Sweet brown sugar and buttery cinnamon swirled through the air, entangling itself with the waxy mist of a “fresh rain over a newly mowed lawn” candle. Zy’hed watched as the candle flickered and danced on its wick as if it was a maypole.
Inside his room, Zy felt secure, confident. From within the tightened bubblegum pink dress, he stared out his window from apartment 4G and watched as some of his classmates threw a bright orange rubber ball through roped buckets. Basketball was a past time Zy had zero interest in, ever since he was younger, and now, at the age of ten, Zy chose to play dress up alone in his room where he could sashay and shontay over a brightly lit catwalk surrounded by people from his fantasies, from the books he loved to escape into, from the movies he devoured a hundred times over--away from the sneers of neighborhood boys and the hateful eyes of his parents.
Inside his room, Zy felt secure, confident. From within the tightened bubblegum pink dress, he stared out his window from apartment 4G and watched as some of his classmates threw a bright orange rubber ball through roped buckets. Basketball was a past time Zy had zero interest in, ever since he was younger, and now, at the age of ten, Zy chose to play dress up alone in his room where he could sashay and shontay over a brightly lit catwalk surrounded by people from his fantasies, from the books he loved to escape into, from the movies he devoured a hundred times over--away from the sneers of neighborhood boys and the hateful eyes of his parents.
As his mother frantically scurried through the kitchen baking snickerdoodles and sugar cookies for yet another fundraiser for his sister’s class, Zy’s father was, yet again, at work far longer than he had intended. His father worked as a janitor at a manufacturing plant Monday through Thursday beginning at about two in the morning and ending around four or five in the evening. The rest of the week, Zy’s father worked as a mechanic or was out on some other errands that he refused to speak about. Most days, Zy noticed how challenging it was for his mother to simply get up and get started, how the cabinets lacked cereal and flour, how the fridge might release moths if he tried to open it. Some days, though, Zy forced him to ignore temptation, to not reach inside the cookie jar that seemed to topple over with goodies, to not ransack the cabinets and gorge himself until he passed out from sheer indulgence. There was no rhyme or reason for when the home was blessed with all of the delight, but Zy knew better than to question it--just as he knew better than to leave his bedroom door open as he twirled in front of his floor-length mirror wearing a dress and jewelry he snuck out of his sister’s room.
As he strutted through his room, Zy noticed how the bust of the dress held a significant amount of air between it and his flat mahogany chest, much unlike his significantly older sister who normally wore the gown. Zy considered using a pillowcase or some tissues to occupy that space, but decided against. Playtime was always short-lived--there was always a knock at the door or a shuffle of feet outside his cave of confidence that would jolt him out of his daydreams, and he would concoct some story about being naked and needing to get himself inside some clothes. On more than one occasion, his mother had confessed some hesitant curiosity about why Zy was naked, and, on more than one occasion, his mother had mentioned to his father that a talk of some kind was desperately needed. Zy didn’t want to talk to his father. He didn’t want to hear the concern in his mother’s voice when she spoke about him. He hated having to hear his sister complain about one dress or another missing for the umpteenth time in a week. But Zy also didn’t want to stop. He felt comfortable when he played dress-up alone in his room amongst his fantasy friends. He felt, not like himself, but something better than himself--he felt like who he truly was inside.
The cheers for some sort of scoring echoed outside over the thumping bass of a passing car, and Zy shook off the dress along with his dreaming. Another cheer rattled the chain link fence.
“Don’t you want to go shoot hoops with those boys, Zy?”
His mother often yelled out questions to him from another room. He knew she was waiting on a reply despite the busy sounds billowing from the kitchen. The clink of measuring spoons inside jars, the clang of pots and pans falling over inside cabinets with the removal of just the ran cookie sheet, and then the sudden slam of a cabinet door to act as a barrier against the metallic avalanche. Zy took a deep breath, wondering if the lack of a response would suggest his answer, but he knew the worse was about to happen when the clinging and clanging ceased. He hurried to stuff his sister’s dress beneath his bed. It wasn’t the ideal hiding spot because his shoes, boxes, and toys were clearly visible under there, even from the bedroom doorway, but he hoped he could quickly rearrange the chaos to conceal the onslaught of pink--a stark contrast to the beige decor of the apartment’s standard decor. A hanger rotated like a propeller in his closet as he jerked on a random shirt. He jumped inside a pair of cargo shorts, but fell on his rear when his socked feet hit the hardwood floor. As he winced in pain, the blood in his body escaped his head as he realized the things he forgot. The scented candle he was told not to have still flinted near the window where he usually blew it out and balanced it on the outside windowsill out of sight. The clip-on earrings laid on his bedspread where he had removed them with the utmost care. And, worst of all, the door to his chamber remained locked. Footsteps began inside the kitchen, and Zy leapt to his feet. He swung open his window and threw the candle out, saying a silent goodbye in his head for the friend he feared he ever see again. He swept the earrings into the floor and kicked the faux diamonds beneath his bed, then he sprinted to the door like FloJo, but skidded to a stop to silently, sneakily unlock the door without the faintest click of the bolts inside. It was a rule in the house to never lock doors--something about safety in the case of a fire. When he felt the door release slightly, Zy sprang on his bed and yanked a book from under his pillow, and plopped himself against the wall forming the perfect facade--a boy happily reading about superheros and fantastical battles on a Saturday afternoon.
“Zy,” his mother called as she opened the door, “did you not hear me?”
“Huh?” Zy looked up. “I mean, m’am?”
“Don’t you want to go outside and play basketball with your friends?”
“They ain’t my friends.”
“They could be if you’d go out there.”
“They’re just kids from school--”
“Who live in the same apartment building as you.”
“I don’t want to.”
His mother stood there--one arm akimbo, the other latched onto the doorknob--and she stared at him. Zy analyzed her face. He could rarely tell what his mother was thinking. At first glance, she seemed to wear a look of contempt and sadness. At other times, she seemed to hold acceptance in her eyes and compassion on her cheeks. Her lips were often pursed when she stood in his room, but the downturned corners seemed to signal something at that moment as her eyes left the top of his bed where Zy was perched and traced the underbelly beneath him. Zy’s cheeks engulfed in flames. Black boys and pink dresses were never seen together in his neighborhood unless a girl was involved. He still felt the space over his chest where the bust was lifted only moments earlier, and, for a moment, he was no longer in his bedroom staring at his mother. Instead, he was somewhere else--a stage, a hospital room, a home--fully grown, fully confident, fully realized, and that empty space was occupied by something real.
“Um--” his mother started, and Zy returned to the present with the click of his mother’s tongue inside her mouth. For Zy, it seemed as though his mother stood there for a century, and, for a century, his body lost all sense of a need to breathe. The glaze in her eyes slipped away as his mother looked up at him, and she exited his room with a sudden turn. The once shiny door knob held a fog where warm hands had previously held onto it as the door slowly folded itself towards the frame, as if it were some sort of horror novel that was desperately trying to end. When his mother did not immediately return, Zy shuffled to the side of his bed to look below. Before he could fully lean over the edge, the flare of pink jutting out like a flaming S.O.S. choked tears from his eyes.
Zy fell over onto his back and dug his fingers into this face, trying to thrust himself through the bed, trying to exorcise some sort of demon that held onto his spirit. My foot must have hit it or something, he thought. What am I gonna do?!
“Zy?” If a voice could smell, his mother’s voice in that moment would have smelled sweeter than the snickerdoodles that were close to burning in the kitchen. Zy lifted himself with his elbows and looked towards his mother. A shimmer in her outstretched hand caught his eye. The sunlight sweeping through his window glistened over a sparkling tiara.
“A queen is only as good as her crown,” his mother smiled. “Now, this is the crown I won my senior year. God, I hated my prom date, but I made one helluva prom queen!” His mother chuckled as she gently sat at the foot of his bed. “Pink is pretty, baby, but I don’t know if it’s your color.” From her side his mother lifted a yellow fringed skirt. “I hated this when I was younger, my your nana swore I was a knockout in it. Why don’t we see how this fits?”
Zy opened his mouth and suddenly noticed how dry his throat had gotten. Words tried to squeak out, but a barrier of confusion held it all inside.
“Zy’hed, my love--it’s okay.” She pulled him close and held onto him with such a grip that it seemed she was afraid he would suddenly float away. “Oh, it is so okay!” When she released him, she held onto his cheeks and stared deeply into his eyes. “How ‘bouts we play in just a bit. I got the last batch of cookies in the oven now.” His mother leaned away, still smiling.
“Just--we’ll make sure we only play while your daddy’s at work.”
She kissed his forehead and placed the fringed skirt beside him on the bed. His mother’s soft footsteps stopped at the doorway, and she turned with a grace.
“Zy, I’m happy as long as you’re happy. I don’t want you to feel as though you need to hide this from me. You understand?”
Zy must have nodded because his mother smiled, but he couldn’t tell. His whole body felt numb.
“Just--no more taking your sister’s stuff, please! I’m havin’ a hard time coming up with more stories about where the dresses and jewels have been when I find them in here.”
With a wink, his mother walked back to the kitchen just as the smoke alarm began to wail. After a while, Zy felt a tingle in his feet that signaled he could walk again, and he quietly closed the door to his room. He leaned against the woodgrain and felt his body finally take a much needed deep inhale. As he stared at the yellow fringed skirt that his mother left on his bed, his back relaxed. His arm muscles retracted. His spirit felt freed. His hand turned the doorknob with only a moment’s hesitation, and he left the door slightly ajar.
He lifted the fringe from its nest and held it up to himself as he peered into the mirror. For the first time, Zy felt confident with his door open.
As he strutted through his room, Zy noticed how the bust of the dress held a significant amount of air between it and his flat mahogany chest, much unlike his significantly older sister who normally wore the gown. Zy considered using a pillowcase or some tissues to occupy that space, but decided against. Playtime was always short-lived--there was always a knock at the door or a shuffle of feet outside his cave of confidence that would jolt him out of his daydreams, and he would concoct some story about being naked and needing to get himself inside some clothes. On more than one occasion, his mother had confessed some hesitant curiosity about why Zy was naked, and, on more than one occasion, his mother had mentioned to his father that a talk of some kind was desperately needed. Zy didn’t want to talk to his father. He didn’t want to hear the concern in his mother’s voice when she spoke about him. He hated having to hear his sister complain about one dress or another missing for the umpteenth time in a week. But Zy also didn’t want to stop. He felt comfortable when he played dress-up alone in his room amongst his fantasy friends. He felt, not like himself, but something better than himself--he felt like who he truly was inside.
The cheers for some sort of scoring echoed outside over the thumping bass of a passing car, and Zy shook off the dress along with his dreaming. Another cheer rattled the chain link fence.
“Don’t you want to go shoot hoops with those boys, Zy?”
His mother often yelled out questions to him from another room. He knew she was waiting on a reply despite the busy sounds billowing from the kitchen. The clink of measuring spoons inside jars, the clang of pots and pans falling over inside cabinets with the removal of just the ran cookie sheet, and then the sudden slam of a cabinet door to act as a barrier against the metallic avalanche. Zy took a deep breath, wondering if the lack of a response would suggest his answer, but he knew the worse was about to happen when the clinging and clanging ceased. He hurried to stuff his sister’s dress beneath his bed. It wasn’t the ideal hiding spot because his shoes, boxes, and toys were clearly visible under there, even from the bedroom doorway, but he hoped he could quickly rearrange the chaos to conceal the onslaught of pink--a stark contrast to the beige decor of the apartment’s standard decor. A hanger rotated like a propeller in his closet as he jerked on a random shirt. He jumped inside a pair of cargo shorts, but fell on his rear when his socked feet hit the hardwood floor. As he winced in pain, the blood in his body escaped his head as he realized the things he forgot. The scented candle he was told not to have still flinted near the window where he usually blew it out and balanced it on the outside windowsill out of sight. The clip-on earrings laid on his bedspread where he had removed them with the utmost care. And, worst of all, the door to his chamber remained locked. Footsteps began inside the kitchen, and Zy leapt to his feet. He swung open his window and threw the candle out, saying a silent goodbye in his head for the friend he feared he ever see again. He swept the earrings into the floor and kicked the faux diamonds beneath his bed, then he sprinted to the door like FloJo, but skidded to a stop to silently, sneakily unlock the door without the faintest click of the bolts inside. It was a rule in the house to never lock doors--something about safety in the case of a fire. When he felt the door release slightly, Zy sprang on his bed and yanked a book from under his pillow, and plopped himself against the wall forming the perfect facade--a boy happily reading about superheros and fantastical battles on a Saturday afternoon.
“Zy,” his mother called as she opened the door, “did you not hear me?”
“Huh?” Zy looked up. “I mean, m’am?”
“Don’t you want to go outside and play basketball with your friends?”
“They ain’t my friends.”
“They could be if you’d go out there.”
“They’re just kids from school--”
“Who live in the same apartment building as you.”
“I don’t want to.”
His mother stood there--one arm akimbo, the other latched onto the doorknob--and she stared at him. Zy analyzed her face. He could rarely tell what his mother was thinking. At first glance, she seemed to wear a look of contempt and sadness. At other times, she seemed to hold acceptance in her eyes and compassion on her cheeks. Her lips were often pursed when she stood in his room, but the downturned corners seemed to signal something at that moment as her eyes left the top of his bed where Zy was perched and traced the underbelly beneath him. Zy’s cheeks engulfed in flames. Black boys and pink dresses were never seen together in his neighborhood unless a girl was involved. He still felt the space over his chest where the bust was lifted only moments earlier, and, for a moment, he was no longer in his bedroom staring at his mother. Instead, he was somewhere else--a stage, a hospital room, a home--fully grown, fully confident, fully realized, and that empty space was occupied by something real.
“Um--” his mother started, and Zy returned to the present with the click of his mother’s tongue inside her mouth. For Zy, it seemed as though his mother stood there for a century, and, for a century, his body lost all sense of a need to breathe. The glaze in her eyes slipped away as his mother looked up at him, and she exited his room with a sudden turn. The once shiny door knob held a fog where warm hands had previously held onto it as the door slowly folded itself towards the frame, as if it were some sort of horror novel that was desperately trying to end. When his mother did not immediately return, Zy shuffled to the side of his bed to look below. Before he could fully lean over the edge, the flare of pink jutting out like a flaming S.O.S. choked tears from his eyes.
Zy fell over onto his back and dug his fingers into this face, trying to thrust himself through the bed, trying to exorcise some sort of demon that held onto his spirit. My foot must have hit it or something, he thought. What am I gonna do?!
“Zy?” If a voice could smell, his mother’s voice in that moment would have smelled sweeter than the snickerdoodles that were close to burning in the kitchen. Zy lifted himself with his elbows and looked towards his mother. A shimmer in her outstretched hand caught his eye. The sunlight sweeping through his window glistened over a sparkling tiara.
“A queen is only as good as her crown,” his mother smiled. “Now, this is the crown I won my senior year. God, I hated my prom date, but I made one helluva prom queen!” His mother chuckled as she gently sat at the foot of his bed. “Pink is pretty, baby, but I don’t know if it’s your color.” From her side his mother lifted a yellow fringed skirt. “I hated this when I was younger, my your nana swore I was a knockout in it. Why don’t we see how this fits?”
Zy opened his mouth and suddenly noticed how dry his throat had gotten. Words tried to squeak out, but a barrier of confusion held it all inside.
“Zy’hed, my love--it’s okay.” She pulled him close and held onto him with such a grip that it seemed she was afraid he would suddenly float away. “Oh, it is so okay!” When she released him, she held onto his cheeks and stared deeply into his eyes. “How ‘bouts we play in just a bit. I got the last batch of cookies in the oven now.” His mother leaned away, still smiling.
“Just--we’ll make sure we only play while your daddy’s at work.”
She kissed his forehead and placed the fringed skirt beside him on the bed. His mother’s soft footsteps stopped at the doorway, and she turned with a grace.
“Zy, I’m happy as long as you’re happy. I don’t want you to feel as though you need to hide this from me. You understand?”
Zy must have nodded because his mother smiled, but he couldn’t tell. His whole body felt numb.
“Just--no more taking your sister’s stuff, please! I’m havin’ a hard time coming up with more stories about where the dresses and jewels have been when I find them in here.”
With a wink, his mother walked back to the kitchen just as the smoke alarm began to wail. After a while, Zy felt a tingle in his feet that signaled he could walk again, and he quietly closed the door to his room. He leaned against the woodgrain and felt his body finally take a much needed deep inhale. As he stared at the yellow fringed skirt that his mother left on his bed, his back relaxed. His arm muscles retracted. His spirit felt freed. His hand turned the doorknob with only a moment’s hesitation, and he left the door slightly ajar.
He lifted the fringe from its nest and held it up to himself as he peered into the mirror. For the first time, Zy felt confident with his door open.