Choir Boy (21 page)

Marco joined in. “And so then once the USSR was dead, you could hear what was really going on from people who were on the inside, and find out how wrong we’d all been.”

Berry asked Marco and Judy to drop him downtown. “There’s somebody I need to see. I have a lot of stuff to work out.” His parents argued with him, but helplessness won out over their responsibility. They dropped Berry near the bus depot. From there, he walked to the business district. He’d left Gray Redman’s card at home, but remembered the name of the building and the street it was on. He walked around for an hour or so, past men in suits and women in pressed skirts and jackets. Berry wore a jeans jacket, T-shirt, and black sweat pants. He had no idea whether he looked like a boy or a girl to these people. Either way, he wasn’t one of them. Here all the buildings had upward-sloping glass walls. Pigeons danced around Berry’s feet. Berry wondered if he’d miss more than one day of school. That’d be something. People in business wear came from lunch or went to meetings. This was the world that had defeated Marco, and that Judy strove to join.

Finally, Berry found the right building and scanned the illuminated list of names and office numbers. A security guard in the lobby stared at him. No “Gray Redman.” Finally, Berry spotted Inspirational Vocations, which rang familiar. It was on the fifth floor. Berry got to the elevator just as the guard lifted himself from his chair to hassle him.

On the fifth floor, Berry stalked the hall twice before he spotted the glass door next to the men’s room labeled “New You Electrolysis and Inspirational Vocations.” Berry pushed the door and found himself in a small room stacked with boxes. Two doors, both closed. Berry knocked on one and a Asian woman in a blue smock opened it. She wore gloves and a nose/mouth mask. She told Berry Gray Redman worked in the other room. Berry knocked on that door and a voice said to come in.

Gray Redman had his feet up on a desk in a small room with one other chair. He had a computer with ergonomic keyboard. He wore suit pants, a blue and white striped shirt, and a yellow tie, but Berry couldn’t see a jacket anywhere. “Berry,” Gray Redman said. “I’m so touched you decided to give me another chance.”

“No problem,” Berry said. “It wasn’t your fault. I’ve got a lot of stuff to crunch. I need to know about work.” “Work sucks. Why do you think I became a consultant instead of getting a real job? But doing what you love for money is aces,” Gray Redman seemed to recite rote phrases. “Uh huh.”

“Most people work. A few lucky ones practice active dreaming. But you’re young. It’s never too late to start finding that dream job, unless it’s ballet dancer. But it could be too early in your case. Most kids your age have no clue. I’ve talked to enough classrooms full of kids who think they’ll be doctors when they’ll really be Amway reps. So what’s the rush?”

“You offered to help. And I have deadlines.”

“Deadlines are for dead people. Finish your work early and hit the beach. Or do more work, if it’s your dream job.” “I already have my dream.” Berry told Gray Redman about the choir and his pills. “If I became a woman, what would I do?”

“Get a mammogram every year after forty. Oh, you meant career wise. I don’t know. Much the same as if you stayed a guy. So right now you have this awesome gig with Gloria and Hallelujah and Kyrie and pass the collection plate.”

“Yeah.”

“Religion is big business. Ten billion last year.” Berry didn’t ask ten billion of what, and Gray Redman didn’t say. “So you’re a child star, sort of. What you need is a mentor.” “I have a ton of mentors,” Berry said. This started to look like a waste of time. “They all say different things.”

“Mentors are like that. Okay, kid. I need to do some leg-work. What you need is someone who has the kind of job you’d like to have. Then he or she can tell you how to get there.” Berry started to protest that he didn’t know what job he wanted, but Gray Redman waved a hand. “We’ll try a few things, huh? Opera singers, torch singers, wedding singers. Whatever. We’ll have a mini career day for you, introduce you to some people. Check back on Monday.” Berry thanked Gray Redman with as much happy as he could force-feed his voice. He’d let himself think the consultant would have some magic solution. Instead, it sounded like they’d fumble in the dark until Gray’s guilt stopped fucking him.

Berry wandered the city for an hour or two. He didn’t feel like calling Maura, and Lisa was still at school. He wandered into a magazine stand and looked at
Sixteen and a Half
and
Teeneurosis,
the magazines Lisa had shown him. The articles on makeovers and boyfriends in
Sixteen and a Half
bewildered Berry and the magazine seemed too old for him.
Teeneurosis
looked a little easier to figure out. It had makeup stuff that made sense, Berry could see himself using eye shadow and eyeliner to draw attention to his dark eyes. He mentally twirled in one of the magazine’s fall dresses, a gray number with pink trim. Berry found an advice column called “Girlfriend, You Better Deal” by Gwen Indoubt.

Gwen seemed to handle mostly boyfriend problems. He won’t kiss me, he wants to go all the way, he treats me weird around his friends. But she also answered questions about other stuff: I’m too fat, I’m a tomboy, I don’t like boys, I’m too nerdy. Gwen gave every question the same cheery tone. She didn’t scorn the fat protodykes any more than the girls who wanted to be seen with the popular boys but not touch them. Her answer to everybody was the same; do what shakes your tree the most. She seemed way nicer than the sarcastic columnist in
Sixteen and a Half,
Greta Clue. Greta dissed everybody.

The saleswaif at the magazine store seemed not to care if Berry read a whole magazine twice without paying. Berry noticed that the masthead said
Teeneurosis
had offices downtown, not too far from Gray Redman’s. Berry used a toothpick to scratch the address into the back of his left hand, where it soon faded.

Berry tossed the slightly dog-eared
Teeneurosis
back on the rack and ran to the street, where he struggled to recall the address. It took him a while to find one slanty glass building among a dozen, and then longer to figure out that Advantage Point Publishing meant
Teeneurosis.
He ran up the stairs to the third floor and arrived at the carpet-walled suite still gasping.

“Pm—huh—looking for Gwen Indoubt,” Berry panted. The woman at reception stared at him through cat glasses. Her jet black hair squirmed in a bun. She looked nothing like the
Teeneurosis
girls. “My name’s Berry. I’m thirteen years old and I need advice.”

The woman reached under her desk and handed Berry a list of resources for teens in the area, including GLBT rap groups and services for the homeless and drug-ragged. “This is what there is.”

“I just wanted to ask Gwen. I won’t bug her.”

“There is no Gwen. It’s a pen name. Whoever leaves the most dishes in the office sink writes the column each month. But feel free to send a letter and—”

“Berry! It’s Berry, right?” A blond head with red streaks poked through the office door behind the desk. It took Berry a second to recognize Anna Conventional in a suit. She’d almost have blended in with the people on the street, except for the dye job and sun-and-moon earrings. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Gwen Indoubt, who doesn’t exist. What are you doing here?”

“I work here. Actually, I write most of Gwen’s material. I’m a slob in the office kitchen.”

“I thought you were an accountant or something.” “Managing editor and staffer.”

“Jane, do you know this kid?” the receptionist said. “Berry’s the cutest choirboy this side of Vienna. So what did you want to ask Gwen about?”

Anna Conventional held open the inner door for Berry to follow her into a maze of fuzzy walls you could see over if you stood on tiptoe. A woman in tartan threw a pencil at Berry when he craned over her wall. The walls curved around tiny ledges holding computers and phones, and chairs nestled inside the nooks. In some of them, people talked and typed.

Berry didn’t trust anyone whose name changed so often. (Anna, Gwen, or Jane?) But he let the woman lead him into her small windowless office and plunk him on a stool with a view of the grilly back of her computer monitor and her poster of the city at night. “I can’t believe you write dating advice,” Berry said. “I’ve seen you and your boyfriend.” “Ex-boyfriend.” Anna Conventional laughed. “It’s easier to give advice than to live it. Did you have fun at the Wasteness?” Berry shrugged. “Everybody liked you, especially Bishop Bacchus. You’re pretty connected in the alternative scene for a choirboy.”

“I don’t know if I’m still a choirboy.” Berry started to cry from who knows where. He hadn’t cried in years, and hadn’t expected to. Once he started he couldn’t stop. His face soaked. He wondered if the girl pills had turned him rawer inside. Anna/Jane gasped, grabbed a box of tissues, and thrust it at Berry. He took one. She threshed his hair with a few fingers.

“Hey,” Anna/Jane said. “Hey.”

“Sorry,” Berry sniffed. “I never do this.”

“’Sokay. You should see the freelancers when I kill their stories. So what’s the sitch?”

For the umpteenth time, Berry told his story. Anna seemed fascinated, especially by the “gossip” about Maura. “I always knew that girl was a freak recruiter,” she said.

When Berry was done, Anna Conventional threw her hands up. “Shit, kid. Clueless equals me. If you wrote all that in a letter, I’d wash my dishes on time for a whole month. Look, as far as I’m concerned you ought to be able to have everything you want while you’re young, because the world shrinks when you get older. Be a choirboy. Be a diva. Be a football star. Whatever. I get so sick of hearing from kids who think they have to pick one clique or self-image.”

Anna Conventional didn’t sound as peppy as Gwen. Berry must have looked disappointed, because she tried to cheer him. “So Maura wants to pretty you up and take you out. Well, I know she can be kind of intense one-on-one, and I have a lot of free evenings since Robbie took off on his underwater tantric vision quest. Hang on, I’ll see what she’s doing.” Anna Conventional had Maura on speed dial. “Hey. It’s me. I got your boy here. How many boys you got? Berry. Duh. No, he’s not a girl. Not yet, anyway. Dude. Dude. Listen to me. Dude. You’re in bed with who? Whatever. Listen, what are you doing tonight? Cancel. We’ll meet you at the Metro K. You and Berry. I’m playing buffer. Yeah. Yeah. See ya.”

Berry protested, but Jane—acting more and more like Anna Conventional every moment—shushed him. “What’s your parents’ number?” Berry told it. She dialed. “Hi. Is this Berry’s mom? Great. Great. This is Jane Willbury, managing editor of
Teeneurosis
Magazine. That’s right. Yes. I’m a friend of Berry’s. He didn’t? I’m sure he has lots of friends. Yes. I know all about that. That’s why I’m calling. I’m giving Berry some pointers. No, he won’t be in the magazine. He probably won’t be back tonight. I have a pull-out bed. Don’t worry. Really. I’m a trained advice columnist. No. No hard drugs. No human sacrifice. I promise. Right. You’ll see him tomorrow, a happier and better-adjusted Berry. Fine. Okay. Buh.”

After she hung up, Anna Conventional turned to Berry. “They’re fine. Oh, and I want some before-and-afters of the makeover. No biggie. You won’t have to sign a model release, they’re just for my stash.” Berry blinked. “So what’s this about Maura being in bed with a minister?”

Anna Conventional got off work early and donned a fake leopard skin coat and pink fuzzy hat over her business drag. Maura wore a black tube dress that started below her armpits and went to mid-thigh, plus a shiny belt. Berry couldn’t tell what held the strapless dress up. Maura’s hair flowed up in a big swoosh around her rhinestone bow, Anna Conventional and Maura bought Berry dinner at the Metro K, a yuppie-ish after-work joint with sandwiches and salads on its menu, named after famous actors or old noodle-stretching tycoons. Berry had a burger and fries. “You’re lucky,” Maura told Berry. “You can eat anything at your age and it doesn’t live on your ass.” Both Maura and Anna Conventional ate salads.

The entire dinner conversation consisted of Berry’s makeover. “I’d say some gel for her hair,” Anna said. They both used the female pronoun for Berry after a while. “Maybe some red highlights, they’ll wash out. Luckily there’s almost no body hair.”

The two women could go for ten minutes saying nothing but names of beauty products.

“Colorbust by Lavienne!” Anna exclaimed.

“Lustrelash by Cosmetique!” Maura shouted back.

Berry just ate his burger and fries and let the product litany go by. Maura turned to him and said: “Hon, your eyelashes are going to be longer and thicker than your intestines. That’s a promise.”

“Eating,” Berry mumbled.

Dinner was over too soon. They sped him back to Anna Conventional’s apartment, a converted warehouse loft. Anna’s apartment was bigger than Berry’s parents’ but he saw no sign she shared it with anyone. The front room had a sofabed, where Berry would crash. It had a nice glass coffee table with glossy mags, mostly Anna’s, on them. Every wall and some of the ceiling showed off paintings by artists Anna Conventional knew, including one huge painting by Bishop Bacchus of a warrior clown impaling a sacred prostitute on the spike of a condom-shaped umbrella. Anna Conventional and Maura hustled him to the bathroom.

“What’s first?” Maura said.

“First she bathes. Kid’s gotta smell nice and have soft skin. Berry, I want you to take a long bubble bath and use every single one of the oils and gels on my shower caddy. Okay? Don’t skip any. In the meantime, where’d I put my bong?”

Berry did what Anna Conventional said. As the bathtub filled, Berry felt in his joints the fact that the choir was rehearsing without him. What had Mr. Allen told the choir? That Berry was sick? That he had a schedule clash? Or that he was mid-change into a freak of science?

Berry poured a finger each out of a dozen bottles into the tub, including shampoos and exfoliants. He sank in up to his hair. The smell reminded him of the incense-and-booze-doused Twelve Step room during the coed sleepover a few weeks ago. A bottle spun in Berry’s mind, not stopping for anyone, spinning forever until the people around it blurred, boys and girls, into an unkissable mystery.