Best Lesbian Romance 2012 Page 9

  Inside the ballroom, a hip-hop classic, Naughty by Nature’s “Hip Hop Hooray” blared from the giant speakers on either side of the DJ booth. There was a long table with fruit and cheese trays surrounding a block of ice sculpted into a towering ninety-eight. The ballroom was packed. There were three strobe lights and two enormous disco balls. A smoke machine puffed from behind one of the speakers and blue, yellow, green, and red beams of light shot up and out from beneath the DJ’s table.

  Sheldon held my hand and I waved to a few classmates, said a few hellos, and exchanged dress admiration with some girls from my homeroom as their dates stood quiet and nervous behind them.

  “Zaire, I’m so glad you’re here!” My friend Jamia threw her arms around me. “I need you.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “You look great! The dress turned out wonderfully.”

  Jamia did a quick spin and halfhearted curtsy. Her dress was baby blue with an intricate web of white lace across the strapless bodice. It wrapped around her thick hips and thighs and cascaded to the floor, ending in a lace hem that dovetailed into a train behind her.

  “You look good, too. That dress is gorgeous. And your date ain’t half-bad either.” She nudged Sheldon. He smiled.

  “Well, what’s the problem? Where’s Creisha?” I looked for our third musketeer.

  “Exactly.” Jamia grabbed my arm. “Sheldon, you’ll have to excuse us.”

  Jamia pulled me toward the side door of the ballroom and yanked me through the heavy doors into a bare hallway glowing with orange overhead lights. We stood in the hallway and met Creisha, who was leaning against the wall, her tiny brown purse on the floor next to her shoes, sexy little brown strappy stilettos.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Three hoes in there got on my dress! That’s what’s wrong.”

  Her dress was nice. It was chocolate brown with one strap over her left shoulder and tiny swirls of velvet-like material all over the satin dress.

  “Who knew anyone would wear brown to prom?” Jamia shook her head.

  “That’s what the hell I thought.” Creisha was heated. She kicked one of her shoes. “This is some bullshit.”

  “Well, you can’t stay in this hallway all night,” I said. I picked up her shoe and held it out to her.

  “I know. I know. But I don’t want to be out there with three damn clones out there with me.” Creisha put her shoes on.

  “Look, it happens. But it’s not the end of the world. It’s all about who’s wearing it best. And I can bet you that you look better in this dress than any of those other girls.” I put my arm around Creisha. She stiffened, then relaxed.

  “You’re right. I’m being dramatic.”

  “Understatement of the year,” Jamia said.

  “Shut up.” Creisha cut her eyes at her. “Not everybody can get a specially made dress around here.”

  Jamia shrugged.

  “Let’s go show everyone who’s wearing the dress best.” I smiled and rubbed Creisha’s back.

  “Yeah. Let’s go.” Creisha put her arm around my waist, Jamia pulled the door open, and the three of us walked back into the ballroom.

  The music was great. I danced with Sheldon for a few songs, and when he got tired, I danced with some other people from school, even dancing by myself for four songs in a row.

  “Top of the World” came on and couples converged, dancing close, cheek to cheek or heads resting on shoulders. I started looking for Sheldon but stopped when I heard someone call my name. I turned toward the ice sculpture. The nine-eight had melted down, and it looked like Stonehenge, the image indiscernible blocks open for interpretation.

  Daryan stood behind the table. I went toward her and she met me halfway. My heart burst at the sight of her, the pieces trickling down my insides like sparks from fireworks falling into Lake Michigan.

  Daryan wore a flowing white strapless dress. Her breasts were full, swelling from the beaded bodice. The dress looked creamy, like a waterfall of sweet coconut milk against her dark skin. Her dreads were pinned back into a ball; her eyes and expression were sharp. Her beauty cut me, sliced me right down the middle. Splayed, I felt exposed.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “Damn yourself.” Daryan stepped closer to me, and I took another step toward her. We embraced tentatively, as if we didn’t want to touch each other, but the very opposite was true.

  “You look…you…you’re…” I was stammering. “I didn’t…I didn’t think you were coming.”

  “It’s senior prom.” Daryan grinned. “Nine-eight and all that.” She pumped her arms, raising the roof with a roll of her eyes. “It’s part of the whole experience, right?”

  I smiled and nervously rubbed the back of my neck.

  “You having a good time?” she asked.

  “Um, yeah,” I said. “I’ve been dancing and…”

  “Where’s your people? Jamia and Creisha…and I imagine Sheldon’s here, too.”

  “Oh, they’re around.” I shrugged and waved my hand toward the dance floor. “You came alone?”

  Daryan nodded.

  I shook my head. It seemed a shame, a pure injustice that someone so beautiful would ever be anywhere alone. I was about to invite her to walk around with me when Jamia and Creisha came running up to us.

  “Oh my God, Daryan. Girl, you look good,” Creisha said.

  Jamia, stunned, finally found her voice. “You look great!”

  “Thank you.” Daryan looked at me, and I looked away.

  “You here with somebody?” Creisha asked, feeling the material of Daryan’s dress.

  “Nope,” Daryan said. “I just came to check it out.”

  “You doing more than checking it out looking like this.” Creisha walked around Daryan, sizing her up. “I didn’t know you had a body like that either,” she said, slapping Daryan’s ass.

  “Well, you know, I couldn’t show up in jeans.” Daryan shrugged and smoothed the front of her dress. We all shared a laugh.

  “Anyway, Zaire, we were coming to find you because Sheldon was looking for you. Plus, we getting ready to go,” Creisha said.

  “Where y’all going?” I asked.

  “We’re not leaving together, dummy,” Creisha said. “We just happen to be leaving at the same time. I think Sheldon’s ready to go, too.”

  Jamia sighed. “It’s getting boring. I’m about to grab my date and leave. We’re going to get something to eat and then I’m going home. This one here,” she jabbed her thumb at Creisha, “is going to the Hilton with Greg.”

  “The Hilton?” Daryan said. “Nice.”

  Creisha smirked. “Yeah. The Hilton. It’s a special night, right?”

  “That’s what I hear,” Daryan said. She looked into my eyes. I looked away, contemplating the thinning dance floor.

  “Guess I’ll see you all next week. I know there’ll be plenty of stories to tell.” Jamia gave each of us a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Even Daryan. The gesture surprised her. It showed on her face. Jamia and Creisha had been distant with Daryan since rumors of her being a dyke began rippling throughout Adams High.

  “Have a good night. I know I will,” Creisha said. She followed Jamia’s lead, but gave out one-armed hugs and air kisses.

  Daryan and I were left alone.

  “So you’re about to go?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I should. I mean, Sheldon’s looking for me and…”

  “It’s cool. I just came to show my face. And to see you.” Daryan looked down at the floor, then up at me.

  My face flushed.

  “You really look amazing, Zaire.” Daryan smiled and hugged me. She kissed my cheek. My body went rigid. Her lips were as soft as they looked.

  “Give me a call tomorrow,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said. “I will.”

  Daryan turned and walked out of the ballroom. I watched her until I couldn’t see her anymore.

  III.

  After we left the Winchester, Sheldon took
me to Konos. Even though I had been the one doing all the dancing, he proclaimed several times on the way to the Greek restaurant that he was starving. He inhaled a cheese steak and side of fries as I picked at a Reuben. I didn’t even know why I ordered anything. I wasn’t hungry, just tired and ready to go home. Seeing Daryan had done something to me, made me retreat into myself, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.

  Once in the car, Sheldon put his hand on my thigh as he drove. I thought for sure he was taking me home. I had told him while we were at the restaurant that my mother didn’t want me out all night.

  “She gave you a curfew tonight? Tonight? Prom night?” he had said incredulously. “That’s some bullshit.”

  I told him that she wanted me home by three a.m. It was two when he pulled up to Dineen Park. He parked, and we got out. We walked over to the man-made pond and sat down on the steps. I shivered and Sheldon put his jacket around my shoulders.

  “I got us a room,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. We were looking out at the water. It was like staring out at a pool of ink, the water still and black, seeming thick and substantial. “I’m sorry. I should have told you I’d have a curfew.”

  “It’s all right.” Sheldon put his arm around me. “What can you do? You could bust it, but…” He raised an eyebrow. I twisted my lips. “Right, right. Anyway, I had a good time tonight. I enjoyed you.” He kissed my cheek.

  “Me, too.” A small family of ducks rearranged themselves in front of us. The water gurgled and splashed. The ducks quacked and fluttered.

  “Really? I kind of felt like you were avoiding me or something.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “You seem distant. Like you want to be somewhere else. With someone else.”

  “What?” I shook my head. “No. No, I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You regret it don’t you? You wish we never had sex.”

  I gasped. Having sex with Sheldon was a test. I needed answers, and sleeping with him in the cool damp of his mother’s basement was the only way to combat the dead end the library had been. When I dreamt about Daryan, I started researching. I found books on the sexual revolution of the 1960s, Stonewall and Daughters of Bilitis. Feminisim. Lesbian rights movements, MtF, FtM, PFLAG, HRC, and GLBT. But everything I found was all too far away. Too formal, too removed. Where were the stories about young women like me, faced with the questions I had, the fears that had been multiplying like gremlins in the pit of my stomach? I had gathered my courage, attempted to face it somehow, to figure something out, and come up with nothing. There was nothing. Nothing about dreams, desires, demanding mothers, and disconcerting best friends. There was nothing like me, nothing like Daryan. Maybe it was all an apparition. I was being haunted and there was nothing really there. Testing myself with Sheldon felt like all I could do.

  “So, you gonna say something or…”

  “Sheldon, I don’t want to talk about it right now. Can you just take me home?” I asked, looking at him and clutching his jacket under my neck.

  “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Sheldon walked me to the door. He pulled me into him, holding me close.

  “We’re going to have to talk about us soon, Zaire,” Sheldon said.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.” A lump formed in my throat. A million things I needed to say lodged in my throat like a rock. I kissed him lightly, feeling like saying good-bye and meaning it in every sense of the word.

  The house was dark and quiet when I stepped inside. I slipped out of my shoes so they wouldn’t clack against the hardwood floors. I snuck downstairs and grabbed a pair of sneakers. I snatched the car keys off the hook in the kitchen and quietly pulled the front door closed as I left.

  When I got to Daryan’s house, I tossed tiny pebbles up at her dark windows. Just before I was about to give up, the square window on the side of the house went from black to yellow. The shade lifted and Daryan looked down, her dreads wild.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked when she came down to open the door.

  “I’m not sure.” I took a deep breath.

  “Come on,” she said. She opened the door to the apartment and I stepped inside. I still had on Sheldon’s jacket over my dress. With my stockings and black Reeboks, I knew I looked ridiculous.

  Daryan stood before me with her hands on her hips. She had on a pair of gray jogging pants, baggy and hanging off her hips, with a tight white tank top that stopped at her navel. Her belly button was deep, and I found myself staring at it, imagining myself diving into it. Diving into her.

  “What’s going on, Zaire?” Daryan looked concerned and serious.

  “I had to see you,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of stuff, trying to figure shit out and…” My voice was breaking as I spoke. Tears sprang to my eyes. I wiped them and looked away.

  Daryan grabbed my hand. “Let me show you something.”

  “Okay.”

  Daryan led me into her bedroom. She ushered me next to the bed, then went over to the bookshelf. She stretched behind the tower of books, and her arm finally emerged with a rolled canvas. She unfurled the canvas and spread it as best she could across the bed.

  It was a painting. Two hands reaching toward each other. Strong, black hands with slender fingers and incredible detail, veins and creases, cuticles and perfect nails. One reaching outward, a finger slightly extended, like pointing but more like reaching out, intending to touch. The other hand was relaxed in its reach, but still wanting, moving toward the extended finger.

  It was familiar. I had seen the two hands once before but couldn’t place it. The background of the painting was grayish blue with carefully placed hairline cracks that gave the painting a look of historic beauty, the almost-touching hands a message painted across ancient marble.

  “It’s called God’s Finger. My father painted it,” Daryan said. “It’s from the creation story on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. My father did a close-up of the hands, God’s and Adam’s, from heaven to Earth.” She pointed at the canvas.

  I stood back. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah, it’s my favorite one. He made the hands so elegant and delicate. They seem warm, promising. Safe.” Daryan lifted the canvas and held it up.

  “They look like women’s hands,” I said.

  Daryan looked at me and back at the painting. She stretched it back out on the bed and we stood shoulder to shoulder, each holding a corner.

  “They do. They do look like women’s hands,” she said with a laugh.

  “Aren’t they supposed to touch? The fingers touch in the real painting, don’t they? God’s finger and Adam’s hand?”

  “No.” Daryan smiled. “They don’t touch.”

  “I don’t know why I always think of them that way. The hands touching.”

  “Because you want them to…to touch, to make contact. Create sparks.” She winked at me.

  Daryan moved closer to me. Our shoulders touched, then our pinky fingers. She moved her hand on top of mine and looked at me.

  I met her eyes and moved my face toward hers. Daryan hesitated, then leaned in. Our mouths came together in slow motion, the gentleness of the kiss like a blessing, the warmth of her mouth like coming home.

  Daryan pulled away, and I opened my eyes. She let go of her end of the canvas. It slowly began curling closed. The roll met my hand, and I eased off the painting, letting the curl complete itself. Daryan reached over, grabbed the painting, and placed it on the floor beside the bed.

  We stood facing each other. Daryan moved slowly, like she was underwater, her hands pushing the tuxedo jacket off my shoulders. My chest heaved and my body tingled with a charge I’d never felt before, not for real, not in waking life. She closed the space between us with one step. She slid a single finger across my collarbone, hooking the spaghetti strap of my dress and pulling it off my shoulder. She tilted her h
ead as she leaned toward me, her lips parting. I felt her breath on my skin. It was warm and cool at the same time, sweet and sharp like peppermint. She pressed her mouth against my shoulder. Daryan. My dream. My reality.

  Moving her lips from my shoulder, she faced me, and her eyes cut to the very core of me. The sharpness of her beauty split me in two. Our lips met again, and she filled the space between my two selves. Her mouth, her breath, making me whole.

  “You’re shaking. Are you scared?” Daryan asked in a husky whisper. “If you’re scared, we don’t have to do anything. I don’t want you to be scared.”

  “I’m…not…scared,” I said, barely choking out the words.

  Daryan lifted up my left arm. She held it up, and we both watched my hand quake. She raised her scarred eyebrow.

  “That’s not because I’m afraid,” I said. My words came out steady and strong, certain and true. Though light-headed and woozy from Daryan’s kisses, I stood firmly on my feet, the wetness between my legs serving as an anchor, my body heavy with want.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “I’m shaking because I’ve never wanted to touch anyone so bad in my entire life.”

  Daryan pulled me toward her and kissed me hard and deep. She slid the other strap from my shoulder and slowly turned me around. She moved slowly, cautiously, like everything about me was fragile, new.

  I turned to face her. I stepped out of my underwear. I stood before her naked. My breath slow and deep, my hands shaking, I gripped the bottom of her shirt and lifted it up. She raised her arms and I pulled her shirt up over her head. Her dreads settled themselves as she slid the tank top off her long arms. I looked at Daryan, her eyes, her mouth, her chin, neck, shoulders, and arms. I put my hands on her shoulders and ran my fingers down her arms, across her stomach, and up to her chest. Her deep brown skin was soft, beautiful, and comforting. She was an African violet and I wanted to be her water.

  “You’re absolutely sure?” she asked, holding my hands.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?” She touched my face.

  Dreaming was something I had been doing for far too long. I had been running on raw emotion since sitting at Dineen Park with Sheldon. In that moment, I had closed my eyes as the ducks shifted, making quiet splashes and ripples in the pond. The scene was serene, beautiful, sweet. When I opened my eyes, I had wished for magic. I wished for Daryan. Beside me. I wanted her beside me. Always.