Page 15 of Exquisite Things

“The category of people I’d like to kiss.

” I can’t believe I just said that. We face each other and smile.

There’s lipstick on both our mouths and a gaggle of increasingly inebriated college boys around us.

It doesn’t feel like the right time to kiss, and so we let the moment pass.

“My only point was that being a man feels so limiting.”

He nods. “Man, according to the dictionary last I checked, means any human being, regardless of sex or age or color or creed.

Simply a member of the human race. A person. Perhaps it’s men who imposed limits on their own definition of themselves. Perhaps

we were always meant to be whatever we wanted.”

As I contemplate his words, Jack rushes toward us. “It’s time to go, boys. Go pick out an ensemble worthy of the occasion.”

Shams and I move toward Jack’s bed, littered with unchosen costumes. We hold them up against each other as Jack mixes one

more round of drinks. “Do you boys know why this drink is called an Aviation?” he asks as he mixes gin and maraschino liqueur

with fresh lemon juice and crème de violette. “Because it will make you fly. And who doesn’t dream of taking flight?”

Shams and I choose to throw matching Victorian dresses over our clothes. The dresses are large enough to fit over what we

already have on. We find appropriate wigs and hats to complete the ensembles. I’m pretty sure I saw these costumes in the

performance of The Importance of Being Earnest that Harvard put on last year, the one Brendan insisted I accompany him to. Mother came with us and loved the play. She laughed

uproariously throughout, and no one clapped louder than her. I loved seeing her like that. Carefree in the dark. It struck

me that evening that the true gift of theater is that as the performers play their parts, the audience gets to sit in the

anonymity of darkness and stop performing for others. Just react from the purity of our own emotional responses.

“Aviations?” Jack asks, holding out two cups to me and Shams.

“No thanks, Jack,” I say. “I’m a good Victorian girl.”

“Of course you are, baby boy. And you, great sham of a person?”

“I don’t need help taking flight tonight,” Shams says. “I feel like I’m already in the clouds.”

“You two are hopeless bores.” Jack rolls his eyes dramatically as he empties both glasses into his stomach.

“Whoa there, Jackie boy.” Brendan puts a protective arm around Jack. “You may want to slow down a tad. You wouldn’t want to

crash in midair.”

Jack laughs uncontrollably. I’ve never seen him more sozzled. He speaks like he’s onstage, playing the part of some European

bon vivant. “Don’t you tell me what to do, Lady Macbeth! The night is young, but our lives are short! LET’S LIVE.”

Live we do. We stumble toward the masquerade ball, some because they’re blotted, and some—myself, certainly—because we have

no idea how to walk the cobblestoned streets in heels. If it weren’t for Shams holding me up, I would certainly have tripped

at least twice and added a layer of red blood to the rouge and lipstick on my face. With his help, I make it past the entrance

door, which looks like any other door in Boston, dark mahogany with an arch above it. Nothing to suggest the world of revelation

we’ve just entered.

“I need a drink,” Jack declares, unaware that another drink is the last thing he needs. “Let’s go order some ginger beers

and I can mix up some Dark and Stormys to get the party started.”

“Jack...” Brendan puts a hand on Jack’s tense shoulder. “The party started hours ago in our room. I think we’ve had too

much.”

“And I say too much is not enough!” Jack sneers.

The other boys ignore Jack. They’re too entranced by the sights all around them. Everything here feels exaggerated. The pearls too large, the feathers too abundant. It’s a mockery of good taste and a reinvention of it all at the same time. It’s wonderful.

“Did you hear me, world?” Louder, so his voice might reach the volume of the live band playing a syncopated ragtime, Jack

yells, “TOO MUCH IS NOT ENOUGH.”

“I don’t think I can watch more of this,” Shams whispers in my ear. “He’s making an even bigger fool of himself than he usually

does. Shall we take a walk?”

I don’t need to answer. He already seems to know I’ll follow him anywhere.

As we walk toward the band, where men in dresses dance with the joyous thrill of unexpected freedom, a mustached man in a

tuxedo and a top hat beelines toward us, waving. He looks vaguely familiar, and I feel a sudden panic. It could be the mailman,

or the butcher. My God, it could be one of my teachers, or my mother’s employer, who I only met once. Did he have a mustache?

I don’t remember. He could have grown one if he didn’t. My mind races with endless, equally terrifying possibilities of who

this could be.

I hadn’t thought of this before walking into this secret space, or when I went to the Golden Rooster for that matter. All

this time, I’ve been worried that Mother might find out, without thinking of how she might find out. What if it’s because I run into someone who knows her? Perhaps the reason the mailman is always so jovial

is that he spends his nights dancing in dresses, filling himself up on freedom by night so he can be happy all day.

“Oliver!” the man says in a husky baritone that feels forced, like a performance. “Welcome to the grand rag.”

I recognize something in the voice, but still, I can’t quite place it. I feel sweat on my brow, and in my armpits. The Victorian dress I’m wearing over my clothes is thick and uncomfortable. I feel hot and trapped. I misjudged it all. “I—I don’t feel well,” I say to Shams. “I think...”

“You don’t recognize me?” the voice says, no longer husky. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a woman’s voice. The top hat

comes off. It’s Edna in male drag. “It’s me. Edna. The back room of the Rooster. Plato’s Symposium . Even with all that makeup and the dress, I recognized you right away.”

“I remember who you are.” I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “I thought—I didn’t... I was afraid you

were someone my family knew. Someone who might tell my mother I was here.”

Edna pulls me into a hug that immediately calms me. Support really can be medicine when administered correctly. And she knows

just how to administer it. “I’m sorry I spooked you,” she says when she releases me. “And I’m sorrier you have to live looking

over your shoulder.” She holds her hand out to Shams. “I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Edna. But tonight, I’m going

by Septimus Smith.”

“A Mrs. Dalloway fan,” Shams says.

“A well-read young man, I see.” Edna seems impressed by him.

“I’m Shams,” he says as they shake hands. “It’s nice to meet you, Septimus.”

The band’s ragtime ends, and a man in Cleopatra drag takes the stage to announce the wrestling match will begin. Anyone who

wants to enter the competition and challenge the reigning champion, Violette Ophelia, should line up by his side. As a smattering

of queens—including the beautiful one we met at the Rooster—step into their spotlights, Shams tells me I should enter.

“Absolutely not,” I protest. “Look at what I’m wearing. How do you expect me to pin anyone down in this?”

“It’s just fabric. Let it rip.” He smiles.

“Why don’t you enter?” I ask.

“I’m no wrestler,” he says. “But if that’s what it takes to convince you, then let’s go.”

I think about it, then shake my head. “No. I can’t. It’s mortifying. Wrestling in women’s clothing in front of a crowd. I

couldn’t.” But then the man with the microphone announces that the grand prize is fifty dollars, which is more than double

what Mother makes in a week. I could buy her something beautiful with that kind of money. “Come on,” I say.

“Good luck!” Edna yells as I pull Shams onstage before it’s too late.

Once we’re onstage, I see that Brendan, Jack, Cyril, and all their Harvard friends are clustered at the very front of the

crowd, and I have a moment of doubt. I can imagine Jack using this as ammunition to mock me mercilessly for years to come.

Already, he’s whistling at me. “Look at them pretty girls up there!” he yells out as he almost throws a cube of ice at me

before Brendan stops him.

“You said you’d pay good money to see me wrestle in heels, Jack!” I yell out from the stage. “Double the pot?” I suggest.

“Nice try,” he yells back. “Let’s say ten for being a good sport, twenty if you win!”

I give Jack an elated thumbs-up as all of us onstage are paired up.

We wrestle side by side. Winners stay onstage.

Losers must walk offstage as the crowd playfully jeers at them.

I win my first round. So does Shams. Two rounds later, we’re down to four wrestlers.

Me vs. a man in a satin gown that’s now torn to shreds.

Shams vs. the reigning champion. The emcee calls out, “On your marks! Get set! Wrestle!”

The band, who had been on a break, takes the stage behind us, underscoring our competition to a percussive beat. From the

crowd come the sound of cheers. Tear her down and pin that bitch and Jack’s inimitable voice yelling, “ RIP HER TO SHREDS. ”

My opponent is young and athletic, that much is certain, but he’s no wrestler. He has strength to spare, but no strategy.

He also loves the applause. The louder it gets, the more distracted he becomes. When he flashes a smile to our audience, I

seize the opportunity his distraction provides. I lock his knees together until he tumbles down and pin him to the floor as

the crowd goes wild. I look down and see my own dress has torn open, revealing the boy clothes I’m wearing underneath. It’s

not until the emcee declares me the winner that I turn to notice the reigning champion is no longer onstage. Shams is. He

beat her while I was focused on my own opponent. We’re the only two left.

The band begins a new tune, something appropriately triumphant. The speed of the song revs us up as we’re given our cue to