with this dress, it was probably for theoretical purposes—ooh. Ow!” She grunts. “Okay, ta-da.”
I turn around.
“I don’t think Mom ever envisioned my Easter dress quite like this. Should I wear the cardigan that she bought for this?”
I snort. “Definitely not.” Clem’s once-ladylike seventh-grade Easter dress is now a mini with slip-dress vibes. “I can’t believe that thing even fit over your head. And not that I’m invested in your boobs in any way at all, but everything looks to be in tip-top shape.”
“Thank you?” she says with slow confusion.
She reaches up to part her hair to rebraid it, but I swat her hands away. “The head of creative did not approve your Wednesday Addams braids.”
She pouts. “But I can feel my hairrrrrr.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s part of the whole having-hair thing.”
She wiggles like her follicles are growing worms. “Okay, fine.”
I nod. “You look, like, really cool. Like, I don’t want to sound super Podunk or anything, but you could easily be going out to some kind of indie-band show in New York City or something. Austin at the very least.”
She looks down at her dress. “I feel ridiculous, but I guess I like it.”
We sit down on the ground in front of each other with her pile of unused makeup. “You should know I’ve only done makeup the one time.”
“Well, you should know that I never wear makeup, so I won’t be able to tell the difference.”
I dig through our spread and come up with a silver eyeliner and use it to draw little stars in the corners of her eyes before handing her the mirror and letting her apply her own mascara. I top it off with a black lipstick from a few Halloweens ago, and then I lean back to appreciate my work.
“You look stupid good. Okay, I gotta get ready. Wear those combat boots.” I point out the black ones with the neon-blue shoelaces sitting in the corner.
“Those are Hannah’s,” she says.
“Nothing says high school lesbians in love like wearing each other’s combat boots.”
“Well, that’s accurate,” she admits.
I throw up my best spirit fingers in an attempt to curb my nerves at the thought of attending MY. FIRST. GAY. BAR. “And now I must transform.”
Sixteen
It feels really fucking good to dig into the side of my closet I’ve preserved for future Waylon adventures. I might not be living my post–high school dreams just yet, but it feels like for one night only, the future is here. Or at least a preview of it.
With my fingers, I swipe a translucent shimmery eyeshadow over my cheekbones and use a clear gloss on my lips. I salvaged my new boots that fell prey to mud earlier this week and pair them with black leggings I stole from my mom and never gave back and a black T-shirt with a velvet robe Grammy was donating that “fell out” of the bag before I dropped the rest of the items off at Our Lady of Peace Women’s Shelter.
Outside, as we’re getting in the truck, Hannah says, “Whoa, y’all look like—”
“We’re old pros who have been to a million gay bars and aren’t even a little bit nervous,” finishes Clem.
“I was going to say like people who googled ‘what to wear to da club,’ but sure, that too.”
I hold my robe out like a cape and take a twirl. “We’re not nervous for the club. The club is nervous for us.”
“You look amazing too,” Clem says to Hannah as they share a quick kiss.
And Hannah does look great in skintight black jeans and a white tank top. She’s smudged a touch of matte gray eyeshadow across her lids, and it’s the perfect addition to make her light-brown eyes sparkle. Tonight, her hair is pulled back from her face with one side swept back in a French braid. Hannah always looks like the kind of girl who could kick your ass, but tonight she looks like the kind of girl you’d be begging to kick your ass.
“Not to be a total creep, but is that side boob you’re rocking?” I ask.
Hannah blushes instantly, but instead of telling me to shut up, she curtsies and says, “Indeed it is.”
It’s not that we’re all different versions of ourselves tonight, but it’s like we turned up the volume a little, and it makes me excited for what could be.
As we buckle up, Hannah says, “Y’all know this is basically like a honky-tonk, but gay, right? Not at all classy.” She’s got that nervous energy that spawns anytime