will enter into the royal game. I know it all too well—posturing in excess; pheromones rampant. There are unisex bathrooms, and it doesn’t matter who hits on whom. But with one exception: there’s always, without fail, a trove of butches at the pool table, their games punctuated by the crack of balls and the occasional shout of frustration or triumph. I know to go to the bar rather than challenge the butches. Even though I majored in Physics in college and could probably beat most of them at their own game, my denim skirt practically dictates it. I am all girl—curves, makeup—and showing up uninvited to the pool table would garner me strange looks and whispers about my outright bravado. Part of me wants to infiltrate the billiard club because I’d love to wipe the floor with them, literally beating them at their own game. But most of it has to do with lust: it’s probable that the majority of those that play on any given night are the objects of my evening-long desire. If I had it my way, I’d challenge the reigning champion of the night, and not only would I beat her, I’d take her home. The short-haired bouncer looks me up and down as she takes my ID and shines her flashlight on it, rippling muscles beneath intricate sleeve tattoos on both arms. “Nice shirt,” she comments, taking notice of my charcoal Black Sabbath band T-shirt. I smile, thank her, try not to squirm; she winks in return. I’ve been doing this for years and it still makes me nervous. I am at the mouth of the cave. It’s a familiar purgatory that can only be relieved by stepping through the pearly gates. The bouncer gives me one last smile before holding my ID out between two fingers for me to take. I wonder if she’s this nice to everyone or she’s hitting on me; instinctively, I run a preening hand through my long, wavy brown hair before taking it from her. Inside are all the old sights and sounds—the jukebox alternates between classic rock and lesbian folk; a female DJ is setting up her equipment. Every so often, the thrum of cross-conversations and background music is punctuated by the clink of glasses from behind the bar. I sit at the bar and order a beer. Layla’s here tonight—I catch a glimpse of her entering as I turn to look for my friends. I exhale through my teeth, stare straight ahead, and suddenly feel invisible. The mere fact of her presence has that effect on me: combat boots, green eyes that are miles deep, pouty lips and all those tattoos, wiry dark brown hair that’s in perpetual bedhead. I met Layla in college, when she was the blue-Mohawked girl that I fell for in Comparative Literature class. We were from parallel universes back then: she, the girl who sat alone in the back, headphones around her neck, perpetually silent and half-asleep; me, the cliché in the front, taking meticulous notes as I hung on the professor’s every word, interpreting the classics down to the letter. Never in a million years did I expect she’d pay me any mind. And for the most part, she didn’t. Never mind that I couldn’t string a sentence together around her. When I came out of the closet at the end of freshman year, it was Layla I had in my head. Layla is still the elusive siren. We’re still an entire galaxy apart: me, on the outer orbits of her singular gravitational pull, in the cold and forgotten nether regions of the edges of her light. Her presence seems to change the molecular makeup of my body; I’m cowering quietly over the beer that I’ll likely nurse for the rest of the night, rather than trying to meet someone new. Pathetic. I look at my phone, desperate to busy myself. My best friend and roommate, Nicole, has texted: Sorry, we’re bad friends. Kate & I will be there soon. I sigh, roll my eyes, reply. Ok fine. A butch with reddish brown hair and black glasses sits next to me. “Hi.” “Hi,” I reply coyly. She’s plain but striking in a black turtleneck and jeans. Her hazel eyes sparkle at me as she’s clearly turning on the charm. I’m already blushing: no matter how many times I come here and go through this, getting approached somehow makes me forget all semblance of grace and poise. I am beside myself with flattery and awe. “Are you with anyone?” she asks. “No.” I bat my eyes and give her my best smile. “I mean, my friends are coming. But I’m not with with anyone.” I’m babbling, stumbling over my words. My new friend holds out her hand. “I’m Tess,” she says. I give her my hand. “Maya.” She’s got a firm grip, a sign of good character. She lets her hand linger on mine for a moment. I blush. “So, Maya, tell me a little about yourself.” There’s the boring stuff: I’m out of college four years, and am a legal secretary to pay the bills. I’m a yoga buff; Tess takes the opportunity to feel my bicep for proof. “Impressive,” she says. I’m beginning to dabble in Zen Buddhism. My true passion is Physics, which I swear one day I’ll go back to when I have the time and money and wherewithal to go back to school. Tess’s eyes light up at this. “A fellow science nerd!” she emotes. “It’s so rare I get to meet one in a place like this.” I’m every bit as surprised as she is; when I ask her what she means, she’s all too happy to tell me she’s a third-year cardiology student. I’m ready to start conversing with Tess in earnest—I ask her about her studies and she’s got stories that are punctuated with enthusiasm and the kind of fire in the heart I’ve rarely seen since college. There’s nothing sexier than a girl who does what she loves and loves what she does. Tess is in the throes of a story about her residency at the SUNY Downstate Hospital when Nicole and Kate come from out of nowhere and barge into the conversation. “Ohmigod, we are awful. Sorry we kept you waiting so long,” Nicole announces, running a hand through her long, dirty-blonde hair. Nicole is dressed plainly in a black tank top and skinny jeans with ripped knees. But she’s got the kind of body that can make anything look like a fashion statement: she’s long and lithe, standing a full three inches taller than me. She might have been a model if she’d been blessed with a little bit more height; still, she carries herself as if she’s six feet tall. “Kate changed her outfit like eight million times,” Nicole continues, nodding accusatorially at our mutual friend. Kate shrugs sheepishly. “Sorry,” she squeaks. Kate looks perfect in a black miniskirt and beige V-necked sweater. There’s not a follicle out of place on her dark brown, shoulder-length mane, and her makeup is perfect. I met Kate in college. She’s a super-smart, feminist-literature buff who helped me get through the likes of calculus and we ended up remaining friends. Of course, she sticks out like a sore thumb here—too dressed up for the lesbian dive, looking as if she might have wandered in here by accident during a bachelorette party with her fancy friends. I glance at Tess, the awkwardness of the moment clamping down on our meet-cute like a vise. My friends have come in at exactly the wrong time, and it’s clear from the look on Tess’s face that she feels the poor timing just as strongly as I do. Nicole follows my gaze and turns to Tess. “Oh, not only are we bad friends but we’re rude too. I’m Nicole, Maya’s would-be sister, and this is Kate.” Pause. “We’re not gay,” she adds. “Nicole,” I scold, my face reddening with embarrassment. Kate’s face reddens; she looks silently mortified enough to crawl under a barstool. As if by instinct, she wrings her hands, her two-carat engagement ring catching the dingy light. Kate’s engaged to be married to Ray, who she met just six months ago; he’s a plastic surgeon in his late thirties with a lucrative private practice on the Upper West Side. He’s got loads of money and more premature aging than one would expect from a successful plastic surgeon; I always thought he looked comically mismatched next to Kate, with his lackluster gray eyes, receding hairline, and salt-and-pepper beard. But he’s nice enough; he never looks at his bride-to-be without a hint of surprise in his gaze, like he’s brutally aware that he hit the jackpot with her. He proposed after they’d been dating for four months and insists that she give up her job as an adjunct lecturer at our alma mater as soon as they tie the knot. “But I don’t want to,” Kate always says, her voice lowering to a whisper, as if he might be around to catch her. “I didn’t get into teaching literature for the money. I love it. He’ll come around.” I shoot a look of apology at Tess. “What? We’re not,” Nicole replies, before turning back to Tess. “It’s true.” Tess lets out an awkward laugh, turning to me. “It was nice meeting you,” she says quickly. “Hope to see you around,” I blurt, not wanting her to go but not really blaming her for leaving. “See ya.” Tess excuses herself, and Nicole takes her empty barstool. I wait until Tess is out of sight before shooting Nicole a look of death. “What?!” she screeches, tossing her dirty blonde hair over her shoulder. She holds out a righteous finger, pointing at me. “Don’t you give me that look.” I roll my eyes. “We’re not gay?! She thought you were talking about me, too.” “Oh, whatever.” Nicole leans forward, taking Kate and me into her confidence. “Layla’s here.” Nicole gives me a smug look, as if to say, I did you a favor. I wish it weren’t true—I wish that after all this time I could be in the same room with Layla and not care so much. And yet… “I know,” I reply, the last of my pride crumbling around me. I resign myself to the ever-presence of my six-, no—seven-, no—eight-year crush on Layla. Damn. “And when are you going to finally do something about it?” Nicole presses. “Hmm. Never.” I cross my arms defiantly. “Maya. YOLO.” “YOLO? What are you, twelve?” “Ugh.” Nicole rolls her eyes at me. “You’re impossible.” Nicole looks over my shoulder and past me, nodding slightly toward the pool table. “Looks like she’s got some serious competition going over there,” she says, and is off the barstool. “Let’s go watch.”