The Illusionist by Dinitia Smith

believed he had a past. I didn’t even know if he had a family, if he were married, or had kids.
    There were people from down the block. Latasha came from down the street, bright faced, caramel-skinned, eyes laughing; one of Dean’s ex-girlfriends. And some kids from our high school class that never seemed to leave Sparta, that seemed to show up at every party, whether or not they were invited, even though we’d left school long ago.
    The arriving guests stood around, drank paper cups of wine and beer, pretended not to be scrutinizing one another.
    I found the Salt n’ Pepa tape, slid it into the deck, turned up the volume, and it blasted through the room.
    As the night wore on, the apartment door kept opening and closing, more people arriving. The room was filled near to capacity now. People were cramped together in the tiny kitchen area. Some had drifted into my bedroom. The more people in a small space at a party, the better.
    The sound of Salt n’ Pepa pumped through our bodies. The beat of the music was like a heartbeat, and you could feel the blood pump through your body like the tide sweeping in, out, in, out.
    Dean stood near the door, eyes riveted on it, drawing on his roach in short little bursts. I sensed the tension in him. Everything about him was directed toward that door, all his senses were strained toward it, to where he knew Melanie would have to enter.
    Someone put another tape on. I heard Terry ask Dean, “Want to dance?” But he shook his head. Terry looked at B.J. as if to extend an invitation, and together they moved into the center of the room. The icebreakers! Terry was so tall in high heels, like a tree. A different woman today, released . . . She jiggled her shoulders to the music, twisted her hips, knees together. My guy makes me crazy . . . crazy . . . O crazy . . . does it to me . . . does it . . . does it . . .
    Terry and B.J. were really getting it on. B.J. was dancing like he was experienced, watching Terry’s crotch as he moved his body in rhythm with hers. B.J.’s age made me shy, he could be our father.
    I’d never seen Terry this loose before. I knew she was really dancing for Dean, she wanted him to pay attention to her. But Dean wasn’t looking at Terry. He was watching the door.
    He was sitting on the futon with his legs out in front of him and he seemed unhappy. He wouldn’t look at Terry, though every now and then while she was dancing, Terry glanced over her shoulder at him to see if he was watching her.
    Now Terry moved toward Dean, gate-legged, pelvis tilted, knees apart, in rhythm to the music. She stood right above him, moving her hips at him, looking down at him. Terry babee! It was an invitation. She wanted him to dance with her.
    But Dean avoided looking at her, wouldn’t look at her. Wouldn’t meet her eyes. I knew—and maybe Terry knew too—one reason Dean wouldn’t dance. If he got up and danced he might show those very few people in the world who didn’t know, what he really was. If he moved his body around, somebody might notice the little swellings on his chest—his breasts—they might notice the roundness of his hips—which were almost like a real boy’s, but not quite—it helped he always wore the baggy jeans.
    Oh, Dean was so unhappy waiting there! Oh boy . . . D-o-o-o me, do me . . . Go right throoough me . . . Inside . . . Upside . . . And Terry had that bright look on her face, like glass that could shatter. Terry wasn’t drunk enough. Dean was going to break her heart. He was! He was! Terry had lost him. I knew this was going to be like dying for Terry. Terry didn’t quite realize it yet. But it would be like dying.
    Melanie hadn’t arrived. Wasn’t coming. Just like Melanie. Made you want her by being scarce. Only, I didn’t think this habit of