Exotic - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

My house was a fifteen minute walk from the bus stop I ended up at, but I enjoyed the opportunity to be alone. My street was utter suburbia. Quiet, eventless laneways and trimmed hedges, white picket fences, and matching modern townhouses painted the seven council-restricted colours. Occasionally, a car chugged by at forty kilometres per hour. I pet the neighbour's cat, waved to Mrs. Dodie, and enquired after her daughter (who I would be just perfect for, she lamented, if only I was Jewish), checked the mailbox and walked up the path to my front door.
Reece was sat in front of the television, watching the credits to some old western movie. I dumped my bag at the foot of the stairs and made a break for my room - hoping I could get out of earshot before he noticed I'd arrived home.
"Miles?" Reece called, reaching for the remote to mute the television. "That you?"
Who else would it be? I thought cynically, as I clenched the stair railing until my knuckles whitened. "Yeah. Got homework."
"Come here a sec."
I blew out a resigned sigh, snatched Caleb's cap off my head, and dropped it on top of my bag. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and sauntered into the living room, dropping into the sofa adjacent to Reece. It groaned under me, evidence of its age and poor quality. Reece was still dressed in his work clothes, even though he got off at two, jeans and a polo with red sleeves and a faded SuperCheap Auto logo on the breast. He worked there four days a week, on minimum wage. It wasn't because he couldn't find a better job, he had a Masters in Engineering and he'd been making a decent wage before Mum died. He was just a lazy fuck who could get away with working a shitty, part-time job while living off Mum's life insurance.
Reece had been Mum's boyfriend for the better part of a decade when she was diagnosed with late-stage breast cancer two years ago. I hadn't minded him in the slightest when Mum was still alive and keeping him in check, mostly because he was at working FIFO so he was only home one week out of three. But he also didn't act like he had to fill the role left by my absent father. He was Reece, and he made my Mum happy, and he stayed out of my business and my room and my grades.
Of course, when Mum died there was a massive palaver as to what would happen to me. My biological father had given up parental rights before I'd even been born. Apparently, he was living in Sydney with a woman half his age and a guilt-free conscience. Mum had a brother in England, but of course, I hadn't been thrilled at the notion of moving halfway around the world. In her last will and testament, she'd named Reece as my new legal guardian, but they weren't married, and Uncle Thomas had wanted me growing up with family.
I just hadn't wanted to move to a new house and school and leave my friends behind. And being the stand-up guy he was, Reece had spent months negotiating over Skype with my uncle and filing form after form and working harder than he ever had in his life - at least according to him - to ensure I could stay. And once he was my primary caregiver, he'd quit his job, and taken over my house, my sofa, and my space within all of two months. The fridge was full of his beer. The walls were full of his shitty band posters. The sofas and bathroom stank of his body odour and bad cologne. Even my bedroom wasn't off-limits to his prying eyes and hands. I thought everything was going to be all the same as it was before, minus Mum. But Greasy Reece had gotten the house, he had gotten Mum's money, and he wasn't going to stop until he had me under his thumb too. Of course, I wasn't allowed to make a word of complaint, because Reece was so generous and selfless to put his life on hold to raise a kid that wasn't even his.
I wished I could let them all in on the big secret. That Reece wasn't raising me. He was taking advantage of a free house and free cash and all the heaving praise that came with voluntarily becoming a guardian for some poor pseudo-orphan with no other hope.
I hated him. I'd never truly hated a person before Reece.
"You're home late," Reece noted, scrounging around in a packet of chips on his lap. I barely restrained my disgust.
"Yeah, I caught the bus," I said shortly. "Aaron's car is being serviced."
"Aaron?" he looked confused, before his lips parted in realisation. "Ah. The gay one."
I felt my jaw tense. As if Reece hadn't given me enough reasons to dislike him, he was very vocal about his distaste for homosexuality. The kind of guy that said stuff like 'I'm fine with them doing whatever but do they have to shove it in my face?' and 'If they wanna do butt stuff why don't they just do it with a chick?'. I supposed, begrudgingly, he was a product of his environment. His mechanic friends, who came over every Saturday for poker night, were a bunch of misogynist, homophobic, xenophobic blokes that swore like sailors and drank like alcoholic sailors.
Maybe if Reece knew I was gay, he'd tone down the homophobic jokes. Or maybe he'd kick me out of the house. I had no idea with Reece. It frustrated me to no end, tiptoeing around my house, trying not to tip him off. He'd never hit me, he'd never even yelled that much, but that terrified me more. I felt like he was a ticking time bomb, and something like coming out of the closet would push him over the edge.
"Yeah. The gay one," I repeated bitterly.
Reece opened his mouth, no doubt to reprimand me for my tone, but when my eyes locked defiantly with his, he tilted his head. "Bloody hell, what happened to your face?"
"Fell," the lie rolled easily off my tongue, and my eyes dared Reece to call my bluff. As if he cared enough to distinguish.
He was already moving straight along. Folding his beefy arms across his chest and narrowing his eyes. "Your mod teacher called me a few minutes ago. Said you failed another test."
Miss Riley was very on top of things. Damn her. "I was sick that day."
"And last time?"
"I didn't sleep well the night before."
"And the time before that?"
"I forgot to study," I said flatly. "Look, I won't fail the next one. I'll go to study for it now."
I started to stand, but Reece gestured for me to stay and my spine was nothing if not gelatinous. "Anniversary is coming up."
I bit into my cheeks until I tasted blood. I knew what he was getting to. The second anniversary of Mum passing away was a little over a week away. Last year, I spent the five weeks leading up to the date and three weeks afterward making excuses to not go to school, and if Reece hadn't bought it, I'd either wagged or slept through the whole day. My grades had taken a dive that month they had yet to recover from.
I knew Reece only cared about my academic success because if I didn't get into university, I'd have no reason to live on campus, and I'd keep on living in my Mum's house, intruding on his perfect stolen life.
"I was thinking we could maybe do ashes this year."
Cold. Ice in my veins. My eyes snapped to his face, but he wasn't even looking at me. Couldn't even look at me. Coward.
"No," I said, rather bluntly. I stood and swept towards the stairs. I hoped I looked like a storm on legs.
Reece sighed as if I was being entirely unreasonable. "Miles, they've been sitting under my bed for two years..."
"And you're so desperate to toss her out?" I snarled, unable to remain stoic. Reece's thick eyebrows furrowed.
"That's not what I meant at all."
What could it possibly be about? Once Reece got rid of her, he was finally free. He had her house, her money, all that family allowance to not look after me, and he wanted to put the final nail in the coffin by dumping her ashes too. Maybe I would come home in a few weeks and find a new woman perched on Mum's sofa. My fury burned holes through me.
"I don't want to do ashes this year," I managed. "If it's so unbearable for you to have them near you, then I'll put them in my room."
Reece sighed again. His eyes drifted back to the television. "That ashes in that urn... that isn't your mother, Miles. It's just her body. I just think having a place to go, her place, where you can feel she's there, you know, would be good. Right?"
Reece was a true wordsmith.
"Not this year," I said. The fuck you Reece was unsaid but palpable, as usual. He grumbled but didn't protest as I climbed the stairs, slamming my bedroom door so it echoed through the house. My house.
I slouched against the door, pursing my quivering lips and pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. I had always hated crying, hate how raw it left my throat, and the itch that remained in my eyes even after I'd composed myself. Wetness pooled on my lower lashes and a sob reverberated around my chest, hollow and shuddering and painful.
I had to get out of the house. Her house.
I wrenched my phone from my back pocket. The screen was busted from years of manhandling on my part. I scrolled through my contacts to Dentist Office. Although my phone was locked and rarely left my person, I was far too paranoid to take the risk of Reece confiscating it and learning of my extracurricular interests.
I rang the number, rubbing my eyes all the while as if I could massage the moisture back inside. The voice that picked up after two rings sounded distracted.
"Crescendo nightclub, James speaking. What can I do you for?"
"Jamie, hi," I said, trying my best to sound chipper and not all bleary and broken. "It's..."
"Seph! Hey," Jamie immediately relaxed his tone. "How're you doing? You took off Sunday without saying goodbye."
"I got a better offer," I said dryly, already feeling more unlike myself. My confidence was a bigger lie than the one I'd just told Jamie. In all reality, I'd rushed home from a long night of shots and table-top dancing to get ready for school. But Jamie thought I was twenty-two. All the clubs I worked did. I wouldn't have been let in, let alone on stage, if they knew I was a high schooler.
White lies, that was all it was. When I turned eighteen and moved out, there would be no more need for them. But until then, while I accumulate funds to escape Reece, they were a necessity.
"I was wondering if you needed an act tonight," I added, cringing at my own desperation.
"You worked last Friday," Jamie sounded distracted. He was likely working on a Facebook post already. It put my heart at rest.
"Work hard, play harder," I folded my knees to my chest. "I know it's late notice, but..."
"I've just put a post out," Jamie cut me off breathily. I laughed at his eagerness. "Can you be here by five?"
I frowned. "I'll need to get the bus. I can get there 5:30?"
"In or out of drag?"
"I'm not wandering the strip in heels and tights, Jame," I teased. "I'll get ready on my own dime."
Jamie huffed obviously. "Fine. Hurry over here."
"Love you, babe."
"Yeah, yeah."
I stuffed my phone away and scrabbled to my feet, snapped back to reality when I tripped over a stack of washing. I stalked to my wardrobe, threw it open, and shoved aside school uniforms and hoodies draped over scarce wire hangers. I grappled for a lone green ribbon, hot glued to the wooden board acting as the back of the closet. With a tug, I removed it cleanly and leaned it against the wall outside.
Reece didn't know about the walk-in closet - it had been one of the secrets between me and my Mum, one he wasn't privy to. She'd built a fake back into my battered wooden wardrobe when I was four and called it my secret place. Over the years it had been envied by my friends, stored my stuffed toys and then legos and then action figures. Later in my life, it had been a private hangout spot for me to sneak away and do homework or blow off hormonal steam, or draw.
I liked drawing, but I wasn't very good at it for the most part. The only thing I really excelled at was sketching clothing, and that just wouldn't go down well with most people in my life. My models were mainly faceless, curvaceous women with rectangles for hands and red lines for cheekbones.
However.
Four years back I'd started drawing a woman again and again. She'd grown from a model identical to the rest, but her poses had always been more interesting. More confident. Sexier. She had worn the clothes, not the other way around. Soon, she'd earned a face and fingers and finally, a name. Sephora Utah.
She was bold, outspoken, and fiercely smart. She was a modern woman, but classically beautiful. An hourglass figure, the kind that would make Marilyn Monroe herself envious. Cascades of blonde waves, vivid green irises ringed by smoky black eyeshadow. Fat crimson lips and cheekbones you could slice bread with. Gold nails far too long to be practical. I drew her in the most lavish, extravagant outfits my mind could conjure up. A blue satin gown with a peacock headdress. A semi-translucent gold cocktail dress with bronze knuckledusters and seven-inch heels. A bedazzled motorcycle helmet and race driver jumpsuit, skin-tight with the ass cheeks cut out. I wrote her songs, drew the stills from her risqué playboy shoot, and even found her voice, a smooth seductive purr, one rainy week. Her plunging necklines became world-renowned in my mind as she grew more and more famous, more and more adored.
Then Mum died. And Sephora lost her immortality.
I hadn't stopped drawing her, but she had withered. Her lips had deflated, her hair had thinned, and her figure had got pudgier as my pen work got sloppier. As I'd wallowed in my depression, so had Sephora. She'd vanished from the public eye. She'd worn sweats and sensible tennis shoes. She hadn't drawn attention to herself, out of fear of rejection. She's shaved her head and started to smoke. Her eyes dragged down her face in black bags from insomnia.
Two months after Mum's modest, vastly underwhelming funeral, we'd cleared her belongings out of her bedroom as it became exclusively Reece's. We'd packed up everything but a few sentimental t-shirts for the Good Sammy, and Reece had set me the task of clearing out her makeup. I had been three seconds from throwing five years' worth of foundations and powders and blush, lipsticks, highlighter, eyeshadow, and mascara when I'd paused. I'd taken the entire bag of it upstairs to my room, barricaded myself inside my closet, and scattered my drawings to set up a crude makeup counter. And I'd drawn Sephora Utah back into her former glory.
I'd drawn her on me.
Of course, I had been shaky at first. A canvas of skin was nothing like paper. I'd never put make-up on before, so I'd overshot my lipstick and my foundation had been too dark for my skin, and I'd jabbed myself in the eye with liner more than once. But I'd drawn Sephora enough that I could shape her slowly but surely, perfecting the curves of her mouth and sharpen her cheekbones like the edges of a hatchet.
And once I had gotten her perfect, I'd felt a surge of adrenaline like nothing else I'd ever experienced. I felt like I could walk out on the streets with nothing but my painted face and as long as Sephora was looking back at me in every reflective surface I passed, I could have cared less about the staring.
Sephora Utah was my peacock. She was a sexual being. She was exciting. The centre of everyone's attention. She was a terrible flirt, despite my own virginal status, and she got men but only the ones she zeroed in on. She partied hard into the early hours and poured her own drinks because bartenders never made it strong enough for her. She wore leather tight as a second skin, and heels that had the top of her head brushing every doorway.
She was everything I wasn't. Her backbone was titanium. Her filter was non-existent. And she had bigger balls than I did.
I flicked the power switch and a string of fairy lights filled the closet with colour. My drag collection had grown significantly since I'd begun with a bag of my mother's makeup and a couple of her sundresses. Outfits from bargain bins and second-hand stores bursting from the racks. Vials of glitter blu-tacked to the wall, and a row of blonde wigs that cost more than I liked to think about hooked above a chestnut vanity. My shoes were arranged under their corresponding colour-coordinated outfit. An obsession wall of magazine cutouts and my own designs littered the walls. The vanity was overflowing with everything from cheap Kmart bronzer to highlighter and eyeshadow palettes that had my wallet weeping for weeks.
It wasn't exactly what I had envisioned for Sephora when she'd come to live all those years back. I couldn't afford what I drew on paper, yet. Drag on a discount. I kept my ideas spectacular and my execution practical.
I pulled a hiking pack off the end of one of my clothing racks and selected my look for the night. The first night I'd left the house in drag, even Sephora had been nervous about how she would be received. But a wig and tiny black number, translucent tights, and a half-inch of makeup later, I was a completely different person. I'd bounced from club to club, I'd gotten wolf-whistled and ogled and twirled on the dance floor. Girls had griped their boyfriends a little tighter when I passed. A bartender with spidery eyelashes had told me I had the best legs north of the river (when quizzed who beat me out south of the river, he'd admitted he'd never been there).
But eventually, I'd had to return home via an unlocked window, scrub off my face, change into sweatpants and give Reece my excuses for fumbling around in the locked bathroom at three AM in the straightest, most domestic voice I could muster still buzzing on gin.
Sephora always had to retreat back into the closet eventually.
It wasn't that I hated myself as a boy. I wasn't trans. I had pondered it for a while and concluded that I wasn't born in the wrong body. Being male wasn't a point of contention in my mind. I liked my name, the one my mother had given me. I liked my dick. I liked having a decent sized secret under my skirt and all the gender fluidity that came with drag. It was more the personality I lost when I packed Sephora away that I despaired over. The confidence, the aura of seductive and sexy energy, the attention I got. She was out, she was proud, and she couldn't have cared less what people had to say about who-what-why she was.
The alternative - Miles Stewart, closeted, spineless, and failing out of school - was just not all that gratifying.
I was all packed up in about fifteen minutes. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and exited the closet, carefully replacing the false back. I left my room exactly how I'd entered it. Reece had no problem wandering into my room and poking around for anything to call me out on.
I wandered down the stairs with a skip in my step. Reece hadn't moved from his position on the couch, but he had switched the channel to the football. I grabbed Caleb's cap off my discarded school bag and tugged it over my ears.
"I'm going out," I called when I was halfway out the door.
"Where?" Reece called without turning his head.
I answered with a slam of the door. He didn't need to know. He didn't really care.
He never had.