“Mark says worse.”
She snorts a laugh. “I know he does. Anyway, my coach told me if I came out, or even started to show signs I would, he would dump me, I’d lose all my endorsement deals, and I’d be banned from the sport. My life would be over. So I kept myself safe. Until my life kind of was over because of the injury. And then I finally got to be reborn.”
“But is that the same?”
“No, no … nothing is the same. No coming out story is the same as another. And you’re already out, Hudson is out. And gay is different from trans. Gender non-conforming is different from trans. You know that. But what I mean is there’s out and then there’s the sort of out people don’t want you to be. I could know I was a woman in my mind, but not act on it. Hudson can know in his head he’s a guy in nail polish and eyeliner who will kick your ass on the obstacle course and look fabulous doing it. There are different degrees of out … and you need to stick to the ones that are safe. Now, what’s safe changes with where you are, and who you’re with. I don’t have that luxury. But I’m also an adult now. I’m not saying it’s safe in the world for me, but my parents can’t kick me out of the house. So Hudson has to find the degree of out that will keep him safe when he’s around his parents.”
I nod. “That … I think that’s what I’m worried about.” I lie back in the grass.
“I can talk to him. Convince him to take the nail polish off.”
“No, I’ll do it. It should be me.” I don’t want to, but it should be me.
“Just remember, Randy, he’s your boyfriend, not your … camper. You’re not responsible for … teaching him how to be gay.”
I laugh. “I’m not teaching him that. There’s no one way to be gay.”
“You know what I mean. To be … himself.”
“I know. And I’m not, I don’t think. I’m just supporting him. Even if he weren’t my boyfriend, that’s what we’re supposed to do for each other, right?”
“That’s right,” she says, standing up and brushing dirt off her knees. “You’re a good kid, Randy. Let me know if you need help talking to him.”
“Thanks.”
I walk back to the theater, going inside just in time to watch a sandbag narrowly miss one of the new kids in the chorus as it falls to the stage with a thud loud enough that the whole theater goes quiet.
“Are we cursed?” Mark shouts. “Did one of you say the name of the Scottish play out loud or say it’s going to be the best show ever or ‘I bet no one gets hit by a sandbag this year’ or ‘I bet Mark doesn’t have a stroke this year’? Well? Did any of you say that?” No one answers. “Everyone go outside and turn around three times and spit!”
I try not to laugh.
I find Hudson backstage, just sort of watching the panic in everyone’s eyes, not sure how to help, and I take him by the hand and I lead him outside, where I kiss him and lie down in the grass.
“You have to take the nail polish off,” I say. “Both of us do.”
“No way, babe,” he says, like he was expecting this conversation. “I don’t care what my parents think.”
I hold his face in my hands. He’s so beautiful. And he’s more beautiful now than he ever was.
“I’m glad you don’t care, but you have to. We have to. Otherwise they might not send you back next year.”
Hudson looks down at his nails. “But it reminds me of you.” His voice is already shaky with tears. “Of us.”
“We don’t need nail polish to remember us, right? We’ll have texting and video chat and I’m going to send you all the musicals on Netflix you should watch, because we need to improve your dramatic education.”
He laughs, but only once, and it’s sort of sad. “I feel like, now that I know who I am, or more of who I am, I don’t want to hide it anymore. Such a cliché, right? But …” He holds his hands out, the nail polish glinting. “This is me. Every time I catch a glance of my hands now, I feel, like, this rush, like swinging across the Peanut Butter Pit, or making a goal. Every finger is like a victory, reminding me who I am. That I’m special. So I don’t want to give that up.”
I nod and stretch my own hands out, taking one of his. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned this summer, it’s that my wearing nail polish doesn’t make me me. Sure, I see myself in my hands, and I feel more like me, I feel like I’m showing off who I am, like I’m proud of who I am … but even when I took it off, and called myself Del, I was Randy underneath. I don’t think I could not be him even if I tried.”
“I know,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I fell in love with Randy.”
“So, it’s not really hiding,” I say. “It’s a role. For an audience of two—your parents. And you only have to play it around them. But you’re still you. You have nail polish on underneath your nails, and eye shadow under your lids and the fiercest cat’s eye … they’re just under everything, waiting to come out. Which you can do with me. With me you always get to be whomever you want to be.”
He takes my hands and our fingers wrap around each other.
“Okay, but not until Saturday. And you have to take it off. Oh … and there’s one thing we have to do first.”
Saturday night, when we don’t have rehearsals—to give everyone a chance to rest up for tomorrow—Hudson and I walk to the tree in the woods where hearts and names are carved, and there, using an X-Acto knife from A&C, we carve our own heart, and in it: Randy and Hudson. Not HAL, not Del. Hudson was very specific about that. We weren’t those people anymore. And then, with our hands sticky with sap and bark, we walk up to the cliff, our cliff, and look out over the camp.
“Okay,” Hudson says, his hand in mine, our legs dangling over the edge, staring at the camp below. “I’m ready.”
With some cotton balls and nail polish remover that George lent me, we strip each other in a different way. Then we lie down in the grass, holding hands, staring at the stars, the chemical smell of the remover hovering in the air.
“I was thinking about sneaking out and buying makeup, practicing on myself in my room. I think I’d look cool in eye shadow.”
“You’d look good in anything,” I say. “But do your parents go through your room?”
“Yeah,” he sighs.
“Your browser history?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then find some videos. Makeup tutorials. Spend the whole year picking out your favorite colors and I’ll bring them next summer.”
He tightens his grip on my hand in the dark, like he’s afraid to let go. I get it; I am, too. Above us, real stars sparkle like glitter on black velvet. A drag queen evening gown. They’re miles away, I know, but it feels like we’re wrapped in it.
“I’m afraid of being without you all year,” he says. “I’m afraid of losing myself. Of turning back into …”
“You won’t. I mean it. You can’t suddenly wake up and say, ‘I know this isn’t who I am, but it’s who I should be,’ when you already know everyone is trying to trick you into thinking that.”