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Friday, March 5, 2010


When I rang the doorbell, he answered less than five seconds later and greeted me as if we were the oldest of friends.
“Brenda!” He exclaimed, throwing his arms around me in a hug. “Welcome! Come right in!”
Despite this cordial greeting, there was some something unsettling about Jazzy’s countenance. I detected a note of fear in his usually confident, unwavering voice, and his smile seemed plastic. He also wasn’t wearing his signature eye-liner.
I was about to murmur a reply when I noticed a tall, stunning, middle-aged women curiously watching us from the hallway. She had the exact same eyes and mouth as Jazzy.
“Look,” He hurriedly whispered in my ear, as he led me in, plastic smile still contorting his face. “My mum’s extremely homophobic and doesn’t know I’m gay, so whatever happens, just go along with it!”
As soon as we got within earshot of her, Jazzy turned to her and grinned so broadly, he could have licked his own eyebrow.
“Mum,” He said in a feigned, cheery voice. “This is Brenda, the friend I was telling you about.”
Mrs. Striffy did not smile. That was okay. She didn’t have to—her beauty was such that her most murderous scowl would have looked ten times better than the cutest toddler’s friendliest smile. This was not to say, however, that I didn’t wish she would stop fixing us with that silent, probing stare that made me wonder if she had x-ray vision.
“Um, nice to meet you, Mrs. Striffy,” I murmured, transfixed by her beauty. If not for the slight wrinkles framing her mouth, I would have thought she was Jazzy’s older sister.
She nodded at me, smirked, and said to Jazzy, “She’s rather skinny for you, isn’t she, love?”
What? She thought Jazzy and I were together? At that, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing.
“No, ma’am,” I told her, once I was able to contain myself again. “Me and Jazzy aren’t—“
Before I could get the words out, Jazzy blocked my mouth—with his. Shook forced the words back down my throat and I almost choked on them. Jazzy Striffy had just kissed me. My heart was bounding against my rib cage so hard, my blood vessels nearly burst. Mrs. Striffy’s face was fixed in a blank look of bemusement.
“Sorry, Brenda,” Jazzy said, with a tight smile that hissed don’t you dare say another word! “You’re just so adorable sometimes I can’t help myself.”
He then slung his arm around me, called to his mother that we’d be upstairs, and dragged me to his room. Once there, he dropped the act of the dutiful, eerily cheerful son with a heavy sigh, closed and locked the door, walked over to his bureau, and began rummaging about in the top two drawers.
“Sorry about her,” He said. “She’s been like that ever since she caught me kissing my ex-boyfriend good bye at the airport back in Liverpool.”
“It’s okay,” I murmured, preoccupied examining the room. It was smaller than I expected, and a great deal cleaner. Unlike my room, the floor was completely bare and the bureau was absolutely pristine. Everything appeared tucked away and organized. The only things that weren’t utterly coordinated were the posters of bands and actors splattered about the walls.
“No, it’s not,” He said firmly, quickly taking out what must have been a fortune in make-up and depositing it on the top of his bureau. “The second you come in the door, she sizes you up, instantly points out your flaws, tries to make you ashamed of everything you are—she had no right to do that. No one has any right to do that.”
There was a pause.

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