Dress Codes for Small Towns by Courtney Stevens

Author:Courtney Stevens
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-06-08T04:00:00+00:00

17

Six hours have passed since I put my head on my pillow. Five minutes have passed since I woke up from that dream. That dream. That sex dream.

My first sex dream. My first sex anything.

And . . . I was a guy.

And . . . I was with Janie Lee.

And . . . I don’t know what to think about anything.

Light spills into my room through my curtains. Mom’s frying bacon in the kitchen. I don’t have any clean socks. Morning is here. Morning doesn’t care about my sexuality.

Jesus, when I see Janie Lee in first period, I’ll be thinking about that thing she did with her tongue instead of dangling participles. That’s an improvement to language arts, but a danger to friendship.

Before I further question my sexuality, I consult the internet’s opinion on sex dreams. According to “experts” I am starved for intimacy and have “a masculine mind-set.” “No,” I tell the internet, and then scroll mindlessly through Janie Lee’s Instagram account, registering photos of her, the Hexagon, and us. In each one, her expression is unshakable. Even when we’re all making silly faces, there she is, perfect mascara and straight white teeth.

There’s one particular photo from three months ago. It was taken at the wedding chapel on Highway 62. Woods and Janie Lee share a piano bench. Violin in her lap, grin on her face: she’s full, bright. Woods has his mouth open, singing. His hair is gelled as straight as it’ll go; he looks about ninety-five years old. The caption reads Carson Wedding #fallingslowly #once #happyforthem #happyforme.

Janie Lee’s wearing a sexy black dress. And I suppose it strikes me for the first time that dress clothes are like jewelry—accessories to skin. I’ve been using wardrobe as a fuck-you statement for so long that it hasn’t occurred to me clothes aren’t what I’m seeing when I look at Janie Lee. It’s her in all her Janie Lee–ness. The same way I put on different clothes and went to a costume party with Davey, I can costume any part of myself I want.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the kitchen sporting one of my two funeral dresses. A juice glass smashes against the porcelain tile. Shards and slivers land in the grout. Glass scatters all the way to the laundry room.

“Did you . . . lose a bet?” Mom asks, but not cruelly. “Or is it one of those specialty dress-up days?”

I might not get fancy very often, but I understand the requirements. Real bra. Grandy’s necklace. Mascara and lip gloss. By God, I am even wearing a thong. These are items I own because my mother has to buy me something for Christmas each year that is not LEGOs and odd art supplies.

I’m uncomfortable as hell, and as hot as I can manage.

“Yes, of course I did, because that’s the only way I am capable of dressing up.” This sarcasm is superior to explaining that my best friends mistook me for a dude and, double whammy, I had a sex dream where I was the guy.

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