“You could say that,” I answer, not wanting to outright lie.
He steps closer. I coordinated my outfit perfectly for this meeting. Brown flannel button-down with short sleeves, untucked; olive-green shorts; yellow sneakers that pick out the yellow in the flannel. I’ve also lost twenty pounds, cut my hair off, and studied the “bros” at school all year. I am, I think, Hudson’s dream boy. A masc fantasy. Sure, I watch everything I do now, and I won’t be able to be in the show this summer, but it’ll all be worth it for love.
I smell him as he steps closer—this sort of faded lightning smell, like day-old deodorant and maple. I work hard to keep my knees from shaking.
“I’m Hudson,” he says.
“Del,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“So, what cabin are you in?” He’s really close now. I can feel the heat off his body and I wonder if he can feel it off mine, like we’re touching.
“Seven,” I say.
“Oh.” He raises an eyebrow. “So, did you pick that?”
“It’s my lucky number,” I say.
“Well, I’m cabin fourteen,” he says. “So maybe your luck is changing.”
“Something wrong with seven?” I ask.
“Nah, they’re good people,” he says. “But I think you’d have more fun with me—in my cabin. Folks like us.” He waves his finger back and forth between us, almost like a question, a “We going to do this?” and I have to take a deep breath to keep from nodding.
“Well, it’s just where I’m sleeping, right?” I say.
“Yeah,” he laughs, and reaches out and gives my shoulder a squeeze. This is the first time he’s intentionally touched me and it’s something I’ve wanted for years and it’s hard not to melt right away, but instead I just lock eyes with him and smile. Remember, I tell myself, you want him to fall in love with you. If I just wanted to screw him, I could probably do that right now—but I’m going to be the guy who finally gets Hudson to commit. No one else has done it, but I will. Because I have a plan.
“Well,” he says, dropping his hand, his eyes closing just a little, like he’s curious, “I’ll see you around, I hope.”
“I hope so,” I say, and he grins, and I wonder for a moment if it was too much, but no, I think, as I turn around and head for my cabin, that was just enough. I look back after a few steps and he’s still watching me and smiles when he sees me watching and then heads for his own cabin.
Okay, I say in my head, walking slowly, breathe in, breathe out. My legs feel like jelly, my heart is racing. Okay. Okay okay okay. Step one, done. It worked. IT WORKED. Maybe this whole thing could work? Maybe I didn’t give up carbs and cut off my hair and spend hours working on my walk and voice and learning not to talk with my hands or quote a show tune every sentence for nothing. Maybe I can really win my dream guy.
I walk into the cabin and George starts screaming. “OH MY GOD,” he says, giving me a hug. “I was watching from the window, and I almost didn’t recognize you—I mean, I saw the photos on Snapchat, of course, darling, and everything you texted me, but I didn’t think you’d really be going through with the wardrobe and styling changes.” He reaches up and pets the air where my hair used to be. “Poor hair,” he says solemnly. “But you just talked to him, and he totally checked out your ass as you walked away! Could you feel his dark, sexy eyes just burrowing into you?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“Hey,” Ashleigh says from her top bunk on the side of the room, where she’s flipping through a comic.
I let my bag drop, and I take one long dramatic breath.
“I think it’s going to work,” I say.
George screams again, one big drag queen shriek.
I grin, and look them both over. My two best camp friends. Two best friends, really. It feels sad saying that about people I only see for four weeks out of the year, but we e-mail and text, and watch Drag Race together while in a group chat, and it’s not like I have other queer friends. There’s not even a GSA at my tiny school in eastern Ohio. Like, I’m sure there are other queer kids, and maybe they’re even out, a little, like I am, to a few friends and their parents, but no one is talking about it. Once you start talking about it, other people join the conversation, and in eastern Ohio, they don’t always say nice things.
My transformation at school didn’t go unnoticed, though. I was still a theater kid (always the chorus, never a lead—there, anyway), but suddenly the girls were looking at me differently, asking me to hang out. I pretended to be sick a lot. My parents gave me weird looks a lot, too, and asked if everything was okay, but I just smiled and told them things were great. It was definitely strange. But worth it if I can go back to school with my phone lock screen as a photo of Hudson and me making out.
“So,” George says when he’s done screaming, “what’s the timeline on this? You’re still going to be able to hang out with us, right? Mark says they’re going to do Bye Bye Birdie this year, and I am so excited! Darling, you know I’m going to cut some bitches to play Kim, so don’t even think of going up against me.”
George spreads his fingers out in front of him, his nails painted in green and gold to spell B CAMP @ CAMP. I’ve been so focused on my own physical changes over the school year, I guess I didn’t notice his on Snapchat and Instagram. He doesn’t look that different. He’s still “stocky,” as we call ourselves (well, called, in my case, I guess), but his face is a little more angular, and the stubble and chest hair peeking out from the collar of his purple V-neck give his sandy-colored complexion more maturity. His black curly hair is still shaved at the sides and big on top, but it looks less like a kid’s haircut and more like a man’s. He’s gone from looking too young for his age to looking a little older than the rest of us. And he’s wearing it well. Ashleigh hasn’t changed at all. Same denim cutoffs, same black-and-white flannel wrapped around her waist and black tank top. Same rough-looking undercut, one side of her head shaved, the other side’s unwashed wavy hair falling over her thin, pale face. She’s the ultimate theater techie. Lights, sound, stage managing—she does it all, way better than anyone else.
“I don’t know if I can be in the musical,” I say, trying not to sound as sad as I feel about it.
“Darling, no,” George says, shaking his head. “I know you have this plan and all, but there’s always time for theater!” He does jazz hands.
Ashleigh looks up from her comic, a worn-out copy of Deadly Class. “You’re giving up theater for this guy?” she asks. “Really?”
“That’s the plan,” I say. “And he’s not just some guy. He’s Hudson. THE Hudson. The perfect man.” As I say it, a few more old friends come into the bunk—other theater kids. We say hi, give each other hugs, some tell me they like my haircut. Jordan does a double take and says, “Whoa, didn’t recognize you. Cool look, though,” with slightly worried eyes before grabbing a bed. I take the bunk next to George’s, under Ashleigh.
“I thought you’d be taking the top bunk with that new hair,” George says.