Wallflower (Rear Entrance Video, #2) Read online

  He had a lot to apologize for. A lot of people to apologize to.

  Dylan. His sister. His roommates. Mike.

  He’d fucked this up from the very start.

  Well, since he wasn’t fucking sleeping anyway . . .

  He sat up in bed, smoothed his hair back with his millionth deep breath of the night, and headed for his computer.

  Logged onto his abandoned Kingdom of Elves account. Unblocked Mike. Luckily, it was 2 a.m. on a weeknight, so Mike was online. Not messaging him, but online. Well, Rob had come this far.

  FakeGeekGirl93: Hey Mike.

  It took a few minutes, but at last a reply appeared.

  LetsDoScience: Hello, stranger.

  FakeGeekGirl93: I think I owe you an apology. Can we talk? On cam???

  The video invitation popped up immediately.

  No makeup, no extensions, no headband, no glasses, none of it. Rob accepted.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Mike, with his massive headphones and wearing a T-shirt from a webcomic, put down his massive bottle of Mountain Dew and frowned. “Uh . . . hey.”

  “So, um, I guess by now you’ve figured out I’m, well . . .”

  Mike’s eyebrows shot up, and for a second it looked like he was about to laugh. “Username FakeGeekGirl. Fake geek girl. Ha-ha, I get it.”

  “Yeah. Fake girl, not fake geek. That’s me.” Rob waved timidly.

  “So what, is this the part where you admit your plan all along was to lure me to some remote cabin in the woods?”

  “I deserve that,” Rob replied with a wince.

  Mike didn’t look angry, though. He looked sad. “No, you don’t. Can I be honest with you? I kinda . . . knew.”

  No way!

  Rob hadn’t said it aloud, but Mike must have seen it on his face, because he nodded. “Yeah. From the time we, uh . . . had phone sex, actually. I mean, you have a good girl voice, but not that good.”

  “Oh.” Rob’s eyebrows stitched together. “So why did you ask me to take my shirt off then?”

  “I never!” As generic and defensive as the protest was, Rob could see it all over Mike’s face: he really hadn’t. What was it with Rob? A consummate faker surrounded by honest men. “Oh shit, is that what you thought I was going to ask you? When you hung up on me all suddenly and blocked me?”

  Rob blushed fiercely. “Um, yes?”

  “Wow. Don’t have a high opinion of me, huh? Well, for your information, I was going to ask for your address so I could send you a gift.”

  “A gift?”

  “Yeah. Flowers. I know it’s lame, but that’s what girls do to me. They turn me lame.”

  “That’s not lame, Mike. It’s sweet!” Rob replied, unable to help the little bit of Bobby that seeped into the words. “But wait, by then you knew I was a guy. Why flowers?”

  “I still liked you. I still do. Like you. I figured you were transgendered—”

  “Transgender,” Rob corrected gently.

  Mike squirmed in his computer chair, eyes squinting at some middle distance. “Yeah. Sorry. Not up on the correct terminology. You know, born in a dude body but really a girl inside. Are you? Is that okay to ask? I should have read up on this stuff more. I got a pamphlet at the LGBT center on campus, but I never read it.”

  “I . . .” God, nobody had asked Rob that question directly before. He wasn’t even sure how to answer it. “I don’t think so? Actually, no. No, I’m not. I mean, I like my dick. I like being a guy. I just like being a girl sometimes too. And not just as a sex thing, which I think is an important distinction? Or feels like it should be? I guess I’m both. Guy and girl. But more guy.”

  Mike’s face fell. “Oh. Because, you know, if you were a transgender, I mean, a transgender girl, that would be okay. I don’t have like a fetish or anything, but I wouldn’t mind.” A pause, and then he added, “But since you’re not, that doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends and everything. Just friends.”

  God, this guy was seriously too good to be true. Too bad Rob wasn’t a girl.

  Something clicked. Mike didn’t care that he cross-dressed. Didn’t judge him for it, didn’t think less of him, didn’t care about his genitals or his chromosomes. All he wanted was to date a girl.

  How Rob saw himself, that was what mattered.

  All Dylan wanted was to date a guy.

  Rob was a guy. A guy who didn’t always look or sound or dress like a guy, but definitely not a girl, either.

  That was why Dylan had wanted an answer. That was why he’d been afraid to commit. He’d known about Rob’s cross-dressing from the start, but he hadn’t known what it meant. Hadn’t known if Rob was considering making the change to Bobby permanently.

  Who I am. What I want.

  Rob was a guy. A kind of fucked-up, unconventional guy, but a guy all the same.

  And what he wanted was Dylan.

  With the revelations out of the way, he and Mike talked well into the night. About Rob’s gender confusion, at first, a discussion that included several apologies for the way he’d misled and mistreated Mike, and just as many expressions of thanks for how cool Mike was being about all this. After that, they mostly caught up with each other, shot the shit about college, that sort of thing. They ended the night by doing a dungeon run together, and the whole time Mike made fun of Rob for being so rusty with his old character.

  “Thanks for being my friend,” Rob said when it was time for bed.

  “Thanks for being mine. So hey, before you log off, can you tell me your real name?”

  No hesitation. “Robert.”

  “Wow, so Bobby must have been a real stretch, huh? You sure are one creative dude.”

  “Says the guy who named his elf alt after a character from Lord of the Rings.”

  “I believe you will find that Fëanor, son of Finwë is a character from The Silmarillion, my friend. Now go to bed. And go to fucking school tomorrow, you slacker.”

  Even though they weren’t on video chat anymore, Rob saluted him. “Yes, sir! Goodnight, sir!”

  “G’night, Rob.”

  The next morning, Rob tried calling Dylan. Straight to voicemail. Not too encouraging, but there was always school. They couldn’t really talk over their issues in class, of course, but maybe they could meet for lunch, or go to that pizza place Dylan liked. Anywhere, it didn’t matter. They could go anywhere, just so long as Rob got to give Dylan his answer. Hear Dylan’s reply.

  But when Rob showed up at the Emily Carr campus at quarter to nine, Dylan wasn’t in class. He wasn’t there on Wednesday, either. Or the Monday after that.

  Finally, on the last day of regular classes before exams, Rob got up the guts to ask Doctor Chastity about Dylan’s whereabouts. Had Dylan dropped the course or something?

  “Oh,” she said, stuffing her overheads and dry erase markers into her satchel. “No, nothing like that. He asked for some time off for a family emergency. He’s still going to be at the class’s final art show. Speaking of which, I’ve noticed you’ve been missing a lot of classes, too, Mister Ng. Are you going to have a piece for the show? Because straight talk, if you don’t, you’re going to fail my class.”

  Shit. Shitshitshit.

  With everything else going on, Rob had totally forgotten the stupid self-portrait-in-an-unfamiliar-medium project. Oh, sure, Doctor Chastity had mentioned it a couple of times, but Rob had been too busy craning his neck searching for Dylan.

  “Oh, yes,” he lied, with enthusiasm. “I’m just putting the finishing touches on my . . . piece now. It’ll be done on time, promise.”

  Doctor Chastity nodded like a woman who didn’t believe one word she was hearing. “Good boy. I can’t imagine what it’d be like to have to take this class twice. But I’ll tell you, teaching it multiple times? Sucks the big one.”

  Warning received.

  Instead of heading to the bus stop like he usually did, Rob went to the open studio, which on this particular day was full of fellow procrastinators putting last minut
e touches on their final assignments.

  At least everyone else in the room could say they’d started their various projects. Rob sure as hell hadn’t. He scrounged up a canvas and some acrylic paints. A mirror.

  This was his chance, he realized. Dylan would be at the show. This project could serve as Rob’s answer. To Dylan’s question, but to the whole world, too. His sister, his roommates, his professor, his indifferent classmates. He’d tell them all, and he wouldn’t be ashamed, and he wouldn’t apologize.

  What was it Dylan had said about pop art? Love it or hate it, you sure as fuck can’t ignore it.

  Rob was tired of being ignored, but more than that, he was tired of ignoring himself. He’d been stalling, refusing to put a name to who and what he was, refusing to come out to the people he loved, refusing to give Dylan the straight answer he so desperately wanted and needed to move forward.

  And the question wasn’t just Dylan’s, either. It wasn’t just Dylan who needed an answer. Rob may not have been smart enough to voice it, but it was his question, too. The question he’d been asking himself, over and over, ever since he’d first donned a woman’s sweatshirt and mascara.

  Who am I?

  What was a self-portrait, if not an answer to that exact question? He looked down into the mirror and saw two faces looking back.

  Rob’s determined eyes. Bobby’s confident smile.

  He was going to need another canvas.

  Two hours after Rob had sent the text to Bernice, his first to her in weeks, he finally received a reply.

  Fine. I’ll go. But only b/c it’s ur first real show. I’m still mad as hell at you.

  Rob picked up his phone, smiling despite himself. He could just picture Bernice nagging at the phone and pacing her bedroom, the whole time trying to defend never speaking to her baby brother again before finally breaking down and texting back.

  He hit reply, forcing himself to stop thinking about his sister’s dramatics so that he could be appropriately serious with her. I understand. Hopefully all will be explained at the show.

  See you at 6, she texted back. Could texts be curt? Based on the evidence in front of him, yes, yes they could, because if anyone could manage such a feat, it was Bernice. The girl was so outgoing and open that her emotions just poured off her, kind or cruel, like an overflow. And Rob most definitely deserved the cruel at this point. He only hoped a gesture of openness and honesty on his end at tonight’s art show would maybe swing her mood in the other direction.

  He’d invited all the guys to the show, as well. Max and Christian, who were still being extra considerate and careful with him after that night at the store, were quick to say yes. Noah agreed on the condition he be allowed to bring his girlfriend—“It’ll give me wicked cred with her friends if I take her on an artsy date, c’mon, pleeease!”—and with everyone else going, Austin begrudgingly agreed, as well. The guy never could stand to be the odd man out. Maybe that was something being in team athletics did to you.

  No time to think on it, though, because it was already 4:30 and he was supposed to be at the student gallery early to help with setup.

  But first, to get dressed. He tore into his shopping bags from the Chinese mall, looking for the pieces for the outfit he’d put together for the gallery show. Grey wool dress pants, ultra skinny in the calves but flared around the thighs in a style reminiscent of riding trousers, which he paired, of course, with black knee-high boots, although these seemed more fit for a ride on a motorcycle than a show horse. The next item out of the bag was a white cotton shirt that cut close to his body and had a high, narrow collar that he buttoned right up to the throat. Finally, a black blazer with a feminine drape of fabric on one half and a neat, more typical menswear cut on the other. Apropos, Rob thought, especially when he pinned a feather brooch to his chest on the masculine side.

  The clothes were totally over the top, showier than anything he’d worn as either Rob or Bobby, but that was what he wanted. For tonight, for the rest of his life. To not be ignored anymore. To not hide anymore. To walk the fine line between two genders, and fuck anybody who didn’t like it, or thought they could use it for their own gains.

  He’d made another trip to Sephora today as well. This time, though, he’d told the salesgirl he was buying for himself, and she’d helped him choose black eyeliner and a shiny nude lip gloss. Putting it all together—boots and shirt, jacket and makeup and brooch—transformed him. Not into Bobby, not as Rob knew her, but a boy named Bobby, yes, that seemed distinctly possible. He only hoped Dylan would see him, see his self-portrait, and understand.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d do, otherwise.

  Oh, well. Now wasn’t the time for doubts and insecurities, it was the time for action.

  Who I am. What I want.

  Six o’clock. Rob lingered by his portrait(s), trying not to tap his toe impatiently. He was dressed cool now, after all. He needed to act cool, too, or else he wouldn’t be able to pull all this off.

  None of the people Rob had invited were here yet, and if Dylan was, he hadn’t crossed paths with Rob yet. Probably lurking around his own piece. Or maybe he was late. Or maybe he’d copped out sick and was planning on letting his assignment speak for itself.

  There was someone nearby, though. One of the cardigan crew, a brunette girl with blunt bangs. She was wearing a navy polka-dot dress with a white cardigan and sunshine yellow tights. Mary Janes. Of course.

  “Love your piece,” she said, gesturing with her wine glass to the two portraits that hung on the white wall just to the left of where Rob was standing. “What is it, commentary on the preference for sons in Chinese culture?”

  “Something like that,” Rob said, even though it was nothing like that at all.

  “Sorry, you know, I don’t know your name?” She tilted her head.

  “Bobby,” he replied. “Bobby Ng. You’re Candace, right?”

  She flashed him a bright smile. “Yeah! Well, um, nice to meet you, Bobby. Maybe we’ll have more classes together?”

  “Maybe,” Bobby replied, and watched her float away on a tide of twee.

  Bernice showed up in her wake, wearing her go-to Little Black Dress and five-inch heels. Just because she was angry at Rob didn’t mean she wouldn’t take this opportunity to dress to the nines.

  When she finally recognized Rob standing there, the annoyed look fell right off her face. “Rob! Wow!” She rushed forward, clasping him by both shoulders, just about to pull him into a hug before she remembered herself. “Still mad at you, but wow. You look . . . cool! I like it.” It was then that her pupils flicked just to the left of Bobby’s face, making eye contact with the painting over his shoulder. “Oh, is this yours? It’s a pretty good likeness. I didn’t know you could pai—”

  And now she’d seen the second half of the piece.

  “Um, Rob, is this supposed to be me?” She blinked rapidly. “Because it kinda looks like you in drag.”

  Bobby turned to scrutinize the two side-by-side paintings, one of Rob in one of his usual baggy grey henleys, eyes half hidden behind his floppy bangs, and the other of Bobby, looking beautiful and flirtatious with her hair long and her makeup on . . . all while wearing the same grey henley.

  “It is me in drag,” he said, commenting on it as matter-of-factly as if he’d been commenting on a dime-a-dozen watercolor landscape.

  “Oh,” Bernice said. “Um, please don’t get offended, but I feel like you’re trying to tell me something with this and . . . are you trying to tell me something, Rob?”

  Bobby took her hand and nodded. “I like dressing up as a girl,” he said. No point dancing around it, no point mincing words. “I think I’m both, actually. Guy and girl. I’m still figuring it out, myself, but you’re my sister and I wanted you to know.”

  Bernice was quiet for a while after that, but at last she shook her head and clucked her tongue and said, “You always were an odd one,” before she pulled him into a tight, unflinching hug.

  “I love you,” h
e said into her shoulder, trying hard not to get teary-eyed and ruin his eyeliner. “And I’m sorry.”

  “You better be fucking sorry,” she replied. “I love you, too.”

  She stuck nearby after their long hug ended, and was at his side when he gave his roommates the same speech, more or less. Christian and Max were predictably cool with it, thanking him for trusting them with this part of himself, Noah was struck dumb with confusion, requiring his girlfriend Jenny to provide the Coles Notes version. Austin wasn’t quite so understanding; when Bobby had finished speaking and Noah had finished asking his fifty questions, Austin gave a big, put-upon sigh and cried, “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” to the ceiling, before storming off in a huff.

  Noah may have been completely fucking lost on the difference between sex and gender and gender identity and gender presentation, but he had the sense to glare at Austin as he went. “Don’t mind him, Rob,” he growled, “I’ll straighten the fucker out, or else he can find a new place to stay.” With that, he stalked off in the direction Austin had gone, leaving Rob standing with his sister, Christian, Max, and Jenny.

  “There’s something else,” Bobby said, and took a deep, fortifying breath. “Christian, I’m ready to talk to you about what happened at the store that night, now.”

  “Sure,” Christian said. “Of course.”

  “Yeah. Let’s hear it,” someone else said.

  Dylan.

  Bobby’s gaze was drawn to him, even though he was terrified about what he’d see. He missed Dylan, missed his jokes and his body and the way he saw the world, the way he talked about art, and somehow all of that feeling had translated into this insatiable desire to just see his face, and he wouldn’t feel so lonely anymore.

  Of course, it didn’t happen like that at all. Dylan looked much the same as always, but there was a wall between them, Dylan closed to Bobby in a way he’d never been before, not even when they’d first met.

  Even so, Bobby looked right at him, expression neutral, forcing himself to push through the hurt he felt at the wary, distant anger he got back in return. “I’d been dressing up as a girl for all my shifts. This customer assaulted me one night.” Dylan’s eyes widened in horror, but Bobby soldiered on, even though his voice shook. “When he . . . g-groped me, he figured out I wasn’t, um, what I first appeared, so he blackmailed me. Said he’d tell all you guys about Bobby if I didn’t do what he said. That night I called you, Christian, was the night he tried to assault me again. He made me lock the door and go into the peepshow booth where the cameras couldn’t see and I think he planned on—” Bobby didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to relive it, not even in the most clinical language possible. He was already trembling slightly. “But now I’ve told you all myself, see, so now he doesn’t have anything on me anymore.”