Left Drowning(24)

“Online somewhere. What size are you?”

“I have huge, gross feet. At least an eight and a half.”

“Here.” Estelle taps my back.

I emerge and try to brush my hair back down with my hands. “What are you doing?”

Estelle has begun an elaborate process of untying the satin ribbons that wrap around her ankle. “Giving you my shoes.”

“What? No! You can’t do that. What are you going to wear?”

“I have another pair of shoes in my bag. Besides, these will look great on you. Eric, get my other pair, will you?” This is dreadful. Totally embarrassing.

Eric opens Estelle’s giant purse and pulls out a pair of teal snakeskin ankle boots with stiletto heels even higher than the ones she’s wearing. “Oh, ‘Stelle, these are idiotic. I’m not sitting next to you.”

“Fuck you. And fine by me. I’m not planning on trying to sit next to you while you’re in that boring outfit. For a gay boy, you don’t dress all that well. Here, try these on.” Estelle holds out the black shoes and smiles. “I’d give you the boots, but based on the clogs you just threw out of your closet, I doubt you can handle the heels.”

“I think these are going to be enough for me to handle. This is really cool of you. Thanks.” I slip my feet into the heels and then hold the ribbons cluelessly.

“Here, I got you.” Eric kneels in front of me. “I’ve watched my sister do this enough times. Let’s cuff these jeans a little to show off the shoes.”

“Aha! There’s some gay!” Estelle says triumphantly. She purses her lips as she jams a foot into one of her boots. “I bought these on the small side, but it was the last pair they had.”

“Are you sure you don’t want these back?” I am uncomfortable that she has lent me these shoes, but they really are hot.

Estelle looks up and eyes my feet. “Mother fu—”

“Estelle!” Eric throws up his hands.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh my, golly pie! Better?”

“No, not really.”

“Then, motherf*ck, those look better on you than they do on me. Keep them. I can’t possibly wear them again after seeing them on you.” Before I can protest, she is already up and pulling at my shirt. “Are you sure about this shirt, though? I’m not convinced the vintage Coke thing is really working for you.”

I look down. This is what I get for not paying attention to what I’d yanked out of the clothing pile. “No, this … I’m not wearing this out. I hadn’t really figured out what to wear yet.”

Estelle whips around and roots through the mess on the bed, surely for far longer than she would have had to if I actually shopped and paid attention to fashion trends. Finally she reaches into her giant bag. “Here. This will be awesome on you. Jesus, if I had your tits, I’d be wearing this shirt every day.” She tosses a pale blue top over to me. “It’s freakishly warm tonight for October, and tomorrow we’re supposed to get snow, so enjoy the warm weather and show off that body.”

“Estelle, I can’t possibly—”

“Yes, you can,” Eric says. “She appears to have twenty-seven outfits in that bag, so take some weight off her shoulder.”

“Eric, turn around,” Estelle instructs. “You’re still a boy.”

“Thanks, darling.”

I put on her shirt. My scar is totally uncovered, but I decide that I’m not going to let this stop me. No one has complimented me the way these two have, and … and … and I’m having fun. I feel good. “So what do we think?” I raise my hands up and pose.

Eric turns back around. “Well, Miss Just A Friend, you look great.” He winks.

“You do. Damn hottie. Now, let’s go. If we’re late, Sabin will tear us all a new one.” Estelle throws her giant purse over her shoulder and leads the way out.

***

I cannot wait for this play to be over. Sabin is fantastic, very spirited, and skilled onstage. He is not the problem. The college auditorium, however, seems to be doubling as a sauna. I shift in my seat and fan myself with the program. I know rationally that the temperature is fine in here. Nobody else looks overheated. Estelle, on my right, is the picture of relaxed and cool, and Eric, on her right, hasn’t taken his eyes off the stage.

The source of my sweating and discomfort is sitting about four inches away from me on my left. Chris’s upper arm has brushed against me no less than fifteen times. Given that I don’t have many, or really any, friends, I should be focusing on this play so that I can come up with specific compliments for my new pal Sabin. Instead, it is all I can do to keep looking straight ahead. I realize that if I steal one look at Chris, I might come unglued. Of course, there is no reason to think that he is feeling my presence the way that I feel his. But every time that he laughs at a line from the play or mutters to himself—or, for Christ’s sakes, sniffs—I practically shudder with lust.

If I believed in God or was religious to any degree, I might argue that these crazy physical sensations are punishment for masturbating. For masturbating a lot. I think that I may have an addiction. A sex-maniac beast has awoken, and I am a horny mess nearly all the time. I almost feel surprised that I haven’t yet grabbed Estelle and shoved my tongue down that beautiful girl’s throat. I’d probably get further with Estelle than with her brother.