Lakelore by Anna-Marie McLemore

Author:Anna-Marie McLemore
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

LORE

When you have a gender presentation range as wide as I do, you get used to confused looks. I’ve been walking around here mostly in my work jeans—faded by the wash, flecked with paint—with my hair under hats. But right now I’m wearing one of my more femme-y tops—flowy, embroidered. Red-tinted lip gloss. About as girly as I ever get.

This means every block or so I get a look like someone almost recognizes me. Is that … That looks like Lore … That looks like the Garcias’ kid … Sometimes they place me by the time I pass them, and they’re confident enough to say my name. Sometimes they’re not sure, and give the polite, generic smile that works whether they know me or not. It happens three times on the walk to the copy-and-print shop.

I’m considering different rolls of shipping tape—I should have asked my parents to be more specific—when I realize Bastián is a rack of office supplies away from me.

Heat blooms alongside my collarbone, following the embroidery on my shirt. I was almost positive Bastián wasn’t on today. Sloan said as much when I ran into him.

I was not planning on Bastián seeing girly Lore.

A name tag glints gold on Bastián’s shirt. It doesn’t look like their name—I can’t read it from this distance but I can tell by the length of the word. But then they get close enough for me to see it’s their full first name, Sebastián.

“Are you finding every”—Bastián starts, then I look up, it clicks for them, and Bastián changes course midsentence—“sorry, didn’t recognize you.”

How level their expression is makes something in me fall and lift at the same time. They’re not staring like they think I’m hotter this way than when I dress in my boy clothes, which I appreciate. But maybe they’re not staring that way because they don’t think of me that way period.

“I thought you weren’t working today,” I say.

“I’m filling in,” Bastián says. “It was last minute.” Bastián writes something on a clipboard. “Hey, can you stay around for a second?”

I wave a hand at the rolls of tape. “I’m in the middle of a lengthy deliberation.”

“Do you want help?” Bastián says. “Because I can bore you with details about acrylic and hot melt.”

“I think I’m up to the challenge,” I say. “But thanks.”

Bastián disappears, but the sense of them being next to me stays, like the wake after a boat. The slight surprise coming off them is a kind I’m not used to. It was neutral, observant, instead of the thrilled shock of guys seeing me wear makeup for the first time, asking why don’t I look this way every day. Once they placed me, Bastián looked at me like I’m just me, like it’s not going to be some kind of disappointment if tomorrow I’m wearing my favorite T-shirt and old jeans again.

When Bastián comes back, they hand me a glass jar filled with indigo water.

“It seemed like you liked the ones in my room,” Bastián says.

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