“He’s not straight-acting,” I say.
“He’s masc4masc,” George says.
“Oh, what’s the difference?” Mark asks. “And who even says that? He tells people that over the campfire?”
“We found his BoyDate profile,” George says. Which is true. Last summer, when my parents picked me up, they brought my phone and I turned it on—just to see, just to check if I could find his profile, and save it, and maybe there’d be photos—and there it was: HudsonRocks, five eleven, athletic build, masc4masc. As if we didn’t know that from all the boys he’d gotten with at camp.
Mark sighs and takes my shoulders in his hands, bending down to look me in the eyes. “Look, Del, Randy, I don’t care what you call yourself. I just want you to be happy. Are you happy? Don’t you want to wear that same purple sweater you bring every summer? Don’t you want to sing in the show?”
“I …” I take a deep breath. I do. But I also want something else, and I can’t have both. “I want Hudson.”
Mark lets go of my arms and stands up straight. “Well, it’s your choice. But, honey, I’ve been around the block a lot more than you have, and I promise you, a man who makes you change to be with him isn’t worth it.”
“He is,” I say softly.
Mark ignores me and claps his hands. “Everyone turned their clipboards back in? Great. Now let’s get back to dancing!” He turns the music on and everyone is dancing again, but I sit down on my bed, my head in my hands, and try to shake the feeling that even though I know this plan will work, I’m letting everybody else down. I take a deep breath. Hudson is worth it, I remind myself. Everything I’m giving up is worth it for him.
THREE
Last Summer
Normally, I don’t care for the camp-wide color wars. Three days when all the usual activities are replaced by relay races and capture the flag and making banners and worthless points stacking up like condom wrappers at the boathouse? Not fun. Mark loathes it—says the break from rehearsal and all the screaming damaging our vocal cords is just Joan trying to sabotage the show. The whole camp is divided up into two teams—no splitting up bunkmates, though, to prevent inter-cabin fighting—and this year, we’re Green. Not my favorite color, or one I usually gravitate to, sartorially speaking, but I have a great pair of white shorts trimmed in green lace. That and a black shirt, and I think I’m showing my team spirit in a very fashionable way. And at least I’m not on Orange. I don’t know what I’d wear for that. And besides, Hudson is on our team. Not just on it—he’s a captain: one of the eight campers chosen to lead their color into battle, four per team. They’re like army generals and cheerleaders rolled into one. Hudson has taken to it like it was a mission delivered unto him by God herself. He’s standing onstage with the other three generals, in a bright green polo and not-at-all-matching khaki-green shorts. His face is painted with green stripes under his eyes, like a football fantasy come to life, and he’s even sprayed his hair with a light coating of bright green wash-out dye. And he’s waving a green flag in the air, screaming.
“Go Mean Green!” he shouts with the other generals. Across the soccer field from us, team Orange glares. Another reason I’m happy to be on green: Nothing rhymes with orange.
George sits to my right, in green eye shadow and a forest-green romper studded with gold stars. Ashleigh is to my left, in a black tank top and denim cutoffs. A green bandanna that one of the counselors gave her sticks out of her pocket.
“I feel like we’re in a cult,” Ashleigh says.
“An army,” George corrects. “That means a cult that’s openly fighting another cult. As opposed to secretly fighting everyone.”
“It’ll be fun,” I say, watching Hudson jump up and down onstage. “I wonder if his underwear is green.”
“If that boy owns anything beyond ‘funny’ boxers with pictures of bacon or something, I’ll eat my own underwear,” George says. “Though I will say those streaks under his eyes are expertly applied. Perfect edges. I wonder who did them?”
“Green briefs,” I say, still thinking aloud. “I’m going to picture him in green briefs.”
“Gross,” Ashleigh says. “I don’t need to hear what you’re going to be fantasizing about.”
“Sweetie, you were the one who did a five-minute monologue on Janice’s purple bikini today,” I say.
Ashleigh turns to the grass in front of her and pulls out a few blades. I keep watching Hudson. “He’s so pretty,” I say. “Even in that outfit.”
“Darling, that’s his thing,” George says. “Pretty, masculine, straight-acting, whatever you want to call it. And he only hooks up with other boys like him.”
“I mean, I could go butch.”
“Randy,” Ashleigh says, “come on. You wear women’s tank tops, nail polish, sometimes lipstick. You’ve got long hair and a soft body. No body-shaming, I think you’re perfect, but even if you could do the ‘straight-acting’ thing all of a sudden, you’d still need to change your wardrobe, cut your hair off, lose some weight, get some muscle ….”
“I could devote myself to the part,” I say. “Go Method.”
“And then he’d break up with you two weeks later,” George says. “Just like he does with all the others. So even if you could suddenly go butch overnight, it would be for what, a week of making out and then some screwing at the Peanut Butter Pit before he forgot your name?” The Peanut Butter Pit was under the rope swing at the obstacle course—dug deep enough to afford some privacy for two horizontal bodies in it, and a favorite spot of Hudson’s for being horizontal. Or whatever angles are involved for cowboy and doggie style.
“He’s not really like that,” I say, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between my fingers. “I mean, he acts like he is, but he’s more than that.”
“And you know all this how? From looking deep into his eyes?”
“No,” I say. “We were in the same cabin my first year. His grandma had just died and Hudson cried in his sleep, had these sad dreams about her. I woke him up once and we talked a little. About his dream. About how to remember her. About how to be the best versions of ourselves. It was … deep.” I look down. I haven’t told anyone about that night before. It’s a special memory, and I know they’ll tear it down, but they have to understand: Hudson isn’t just hot. He’s the only one I know who can make me feel like I’m not just free to be myself here, where it’s safe, but I’m free to be myself anywhere I want, and screw anyone who tells me differently.
“Did he even see your face?”
“The lights were out,” I say, maybe a little defensively. “But he’s a nice guy. He’s just never met a guy who’s captured his attention long enough to become a real boyfriend.”
“Oh,” George says. “Sure. And that’s going to be you?”
“Yeah,” I say, willing it into the universe. “It is.”