Page 69 of Leaving the Station
I chose a black beanie, baggy black jeans, and an oversized white T-shirt that I cuffed at the sleeves. I pulled my binder on.I’d never worn it in front of Alden, but... fuck it. It made me not entirely hate myself.
Actually, for the first time in a while, Ilikedthe person I saw in the mirror, especially with my short hair.
When I got to the party, Alden was tipsy, which was a state in which I’d never seen him. He handed me a beer in a tall glass bottle, and I felt good holding it, like I had at the other party.
I felt even better after drinking it. I hadn’t had anything to drink at all this semester, but here, it felt right.
The apartment was dingier than Mischa’s, with a college student–inhabited charm that made it tolerable. People were spread over the floor, lying on top of each other, smoking weed and drinking from various cups and bottles. It was more adult than I’d imagined.
I went to the kitchen to grab another beer even though I hadn’t finished my first, and when I did, Alden came up behind me and kissed my neck. He smelled like a mixture of alcohol and body spray, unfamiliar scents.
I opened the beer by leveraging the cap against the counter—my hottest skill, and one that felt extremely queer—then I put a hand on his waist and directed his around my neck. I wasn’t doing it to placate him. Iwantedto kiss him.
I was wearing black boots with a small thick heel, and for the first time, I was taller than him.
I don’t know what came over me—maybe one beer and a lack of caring. The kiss was nice. When we broke apart, he was grinning.
“Let’s dance,” he said, taking my hand.
So we did. We stepped over everyone who had taken up residence on the carpet and joined the small group of people dancing in the living room.
I pulled him closer, and someone whistled. I didn’t know what they saw, but it felt like being perceived on my own terms.
We made out a little on the dance floor, and I held on to his hips, leading the movement.
It felt—and there’s no other word for it—queer.
“Come back to my dorm,” Alden whispered to me after a few songs. He had to crane his neck slightly to reach my ear, which, more than his words, is what sent a shiver through my body.
I nodded. “Okay.”
We didn’t hold hands on the way back to campus. It was a cold, early November day that foretold winter. I stayed a few steps ahead and held the door open for him when we got to his dorm.
All we did was make out, but it was better than anything we’d done before. I had woken up feeling especially masculine that day, and I wanted him to understand that. I wanted to transmit this feeling to him through the way I kissed, the way I bit his lip, the way I tugged at his shirt but kept mine on.
I don’t know if he knew what changed or if he felt it, but he wasdefinitelyinto it.
After we’d kissed for a while, I pulled away. “I’m going back to my dorm,” I told him.
I liked what we’d done, but it still didn’t feelright.
Feeling in control and feeling right were two different things, I’d learned.
“Why?” he asked, pouting. He was sitting with a pillow in his lap, shirtless, small. I leaned down and kissed him. I imagined that he was a girl. I imagined that he was queer, that I was queer in the same way as him.
Maybe this was how queer boys felt, the desire, the hunger.
It was the first time I was pulled to him in this way.
“Stay,” he said. He begged.
I shook my head, opened his door, and left.
In the morning, I had no idea what had happened. I remembered everything perfectly; that wasn’t where the confusion came from.
I didn’t know what had possessed me, what had allowed me to feel so comfortable in my skin for one night.
When I woke up the morning after, I didn’t feel as masculine. I washed my face, put on a real bra. It felt right for that day; it was what my brain was telling me I wanted to look like at that moment.
