Chapter 6 – Chapter 6

Chapter Six

I turned 18 the summer before my Senior year. When my father committed suicide, I failed to finish the grade I was in. I had to repeat it, which meant I was a year behind where I should have been.

I noticed Evans Fowler immediately on our first day back in school. He was new, and new was notable in our town, but especially in our high school. The week before, the Fowlers had moved from St. Louis. Evans' father was managing the largest plant in town, dispatched from St. Louis to modernize it and make it more productive and profitable.

Evans had black hair that was spiked on top and longer in back, black eyes, a thin nose, and thick, red lips. He reminded me of Rob Lowe in the Outsiders.

He was also built. He was 6'2", taller than me by two inches. He was broad shouldered, thick chested, and thick thighed. He was a football player. In St. Louis, he had been the starting quarterback on his private school's team. If he hadn't been new, he'd have been the starting quarterback on our team. Since he new, small minds meant he would not even be part of the team, much less a starter.

He was in my homeroom. Naturally, there was an empty desk next to mine. He slid in. He was not dressed like everyone else. His clothes were elegant, not common. And certainly not from Penney's. Or Sears.

He held out his hand. "I'm Evans," he said. "Evans Fowler."

"It's nice to meet you Evan, I'm Eric. Eric Akers."

"It's Evans, not Evan. There's an S on the end. Please don't call me Evan."

"Okay. So long as you don't call me Erics."

"I won't," he said, flashing a bright, easy smile.

The bell rang, and we were off. By the end of the day, girls were plotting ways to land Evans, and boys were plotting ways alienate or outdo him. It depended on their place at PHS.

Evans seemed to move above and beyond it all. He was distant, but polite. The first weekend of school, he was notably absent from the football game. I was absent, too, but not notably.

Monday morning, girls surrounded his desk, chirping. "Where were you Friday?" "How was your weekend?" "Where'd you go Saturday?" I could smell the estrogen. It was nauseating.

When the bell rand and they scattered, Evans leaned over to me. "Dude, you coated it on too thick this morning. It looks better when it's subtle."

I raised my eyebrows at him.

"Your makeup. . . . It looks better when it's a little more subtle."

"Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome, I'm sure."

"Why didn't you go to the game Friday?"

"Did you?"

"God, no."

"Well, I probably didn't go for the same reason."

"I hate football."

"Me, too, but only because they won't let me play. I can't stand to sit in the stands with all the hormones soaking the air as everyone tries to pretend they're not doing what everyone knows they are doing . . . trying to get laid."

"I've never been laid," I admitted, for some unknown reason.

"I'm not surprised."

"That seems mean."

"I didn't mean it to be. There just doesn't seem anybody here who you'd be into. I imagine you with Audrey Hepburn, not Kelly Bundy."

"Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome, I'm sure."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"It's the difference between confident and diffident. When you say 'I guess,' I say 'I'm sure.' I'm being funny, or trying to be. But, I'm also sure. You never are. You're always guessing."

"Oh."

As I walked out of school that day, Evans pulled up and offered me a ride home. I hesitated and then leaned in through the passenger window.

"You shouldn't give me a ride, Evans."

"Why not?"

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not the big man on campus. If you're caught with me, you won't be, either. You'll be the object of innuendo and rumor. It's happened before," I said, thinking back to Steve.

"I have no interest in being a BMOC at PHS. And, if they talk about me with you, at least they'll be talking about something more interesting than what they usually talk about. Hop in, Cupcake."

I did. As we pulled away from the curb, I asked "Cupcake?"

"That's what people call you. Behind your back. If I'm going to do it behind your back, I ought to do it to your face, too."

"Or not all all."

"Why? I like cupcakes. I have a sweet tooth."

I got warm from my head to my toes. I felt like Evans was flirting with me. But, I wasn't sure. No one had ever really flirted with me before, so I wasn't necessarily attuned to the subtleties.

I didn't want Evans to see where I lived, so I told him he could drop me at the park about four blocks from our apartment. When we got there, he climbed out, too. I didn't know what to do, so I leaned against his car and talked. He talked back.

Evans had already learned what I had long known: Paris was not an idyllic little town, and it was a tough place to be an outsider. Bonds formed early and were not dynamic. Circles of friends rarely were broken with new names. Cliques closed fast and firm.

Evans seemed nonplussed by it all.

"I'm here only for one year," he said. "And, all I need to get by for that one year is one friend. I already have one friend, so I'm set."

I didn't say anything.

"You know I'm talking about you, right?"

"Oh . . . uh . . . sure," I said, confirming what I had, in fact, not known.

The next day, Evans drove me home again. He took me to the same park, turned the car off, and climbed out. Like the day before, we leaned against the hood of his car talking.

"Why me?" I asked.

"You were nice to me. And, you're not a cookie. I'm not much for cookies."

"I thought you had a sweet tooth."

"Not for cookies."

"What's a cookie?"

"At my old school, it was anyone who was cut from the same cloth. You know, a cookie cutter cuts the same cookie every time. So, all the followers were 'cookies.' This school is full of cookies. It's quite depressing, actually. Everyone's afraid to think something that no one else is thinking. It's like everyone is looking around for approval before they make a move or think a thought. Everyone sits on the edge of the pool. No one's on the high dive. No one will even slide in. They're waiting for someone else. My school in St. Louis was not like that. At all. It's hard to get used to."

"I guess I'm not a cookie."

"You're definitely not a cookie. Dude, you wear makeup to school. In Paris, Illinois. There's nothing cookie about that or you. Your'e on the high dive bouncing up and down as hard as you can, about to soar, and you're not afraid, at all. It's awesome. I'm afraid of the high dive."

We settled back onto the hood of his car and stared straight up. He asked about my family, and I shared things with him I was loathe to share generally. I told him about my suicidal lineage. And about my awesome mother. And about how we felt most of the time like we were the last two Christians in the Coliseum, battling an endless Army of lions, warding off wave after wave but always facing another.

The next day, we were in the same spot, and Evans was telling me about his family. His father was successful professionally, but not personally. He drank too much. He was cold and distant. He thought children should rarely be seen and should never be heard. He was an "ist." Racist. Misogynist. Whatever other "ists" there were, he was.

Evans' mother toed the line. It was not her nature, but she would not cross her husband. She sacrificed her children to him.

Evans was the youngest of five boys. The other four were long gone, scattered hither and yon by careers and college and family and then kept at arms length by their father's coldness and distance and by their mother's supplication.

Evans was an over-achiever. He was a Division II football prospect. He was a straight A student. He acted. He debated. He painted. He played the piano. It was as clear as a bell to me that he was doing anything and everything to gain the one thing that was elusive, his father's approval. He'd never get it, no matter how hard he tried.

He was also a world class charmer. The girls wanted to be with him. The boys wanted to be him, even if they wouldn't admit it.

St. Louis isn't Paris, France, but it also isn't Paris, Illinois. He was way more worldly than we were. He knew black people and black music. He knew gay people and gay music. He was not repelled or repulsed by any of it. Word of AIDS was spreading, but, unlike most of Paris, Evans didn't think the right tact was to quarantine the gays and let them die off.

He changed subjects. "Why do you have me leave you here instead of at your door?"

"I'm embarrassed about where I live."

"No reason to be. It has nothing to do with who you are. It's just a place."

"You can drive me home, if you want."

"I want. And, I'd like to meet your mother."

My mother was thrilled that I had a friend in our apartment. She insisted that Evans stay for supper, which he readily agreed to do. I was mortified. My mother could barely scramble an egg.

By the time our awful, undercooked supper was over, my mother was applying makeup to our faces. She arched Evans' eyebrows with a pencil, painted his long eyelashes with mascara, and raised his cheekbones with base. By the time she had outlined his lips, we looked like glam rockers. Or drag queens.

We laughed a lot. It had been a long time since there had been that much mirth in our little hovel.

When Evans announced he had to go, I thought my mother would cry. She grabbed her polaroid, and took pictures of him and me, of him, of me, and – holding the camera as far away as she could – of all three of us. She was taking selfies before selfies were a thing.

We used Pond's cold cream to remove our makeup. Halfway through the process, we looked like mimes. Evans pretended he was trapped in a box, and he was pretty good. I tried to pretend the same, but I only looked like I was groping for someone in the dark.

I walked Evans to his car. Evans put his hand on my shoulder. "I had a great time, Cupcake. Thank you for letting see where you live. And letting me meet your mother."

"You're welcome," I said, and turned to head back up the stairs to our apartment. I was stopped by Evans' voice.

"Cupcake!"

"Yes."

"If any of those pictures show up at school, I'm going to kick your ass."

"No, you won't."

"You're right. But, I really don't want to see those pictures floating around school."

"You won't. You can trust me."

Evans cocked his head and looked pensive. "Of that, I am sure," he said.

I fell asleep that night thinking of Evans. Not in makeup, but with his hair pulled back, his makeup removed, and his beautiful, stripped face, pure and untroubled.