waist, my hips, my legs have never looked more beautiful. In fact, this is the first time I feel beautiful. The thought that this is a word that could be used about someone like me has never even entered my mind, as “beautiful” has always been reserved for movie stars or princesses in fairy tales.
Marina nods appreciatively. “Not half-bad. Blue is just your color. Who knew?”
I don’t reply. I feel strange. I stare at my reflection with my mouth open. I twist my body slightly, almost afraid I’ll ruin the dress if I move, and the long skirt gently swivels around my legs. It sends ripples through the skin at my hips.
“I can feel it move if I turn just a little,” I say. “How do you people wear this all the time?”
“It takes some getting used to, I guess,” Marina admits. “Just be glad it isn’t windy in here.”
I look to her for an elaboration, but before I can say anything, she points a thumb over her shoulder. “So what do you say? Wanna go show off your new outfit?”
Even I can tell she’s joking. Despite this, I mull over the possibility in my head. I imagine Peter and Sebastian staring at my new look. “Gee,” Sebastian mutters, “all those years, you oughta have played as Princess Peach.” The idea is actually more amusing than horrifying. Maybe one day, but for now, no; this is mine.
I chuckle. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, how about a swim, then? Preferably a dunking-free one.”
I glance down at my hands while I consider the offer. They’re stroking the soft fabric of the dress almost of their own free will. “No thanks,” I say after a pause. “I think I’ve had enough first times for today, to be honest. But I’ll gladly go get something to drink with you. We can go see what the others are up to. If you want.”
She does. I tell her to give me a moment to get out of the dress and turn my head back toward my reflection one last time.
My face in the mirror looks distorted and absolutely comical as I smile. The most laughable, genuine smile.
R ENEE H IRSCH has been writing since ey was first taught the alphabet and been making up stories for even longer than that. In addition to being a writer, ey is a linguistics student, an illustrator, a martial artist, and a tea enthusiast. Ey prefers character-driven stories rather than plot-driven ones. Renee Hirsch writes using a pseudonym, and eir real identity remains hidden, even to emself (but rumor has it that ey can be found at http://queerdeer.blogspot.co.uk/, and can be reached at thequeerdeer @outlook.com).
C OURTING B ILLY R OTH
N ICK H ASSE
I.
I’ M NOT sure when I fell in love with Billy Roth, because it’s not the kind of love that jumps out and slaps you across the face with a big red “ Here! ” It was the slow, sure warmth that spread inside my chest every time I saw his goofy, boyish face.
You see, the Roths moved in just three houses down when I was only four years old and their son, Billy, was the only boy my age in what felt like three counties. We grew up together, terrorized the neighbors together, and when school began, it was always “Billy-and-Toby” for field trips, for projects, and eventually for the state playoffs. At some point, back in the sixth grade, Billy decided we should try out for basketball. That was six years ago.
But something changed this year… not in Billy, and as far as I could tell, not in me either. But here I was, standing in the Senior Lounge, buying a candygram for Valentine’s Day. It was really kind of stupid. You give up five bucks so the Cheer Squad can hand out two dollars’ worth of chocolate with a print-out label in the middle of class. I filled in the “To” line boldly, but like a chickenshit, I left the “From” line blank.
Here was when the maniacal doubts poured in. What if he didn’t like it? What if he didn’t want to be friends with a fairy-boy? What if he became allergic to chocolate and went into anaphylactic shock in the middle
Marina nods appreciatively. “Not half-bad. Blue is just your color. Who knew?”
I don’t reply. I feel strange. I stare at my reflection with my mouth open. I twist my body slightly, almost afraid I’ll ruin the dress if I move, and the long skirt gently swivels around my legs. It sends ripples through the skin at my hips.
“I can feel it move if I turn just a little,” I say. “How do you people wear this all the time?”
“It takes some getting used to, I guess,” Marina admits. “Just be glad it isn’t windy in here.”
I look to her for an elaboration, but before I can say anything, she points a thumb over her shoulder. “So what do you say? Wanna go show off your new outfit?”
Even I can tell she’s joking. Despite this, I mull over the possibility in my head. I imagine Peter and Sebastian staring at my new look. “Gee,” Sebastian mutters, “all those years, you oughta have played as Princess Peach.” The idea is actually more amusing than horrifying. Maybe one day, but for now, no; this is mine.
I chuckle. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, how about a swim, then? Preferably a dunking-free one.”
I glance down at my hands while I consider the offer. They’re stroking the soft fabric of the dress almost of their own free will. “No thanks,” I say after a pause. “I think I’ve had enough first times for today, to be honest. But I’ll gladly go get something to drink with you. We can go see what the others are up to. If you want.”
She does. I tell her to give me a moment to get out of the dress and turn my head back toward my reflection one last time.
My face in the mirror looks distorted and absolutely comical as I smile. The most laughable, genuine smile.
R ENEE H IRSCH has been writing since ey was first taught the alphabet and been making up stories for even longer than that. In addition to being a writer, ey is a linguistics student, an illustrator, a martial artist, and a tea enthusiast. Ey prefers character-driven stories rather than plot-driven ones. Renee Hirsch writes using a pseudonym, and eir real identity remains hidden, even to emself (but rumor has it that ey can be found at http://queerdeer.blogspot.co.uk/, and can be reached at thequeerdeer @outlook.com).
C OURTING B ILLY R OTH
N ICK H ASSE
I.
I’ M NOT sure when I fell in love with Billy Roth, because it’s not the kind of love that jumps out and slaps you across the face with a big red “ Here! ” It was the slow, sure warmth that spread inside my chest every time I saw his goofy, boyish face.
You see, the Roths moved in just three houses down when I was only four years old and their son, Billy, was the only boy my age in what felt like three counties. We grew up together, terrorized the neighbors together, and when school began, it was always “Billy-and-Toby” for field trips, for projects, and eventually for the state playoffs. At some point, back in the sixth grade, Billy decided we should try out for basketball. That was six years ago.
But something changed this year… not in Billy, and as far as I could tell, not in me either. But here I was, standing in the Senior Lounge, buying a candygram for Valentine’s Day. It was really kind of stupid. You give up five bucks so the Cheer Squad can hand out two dollars’ worth of chocolate with a print-out label in the middle of class. I filled in the “To” line boldly, but like a chickenshit, I left the “From” line blank.
Here was when the maniacal doubts poured in. What if he didn’t like it? What if he didn’t want to be friends with a fairy-boy? What if he became allergic to chocolate and went into anaphylactic shock in the middle
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