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carousels make laps each night, like drunks we spin until we're sick. creepy clowns from one-horse towns can make their livings on a trick
night covers all our tracks to break some fragile backs. so we tell some lies, and then we hide from light

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On his first day of school, he came wearing a skirt. It was one of those swishy ones, turquoise in color, stained with blooming starbursts of violet, ruffled and reaching his toes. It was a stark contrast to his plain white button-front shirt. We weren’t certain, as we saw him sitting in the third seat from the wall in the front row, whether or not he was a boy. His long, dark hair was clipped back, strands falling around his pretty face. The tips of his hair were dyed a bright rose-red. His eyes were a force to be reckoned with, a deep, endless blue, almost indigo, the color was so rich. Captivating. Everything about his presence was.

When he arrived on the first day of school in seventh grade, taking the third seat from the wall in the front row, we all automatically assumed he was a girl. Because, really, what boy is that pretty? And wears a skirt to school? But when third period rolled around and we all shuffled off to gym class, he walked through the door of the locker rooms that was clearly labeled with the universal male insignia. And we were all shocked speechless.

Everyone wondered who he would befriend, which crowd he would fall in with. He was a specimen like no other. Where did he belong? No one could say for certain. But we all knew which crowd he would not fall in with, the crowd that was the first to kindle the fire of mockery. Really, what boy is that pretty? And wears a skirt to school? One who obviously wants their ass kicked, that’s who.

I saw them picking on him. I recognized the harmful banter that was sure to take a violent turn. But I didn’t want to get involved. Sure, it was cruel, to just stand by and watch as they shoved him and made him trip over the hem of his skirt. But I sure as hell didn’t want my head to be the one cracking against the sidewalk like an egg against the edge of a mixing bowl. When it got too ugly, I would walk away. And it most definitely got ugly, but in a way that no one would have expected, a way that had me stuck to my spot as if my sneakers had taken root like a tree hungrily searching through the dry ground for water.

He defended himself. He was fast, and he was strong, and soon all three of them were piled on the cement with bloody lips and blackened eyes. Calmly, he picked up his hairclip that had been lost in the fight, frowned as he found several of the brown teeth snapped from their places, and tucked it into his backpack, running his fingers briefly through his exotic, silken tresses and carrying on his way. No one made fun of his skirt after that.

As he walked towards what I assumed was his home, I watched him with widened eyes. The next day, as I sat solitarily at my lunch table, I listened to the clack of a tray as it was set down beside me. I turned, pushing vaguely at my vegetables with a plastic fork, and allowed him to sit down opposite me, smiling warmly. He extended his hand, the scarlet tips of his clipped hair that fanned across the back of his head bouncing merrily as he said, “Hi, I’m Tate.” His clip that day was blue, I noticed. And his skirt was orange.

“Damon,” I offered my name, simultaneously offering my hand. We shook, confidently on his part and awkwardly on mine. His hand was soft. We had all wondered who he would befriend, which crowd he would fall in with. He decided to befriend me, and volunteered to join me in my crowd of one. To this day, I could never understand why. But he did. And we became best friends. And I liked it that way.

With Tate, life was never boring.

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candy lips that taste too sweet were sour in the summer heat. as the night fell I heard church bells say it’s time to leave
out on the town we went to carry out missions, neither you or I would ever know sunlight

"Crawling Towards the Sun" (The Hush Sound)

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endprologue.