Sandy nodded slowly, and I knew this conversation wasn’t over. I was thankful when he seemed to let it go for now. “All in favor?”
“Whatever,” Darren said.
“Why not?” Paul said. “Being an adult and trying to make friends is hard, especially when most people suck
.”
“I have no idea what we’re doing,” Vince said.
“Just say yes, Vince,” Paul told him.
“Yes, Vince,” Vince said promptly. He grinned at Paul so brightly, my underwear almost fell off. “Just kidding. I know what you meant. Jeremy is an okay dude. And I bet he has a leather harness I could borrow. I think I’d look good in it.”
“Oh sweat balls,” Paul breathed. “Yes. That. Let’s do that.”
“Then that’s decided,” Sandy said. “Now all that remains is deciding how we should go about this. I have an idea, of course, and I know you’re all just going to love it.”
I had a sinking feeling about this. “Maybe we should wait and—”
“Corey is exactly right,” Sandy said, and I sighed in relief. And then he said, “We’re all going to go undercover to Build-a-Bear Sweat Shop tomorrow night to support our new friend. And we will be dressing for the part.”
Goddammit.
“WE’RE NOT doing a montage,” I snarled the next morning.
“Of course not,” Sandy said, sipping his coffee in the kitchen. “Why, the very thought is just ridiculous. Now, let’s figure out what we’re going to wear by trying on different outfits and either shaking our heads or giving thumbs-up to whoever is modeling, and all the while, cheesy music is playing in the background.”
“That’s the very definition of a montage!”
“I have no idea what you mean,” Sandy said daintily. “Now hurry up and finish your breakfast. We have appointments to keep today that are absolutely not related to a montage.”
I finished my Cheerios angrily.
Sandy wasn’t impressed.
It probably had something to do with the milk dripping down my chin.
SCENE: #1.
Location: Sandy’s hairstylist.
Mood: less than jovial.
“You do not want to fuck with a black man’s hair,” I said, sitting in the chair while Sandy’s hairstylist stood behind me, an eager expression on his face.
“Honey,” Sandy said, standing next to the chair, “Flavius is one of the most in-demand hair people in Tucson. He also styles many of my wigs. You do not want to know what I had to do in order to get us in on such short notice.”
“He threatened me,” Flavius said cheerfully. He was a black man with thick dreads that hung on his shoulders, brightly colored beads woven into the ends. “And when Helena Handbasket threatens you, you do exactly what she wants.”
Sandy pinched his cheek. “I do love you so. Now, here’s what I’m thinking.”
I gripped the armrests tightly while they chattered on behind me. I stared at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. My hair was long. It’d been that way for years. I had a love/hate relationship with it. Depending on any given day, I either liked it straightened or allowed it to kink up as it naturally did. But I also knew that if I wanted to end this right now, Sandy wouldn’t argue with me. He pushed boundaries but backed off when he was told. Most of the time.
Flavius (Jesus Christ, that couldn’t be his real name) ran his fingers through my hair, setting it over my right shoulder. “Your hair is gorgeous.”
And fuck him for being so earnest. “Thank you,” I muttered. “That’s very nice of you to say.”
“Short,” Sandy said. “I’m thinking something short. Tight on the sides and high on the top. I’m not necessarily talking masculine, either. Corey needs to be free to express himself however he wants.”