Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [91]
“Oh, baby, you’re talking to the choir here. I know that.”
“And the foster homes were just like prison camps. I had to fight all the time to keep the boys off of me. I mean, the ones I didn’t like,” I said.
“Do you think that’s why you’re gay?”
“Oh, hell no. I’m gay through and true. I would have been gay even if Cliff and Clair Huxtable from The Cosby Show had been my parents. I spent so many years praying to God for parents, and when he didn’t answer that prayer, I began pleading that if I’m going to be an orphan and gay …” I paused, because tears the size of grapes were rolling down my face.
“It’s okay, Bart,” Yancey said as she patted my hand.
“… then let someone like me, love me,” I said as I tried to stop crying. I wanted to cut out this pity party, but all I could manage was a weak smile as Yancey held my hand. It was time, once again, to figure out yet another plan for survival.
You Make Me Feel Brand-New
I wonder what people see when they look at me. I studied my face in the mirror after removing the ton of makeup I’d worn for the shoot. It had been a very long day, but if the dailies Desmond and I had just watched were any indication, the second video was going to be a bigger hit than the first!
My eyes looked tired. I wondered what Desmond saw when he looked at me. Tired eyes? Or the face of a cover girl? I guessed it was best that most people saw only what they wanted to see and no more. I was damn glad I didn’t have the kind of face that tells your whole life story. My career would be over!
I peered in closer and ran my finger across the faint scar over my left eyebrow. No one ever noticed it, but I always knew it was there. My grandmother had said it was an accident and that she hadn’t meant to break the skin or draw blood. What she had meant to do was beat the living devil out of me with an extension cord when I was eight years old. Whipping me was a common occurrence when my grandmother thought I’d looked at her the wrong way or, even worse, “been fast” with a neighborhood boy.
On that particular day many years ago when I tried to pull away from her grasp, she let me go and I fell, hitting my head on the sharp corner of the kitchen counter. She’d never hesitated to raise big red welts on my legs and back, but when she saw the blood running down my face, it scared her so badly she put the extension cord away for at least a week.
Sometimes I can’t look at my own face. I’m afraid of what I’ll see there. I can brush my teeth, put on my makeup and fix my hair without ever looking into my own eyes. Most of the time people don’t look any deeper than my pretty face. But I’ve learned that beautiful people don’t always lead beautiful lives.
I thought Desmond had broken the family code earlier today, when he was looking at me so intensely that I wanted to tell him my life story. The true version—not the one I’d carefully crafted for the outside world. It made me nervous. I thought maybe Desmond could see Ava, my grandmother, or even Basil in my eyes; that he could see the lies I’ve told, the deceptions. Could he see the hurt little girl who lives inside of me? He kept looking at me and searching my face, but I realized suddenly that he was just trying to get the lighting right. I was so relieved that I let out a deep sigh. “You okay?” he asked. “Fine,” I lied, avoiding his stare and giving him one of my best diva smiles.
I surprised myself by being so concerned with what Desmond thought of me. Besides his looks, he’s talented, smart, down-to-earth and totally unimpressed with me as a woman. At least, that’s the way it seems. He’s had plenty of opportunities to make a move. I know he knows how, but so far, nothing. I guess I should be glad that he hasn’t jumped all over me, like most of the men I’ve met. Desmond has a homeboy quality mixed with the air of a southern gentleman that makes him almost irresistible.
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