Page 30 of Not My Fault

“So, all the stuff backstage is fair use, right?” I ask.

“Yes, most of it is props we don’t use, but if we needed something we could probably borrow it. Why?” She raises a blonde eyebrow.

“Come with me.” I take her hand and lead her backstage, trying to recall where I saw it.

I open the room labeled ‘storage’ and it pops open easily. Inside are tons of costumes, wigs, and makeup.

“What if we didn’t look like us? Then no one would follow you, right?”

“Yeah…” I can tell she doesn’t know where I’m going with this, so I pick up a bright green wig and hold it over my head.

“If we didn’t look likeus…we could take a walk.”

“Oh, my goodness! You’re so smart! We could play dress up and go for a walk. Why didn’t I think of that?” She laughs.

“I’m sure people might recognize me too, especially if you’re dressed up. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m cheating on you. So we can both dress up.” I look at my watch; we have hours until we have to be back here for her show. Central Park was a good fifteen-minute walk, but it isn’t like we are in a rush.

“What are you going to wear?” Emily starts looking through the clothes and I look over the wall of wigs on different mannequins.

“I think we should go for our opposites, so no one even suspects it’s us,” I say.

“Good idea.”

I pick up a fake mustache and hold it over my lip to look in the mirror. I immediately start laughing. I’ve never considered growing a mustache before. I know it works for some Nonbinary people, but I’m definitely not one of them. I turn to Emily, and she starts cracking up, a loud and boisterous laugh. I relax at the sound.

“You should definitely wear that; no one will recognize you,” she says in between laughs.

“Great, I’m going to look ridiculous.” I laugh as I start to attach the fake mustache.

“What if I go as an old lady? We can do makeup wrinkles and this grey wig?” Emily asks, holding it up.

“I love it.” I nod.

I start looking for something to wear. I really could wear my own clothes, since they are mostly gender neutral, but I don’t know if anyone saw me in them today. I decide not to risk it; I find a men’s button up and some khaki shorts. I look more like a frat boy than I wanted to, but I’m committed to it, so I grab a snapback too to complete the look.

“Are you cool if I change here?” I ask.

“Uh, sure,” she says. She’s still looking for old lady clothes so I figure I have a minute.

I tear off the T-shirt I’m wearing and toss it to the side. I adjust my binder to make sure it’s on right and then slide on the button up. It fits nicely, which is good because I’m all too used to bigger sizes not fitting like they should be. I change my bottoms but keep my shoes on—they’re common enough brand of sneakers that I’m not worried about it. I look in the mirror and tear off the back of the mustache and stick it on my upper lip. Tucking my dark hair into the hat, I laugh as I see myself.

“Oh my God.” Emily walks over to see it up close and starts laughing again. “Wait, your shirt is caught… on your bra? Binder? Can I help?”

She looks at my back and I nod. Standing in front of the mirror, I watch as she carefully tries to fix the shirt, but it’s not budging from its spot. She slides her hand into my shirt, careful not to touch my skin, and pulls up the fabric to see where it’s sticking. I breathe in lightly; I don’t know why this feels so intimate. Probably because it’s been so long since someone touched me like this. Her face is determined as she looks at my back. I can feel her breath on my bare skin, and I clench my palm on the makeup table in front of us.

“It was stuck on that extra button they always stick to the label. I got it,” Emily says, and then carefully fixes my shirt.

“T-thanks.” My voice cracks. What the hell was wrong with me? I turn around to face Emily, and just as she looks up, sheloses it. It takes me a second to remember the mustache and how fucking ridiculous I look. We both laugh until our stomachs hurt, and I urge her to get ready.

“I think I’ve got it.” She tosses her crop top over her head and my eyes widen as I see her breasts on display. Sure, it isn’t the first time I’ve seen them, and I know she has a habit of showing them at shows. But this isn’t a show; this was just the two of us. I spin around quickly before I can think twice about it.

God, why does she have to have such hot boobs? This is not the time to be gay. At least I don’t have a dick, or I swear it would be hurting with how hard I’d be in this moment. Emily walks over and I take in her outfit—an oversized purple dress with obnoxious florals and a pair of white flats. She ties up her blonde hair into a ponytail so she can put on the short grey wig. Then she takes an eyebrow pencil and draws wrinkles on her face. When she’s done, she’s completely unrecognizable.

“So what’s our story?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’re an old lady and a young man walking through the park. Are you my grandkid?” She laughs.

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