My new publishing house has tasked me with writing my author biography.

I’m thrilled. Tickled, even. I’ve been eagerly waiting for the professional need to write this. Huzzah! My book is getting published! But as I sit before the soft glowing screen staring at my fingers hovering above the keyboard, ready to sum my relationship with writing in 200 words or less (and in third person), I find myself lost.

I’ve been experimenting with different approaches.

There’s the historical approach:

Edmond Manning has been writing for many years, but his first works of fiction were simply atrocious. Seriously. Should you have been unfortunate enough to encounter any of the over-exclamation-pointed drivel, you would not purchase this book you’re currently considering. Which you should. Purchase it, that is, because those over-exclamated days are long over!!

The out-and-out bragging approach:

Edmond spent years studying literary masterpieces and more recently attended the renown University of Iowa’s Writing Program. He spent years analyzing the craft from granular sentence construction to the loftiest thematic structures by European greats, all in service to realizing potent, melodic paragraphs designed to make you weep openly, laugh heartily, and then go purchase a silk handkerchief for the mere purpose of throwing it at his feet like a true Victorian homeboy.

I dunno. It’s only 73 words.

Also, it lies. “Years studying literary masterpieces” means I spent my lonely teenage years reading every Charles Dickens book I could devour in my bedroom. I only attended a one-week summer seminar through the University of Iowa’s Writing Program, available to anyone with a checkbook, where I listened to estate lawyers sick of their profession argue about whether “good abs” was a character-defining trait.

I need a different approach.

I’ve been writing fiction for 20+ years and for most of that time, never took writing seriously. I felt objective enough to realize my material was high-end mediocre, certainly not publishable. (Ann, my awesome friend and all-time cheerleader, often disagreed. She is wonderful.) While I definitely wanted my writing to be amazing and even entertained fantasies of around-the-block lines for my book signings, I can’t say that I developed a serious plan to make any of that happen. (However, I did practice my fruity, author signature.)

I took a writing class here and there. Wrote 100 pages. Realized it was kinda crap. Repeated.

My former neighbor, Jenna, had similar aspirations but much to my surprise, she actually did something about it: she pursued a Creative Writing master degree from a prestigious university, and then launched a writing career. I didn’t know you could do that — make yourself better and go after what you wanted. She did. I’ve read her fiction and she did it: she won.

I watched her growing success with a detached curiosity and wondered why I did not have that same drive, that internal passion that said, “I want this more than anything.”

I took another writing class. Wrote another 100 pages.

Through it all, I enjoyed myself. I liked finding unusual stories, mapping conversations, and creating unique approaches to characters. But I didn’t see myself as a writer, not really. Where was the passion? Where was the drive that Jenna had?

In 2008, I wrote a short story about something not terribly important to me but important to a closeted 20-year-old I met online. He was sad and alone. I remembered those days well and decided he needed inspiration, so I wrote him a story and published it on a free website. This was my “It Gets Better” project before Dan Savage’s amazing It Gets Better project became a reality. I decided to try a few literary tricks, fuck with the point of view, throw in some masculine archetypes, some Joseph Campbell shit, because why the fuck not? Who cared? It was just a writing exercise.

Because I wasn’t writing SERIOUS FICTION and had dropped all expectations (i.e. literary pretensions), a curious thing happened. The story flowed through me, relaxed and intentional. Decades of sweeping out mediocre sentences paid off, transforming my writing with surprising grace into a Cinderella story, a lyrical, ball-gown construction resulting in Beautiful Sentences. I had written Beautiful Sentences. And I really, really liked what I wrote.

So I wrote a little more.

Emails from readers began pouring in. First dozens, then hundreds. Men and women from Europe, Africa, and quite a few from the USA. People mailed me gifts. Through this experience, I found an amazing editor who said ‘You should get published,’ and made several incredible friendships. I was shocked by the impact these stories created and how individuals attempted to integrate the fiction into their reality.

I have tried to describe the 2008 writing phenomenon to friends as one of those romantic comedies where the protagonist suddenly realizes he’s been in love with his best friend all these years, and so he races to break up her wedding before she can utter the words, “I do.” I’m not sure I could run to the church without ending up wheezing and huffing, hunched over, but still, it fits.

I love writing fiction.

I feel lucky to be in love with my best friend, and a little foolish when I consider how long it took me to arrive here, but still, happy and dazed. (One of the first things I did was to call Jenna and say, “I get it now. I want this more than anything.”) I had a fear of dying without knowing how I could serve a greater purpose in the world, how I could offer my unique flavor of love to a world that has loved me more than I deserve. I really wanted to uncover my big gift, the thing where my soul and spirit locked together and everything inside me sang, “I’m home.”

How about this:

Edmond Manning has always been fascinated by fiction: how ordinary words could be sculpted into heartfelt emotions, how heartfelt emotions could leave an imprint inside you stronger than the real world. Mr. Manning never felt worthy to tread down these hallowed halls as an author until recently, when he accidentally stumbled into his own writer’s voice that fit like his favorite skull-print, fuzzy jammies. He finally realized that he didn’t have to write like Dickens or Maupin, two author heroes, and that perhaps his own insignificant writing was perfect just because it was his true voice, so he looked around the scrappy word kingdom that he created for himself and shouted, “I’M HOME!” He is now a writer.

That’s 118 words.

It could work.

After an unusual encounter in a San Francisco art gallery, a vacationing garage mechanic offers a local investment banker a mysterious invitation:  submit to me for 40 hours, and I will restore your kingship, help you become the man you were always meant to be.

Over one weekend in October, 1999, the banker endures exhausting physical, mental, and emotional challenges (a sleepover on Alcatraz, “bear walking” through a homeless shelter, and kidnapping a baby duck), trials which gradually bruise free his stunted heart.

In the astonishing climax, the banker is abandoned on a mountain top at midnight, and uses his newfound kingship to transform his devestating grief into primal, radiant love.

Below are a few chapters from my finished novel, King Perry. After the prologue, the entire novel takes place in 1999.

PERRY,

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED ON A KING WEEKEND.

FRIDAY, THREE DAYS FROM NOW, MEET ME ON PIER 33 AT 6:00 P.M. DON’T BE LATE. IF YOU SPEND THE NEXT 40 HOURS FOLLOWING MY EVERY COMMAND — ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING — YOUR LIFE WILL CHANGE IN SURPRISING WAYS. COME AND MEET YOUR TRUE JOY.

THIS IS NOT AN S&M THING. YOU WILL NOT BE DRUGGED. YOU WILL NOT BE ABUSED. WE MAY EAT ONION RINGS IF I’M STILL CRAVING THEM BUT HONESTLY, I DON’T CONSIDER THAT ABUSE UNLESS THEY’RE COLD. BUT YOU MUST SUBMIT ALL WEEKEND; NO SUCH THING AS A TIME-OUT. PACK A SMALL WEEKEND BAG.

REMEMBER WHO YOU WERE ALWAYS MEANT TO BE, PERRY. REMEMBER THE KING.

VIN VANBLY

P.S. WEAR SOME SEXY UNDERWEAR; YOU HAVE A GREAT ASS.

“Thank you,” I say to the ponytailed caterer after she offers me wine. “Fancy party, huh?”

I almost want to explain I’m not hitting on her, I just want to see her smile. She does smile briefly, nodding with deference before stepping deeper into the gallery. Okay, not much reaction. I sip the red wine, swirl it in my plastic cup, creating little maroon waves of merlot. Merlot? Merlot? Can anybody hear —

Nah, not so hilarious.

I’m more of a beer guy, but I like doing this, wandering around this art gallery as if I’m part of this town, as if this is an average Tuesday night for me.

Tonight’s party is groovy, a bash for lesser-name surrealists of the 1960s and ’70s. Painters who understood a doorknob could wear a green sparrow’s beak, and yeah, it works. With red and brown tiger stripes spilling out of a bathtub behind it, somehow it actually works.

The jagged colors, the juxtaposition of impossible realities, so similar to real life. Sometimes this world is hard for me to reconcile, its unfair sorrows and unexpected moments of brilliance. I love that surrealists tried to paint the reality they saw, this impossible world. I guess I like this one with the bathtub and the sparrow beak, The Trombone Symphony Drowns Alone. No trombones in sight. I guess they drowned.

Looking around, I’m not the only tourist pretending to be a San Franciscan, examining art.

We flock to this city of fog castles on hills, and we love it, serpentine roads and indomitable beauty cresting every hill. The thrill of standing here, walking these historic avenues, this adopted homeland for queers. Indomitable. Good word.

Instead of gawking and taking photos, we work hard to pretend that we live right around the corner and just popped out for a carton of low-fat milk. Maybe it’s only around the Castro where we gay tourists fake our residency. We have a certain swagger we hope communicates, “I belong. I have always belonged.”

This isn’t exclusively the pretentious queens, oh no. It’s the bears like me. The twinks. The leather daddies and the androgynous gigglers. The white collar gays with slick briefcases, and the business lesbians, openly cuddling at Market and Castro, waiting for the light to change. We’re so eager to slap on our labels and march behind our distinct parade banners, but inside we’re fundamentally the same: we all want to belong in the Homo Homeland, to find a corner of the world where we are each uniquely celebrated.

The gallery is filling up a little bit. It’s right on Castro and 19th, so plenty of passersby notice this shindig and pop in.I did. Well, I actually knew about this show prior to twenty minutes ago.

We’re not elbow-to-elbow crowded in here, but there are enough people getting buzzed to keep the ponytailed caterer and her two cohorts in demand. She seems nervous. She looks like an Amanda to me. I think Amanda the ponytailed caterer is new. She takes her refreshment responsibilities quite seriously, hesitating to nudge patrons lest she offend. Definitely new. Moved to San Francisco within the last four months? I should try to find out where she’s from.

Wandering around, twice I overhear the famous joke repeated: How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?

Fish.

Gotta love the classics.

Fascinating to watch the small groupings forming and disbanding around me. I have already spotted two sets of guys carefully avoiding each other, former boyfriends or secret fuck buddies I cannot tell. In a raised voice, a cute twink discusses symbolism in front of an untitled piece with a yellow finger tree oozing sap. Cute Twink must work here. There’s someone in the small audience he’s trying to subtly impress. Oh yeah, that guy right there.

If I lived in a whodunit, I’d definitely be the second victim. When the killer slips out of the room during the blackout, I’d see it and be stupid enough to later announce over library cocktails, “Yeah, I saw it.” When the killer corners me in the pantry and stabs me in the neck I’d be like, “No wait, I won’t tell,” but too late! All that blood spurting over canned peaches and creamed corn, dripping off the plastic-lined pantry shelves…

Stop it.

Thoughts and images creep in like —

No.

Be on vacation, Vin. Be here. Look around.

Cute Twink’s speech isn’t going well. His tone changes, taking on the slightest sneer. The man he wanted to win over has turned to share meaningful glances with a long-haired guy a few feet away. Including those two, I count five guys fake-studying but actually cruising. I can’t even count the number of tourists like myself, wandering, musing, pretending to belong. I love how faraway places sometimes feel like home.

One painter in particular strikes me as truly unique: Richard Mangin. Nobody’s crowding in to see his stuff, so I can take a little time up close. He’s no one particularly famous, but I’ve seen his name once or twice as an innovator. Payoff for being a book nerd.

The largest painting of the three, Siren Song, has really snagged my attention. A shapeless guy plays a cello in a funky green desert, and a pumpkin patch melts into gold in the lower right corner. I recognize that Dalí reference. The purple sky includes a dozen shades of violet, occasionally slashed by a crimson streak. In one corner of the sky, white dove wings fade through tarnished iron bars, wings on more on than our side than caged. Maybe a little cheesy, symbolically, but I still like it. He wanted to be crystal clear about his point. I wonder why? Or maybe, I’m just reading it wrong. Details in the painting hum to me, whisper things.

Oh. Someone’s watching me.

I study Siren Song and simultaneously check out my watcher. He’s handsome. A few years younger than me. Maybe 29 or 30? Short brown hair, a few locks carefully flopping over his forehead in one spot. Clean-shaven. Glasses. I bet he looks all sexy without them.But I like the glasses too.

Is that guy the painter? No, he’d be in his 60s or older by now.

He’s got those classic, sharp-planed features you’d see in a Sunday Sears ad, a father pretending to enjoy lawn furniture, showing off his wrinkle-free Dockers. Nice suit, customer-tailored, and dark-framed glasses. Hot. I like Clark Kents. I like very much, thank you. Peach shirt, shimmery peach tie. I think that guy from Millionaire is doing that look, Regis. Okay, this man’s definitely a step or two up from Sears. First impressions, Vin, let go.

He keeps a distance, never quite looking directly at me, yet I’m sure he’s watching. I drop my key ring so I can steal a glance at his shoes. Gucci, which means he’s got money. Is he…I dunno, a realtor? Or…I also pick up a certain unease, even from this far away. Nervous? Not really.

Huh.

No, not a realtor. A realtor would network around the expensive art, meeting potential clients. I would, if I were a realtor in San Francisco. I certainly wouldn’t stake out someone who looks like me. I bet I could be a San Francisco realtor. I’d hang out at art galleries and be like, “Hey, this painting reminds me of a charming two-bedroom condo I saw.” I wonder what neighborhood I’d work. Somewhere with a little sun. I could represent the Mission; I like bungalows.

Is he going to hit on me? No. Not getting that vibe; he’s not trying to attract my attention. He’s fairly subtle. Still, I should have noticed him sooner than I did.

I don’t think Lawn Furniture Guy works for this gallery, and so he’s not polishing his hard sell, coaxing a sale. I’ve been on the lookout for Cute Twink’s boss; this could be him. Art gallery owners sometimes keep a low profile at these things so they can mingle anonymously, get a feel for the crowd’s authentic reaction.

I’m betting Lawn Furniture Guy wants to say something to me and is working up the nerve. I’ll give him a few minutes. I like LFG. No, don’t make him an acronym. Don’t do it.

I study Mangin’s medium-sized canvas with my back to Lawn Furniture Guy until I’m sure he’s staring, and then I spin back toward Siren Song. From my peripheral vision, I catch him jerking in surprise.

Busted.

Ms. Ponytailed Caterer offers me another drink and I accept. She’s so demure, almost apologetic. In a few more months she’ll be seasoned and more callous. I’m not getting a Midwest vibe from her. Ask her something. No. Let her do her job. She doesn’t want to chat; you already tried.

I stand in front of Siren Song, waiting for my watcher to get over here, and in the meantime I puzzle at the multi-purpled sky. He’d better make up his mind soon or I’ll miss my ride. In the sky across from the prison bars, I can’t help but wonder if —

A firm voice at my side says, “You a big fan of the surrealists?”

“No,” I say, smiling wide. “That’s my initial in the sky. V.”

“Oh. Actually, I think those are —”

“I know, I know,” I say, grinning like an idiot. “I’m Vin Vanbly, so it caught my eye. With two V’s.”

Though it’s awkward with my wine glass, I make two peace symbols with my fingers and then bring them together, index fingers touching as I sometimes do when I’m goofy with my name. People relax around me when they think I’m stupid. His face halts its surprise as he tries hard to suppress any further reaction.

“The painting is cool,” I say, turning towards him and jabbing my thumb casually over my shoulder for emphasis, “and I was just grooving on my initials in the sky. I like the wings and bars part on the other side, too. Very symbolic.”

“Hi Vin,” he says, recovering quickly. “My name is Perry.”

I raise my plastic cup. “Good wine.”

He eyes flinch but he recovers immediately. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

“I fix cars. I don’t know a ton about surreal art.”

I launch a few questions about the city, the mighty San Francisco. He answers politely at first, then a little friendlier. He’s actually warming up, not being a dick. Good for you, Perry. And while I’m definitely playing a little blond, I’m not being a complete idiot, so we have a couple nice moments together, chuckling at a comment the other has made. Let’s see what happens when the game changes.

“I can totally see the cello guy representing the Surrealist Manifesto’s concept of absurd humor.”

Perry’s eyes jerk again without his head moving and he says, “I thought you were a garage mechanic.”

“I am.”

“Didn’t you just say you knew nothing about art?”

“I said I didn’t know a ton. I read a few books.”

He pauses and then says, “How many mechanics know the Surrealist Manifesto?”

“How many mechanics do you know?”

Perry extends a cautious smile, deciding whether I’m teasing or getting angry. I keep my face pleasant and blank, interested to see where he takes this.

“None,” he says at last. “Sorry.”

“No sweat. I read a lot. I brought six books with me on vacation. You read much?”

“Financial journals, mostly. I’m an investment banker.”

His eye contact changes after this, like he’s no longer searching for a way out. I believe I’ve been upgraded from Dumb Tourist to Person of Interest.

We chat about the exciting life of an investment banker, and the also exciting life of a garage mechanic. We both like Thai food, he recommends a good spot in SOMA, and over slightly more friendly smiles, we find additional common ground. He has a home email account, which not everyone does. I share my AOL website address and he says, “I’ve been meaning to sign up.”

I nod at his shoes. “Gucci.”

“A garage mechanic who knows surrealism and fashion. Clearly, I need to meet more mechanics.”

“We’re into show tunes, too. Put a bunch of bear mechanics near a piano, and watch out. Gay or straight, it doesn’t even matter.”

He smiles. “Show tunes, huh? You also a big Madonna fan?”

A willowy man younger than the two of us appears abruptly at our side and nods toward the painting. “Is this about Vietnam?”

Perry hesitates before he speaks but then says, “I don’t think so. It’s around that time, but a few years later.”

Wait, what was that?

The man inspects the painting closer, dragging a lock of long blond hair behind his right ear, for Perry’s benefit. Perry pretends not to notice and leans in to whisper to me that he’s not a big fan of surrealists.

What was that thing on his face?

Our interloper, finding no suitable reaction from Perry, saunters away.

“That guy was hitting on you, Perry.”

smiles and says, “I don’t think so.”

“Please. That whole ‘isn’t this Vietnam?’ He didn’t give a crap about the painting.”

“Trust me. In this town, everyone hits on everyone and it doesn’t even count as flirting. It’s like saying hello.”

Is it possible that Perry couldn’t see it?

“Look at that one,” I suggest with a nod. “Mother’s Day gift.”

Perry says, “Arbor Day.”

“Doesn’t your mom like trees?”

“I think she preferred her trees with less spurting blood.”

Past tense. Is his mom dead? Check that out.

I say, “It’s sap.”

“The branches are fingers and they’re bleeding down the trunk.”

I exhale a groan and turn away. “Geat, now I’m queasy.”

I shoot a barrage of questions his way about absurd topics: grade school memories, favorite soup, safe San Francisco neighborhoods for night walking, giving him the chance to trot out his best stories, the ones that show, “this is the real me.” I drill for additional information as subtly as I can, wanting to understand his connection to these three paintings. I could ask him directly, but this is more fun.

I shake my head in disgust in response to his latest answer. “I can’t believe you don’t like them.”

“They’re disgusting.”

“They’re magically delicious.”

“Those marshmallows are like eating Styrofoam.”

“Which is why they’re magically delicious.”

When I ask him a few questions about work, he takes off his glasses to rub his right eye socket. Is that a stress thing? Or is it the gallery that stresses him out? I suddenly have a theory about Perry.

I point my wine cup at a painting across the room. “Look at that one. Are those onion rings smothered in cheese? ‘Cause right now, I’d buy it; I came in expecting chips and salsa at the very least. Your city is fucking cheap on the nibblies.”

He tilts his chin upward for a split second and laughs.

Got it.

I know who he is.

“Were onion rings even around in the 1960s?” he asks.

“They’ve been around since the 1930s. But nobody is really sure who invented them. They just showed up in a newspaper column in 1934.”

“Good lord, why would anyone know that?”

“Impress people at cocktail parties. I bet you know the good ring spots in San Francisco.”

Perry names spots around the Castro.

I look away in exaggerated disgust. “Amateur.”

I now understand his interest in these Richard Mangin paintings. Well, it’s a guess. But I make good guesses. I don’t think I’ll bring it up. Let’s see where this goes.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Vin?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you Irish?” he asks. “You’re pretty fair. Of course, you could be German.”

“Maybe. Or Nordic. My birth records were kinda spotty, and I grew up in foster families, so I’m one of those weird people who don’t really know their ethnicity.”

“Oh,” Perry’s face falls. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s part of who I am. I think I look German, actually, you know? Blond, pale, big square head like a block? Who knows, though, maybe I’m a blond Russian.”

“You’re built like a big German dude,” he says. “Which is nice. Big chest and all. I bet you’re hairy.”

I guess Perry has decided to go for it. I look around the gallery with pretend distraction, unbuttoning my top two buttons, scratching my strawberry-brown curls. I’m a bear, by the gay world’s definition: stocky and hairy, the only two requirements for membership. And I just heard someone on AOL use the term otter, so maybe we’re evolving into a ‘woodland creatures’ group. Not really sure what to make of that.

My face is fairly undistinguished except I have a goatee. I’m not hideous and I’m not Lawn Furniture handsome, which nobody is, now that Perry has a name. So, Vin, let’s just let that one go. Perry. Make the shape of a pear with the word: Peeeeaaaarrrrry. Oh, I like that.

He sips his wine and shakes his head, chuckling. “I’m not usually this forward. I had two vodka cranberries before I came here. You’re terrible, by the way, like the opening scene in a porno.”

I make my voice deep and rumbly as I say, “Fuck yeah, buddy…oh yeah…”

Perry snickers. “That’s why you thought that guy was hitting on me. Because you’re hitting on me.”

“Maybe. You like it?”

The corners of his mouth curve upwards. “Maybe. What’s with the lumberjack outfit? You headed to the Eagle after this?”

“I was camping in Marin County. You like camping?”

“When it’s in the middle of nowhere, sure. But you do realize that San Francisco has hotels.”

“Speak to me of this concept, this hotels.”

He insists on checking my biceps to see if I chop wood, but we both recognize and appreciate the sexy excuse to be extra close, to touch in public. I have some muscle, but it doesn’t show. Well, maybe biceps show a little bulge. I can run two city blocks, but after about three blocks I end up wheezing, hands on my knees.

Who am I kidding: when was the last time I ran two city blocks?

“You look like Paul Bunyan without the axe.”

“Good guess. I’m from Minnesota. Sort of.”

We talk about the movie Fargo, which he loved, and the Minnesota accent, which I love, and I confess my origins as a transplant from Chicago’s south side. He asks about Minnesota winters, as everyone must. I explain the transitional beauty of a snow-melting day in April, and he dismisses it instantly. A few times now he has rolled his eyes at me in playful judgment: camping, my clothes, a few minor details around travel spots. He would not listen to my attempt to describe Detroit’s unique charm. There should be a word for an attitude between snob and unconscious, describing someone who doesn’t realize how strongly he holds his own opinions.

I slosh the wine a little, and his eyes dart nervously to the canvases, making sure I’m not close enough to do any damage. That’s an owner’s attitude. He owns these paintings.

Single.

He slips that little detail into conversation, overly casual, and then rubs his right eye socket again. He’s not poor and he’s not rich, I gather, from the local restaurants he recommends. But let’s find out. Only in San Francisco is it considered polite conversation to ask,”How much is your rent?” so I extend the local courtesy and inquire.

His blue eyes flash in sexy appreciation of our conversation.

Wow, is he handsome. He’s one of those summer people who remain tan year-round, not by artificial means, but because the sun touched him a long time ago and said, “You’re on my team.”

Perry is fun to hang out with, and definitely sexy, but that doesn’t guarantee I will find the spark I seek. Chances are we’ll chat for a while and then I’ll take off. I don’t fuck casually and I’m not great at small talk unless I’m hunting for that spark, like now.

But I can probe a bit longer, see if there’s a possibility, kindling for a bonfire I might try to ignite. If nothing comes of this, I will have enjoyed chatting with the handsome investment banker in a San Francisco gallery. That in itself is pretty sweet.

More people enter the gallery, and as others nudge by, the two of us jostle for position. Our chests graze together as someone squeezes by and we bare naughty grins. I want to believe that we were both imagining each other naked. Well, I am. I bet he has a great ass. How do I get him to turn around? I gotta see that butt.

The shifting crowd becomes suddenly too much for Amanda, the Ponytailed Caterer, who falters right behind Perry, her tray of wine glasses dipping disastrously for a split second, three of them sliding to the floor right at Perry’s back.

“Sorry,” Perry says, raising his voice. “Sorry! I did that. I bumped her. Sorry.”

Almost no time passed before his reaction. She shoots him a grateful look so quick and sly that it’s gone right away. For everyone else she wears an impassive expression, clearly bearing no ill will toward the man who everyone believes, professionally humiliated her.

No paintings are damaged, no Pradas irrevocably stained. The consensus is clear that it wasn’t her fault. People gaze at him coolly and he nods in meek apology. She mops up the floor with napkins and then disappears into a corner to restock. He’s so busy accepting chastisement from the patrons that he doesn’t even notice her two white-aproned coworkers fixing on him with undisguised anger.

“Sorry,” he says to the Cute Twink, who also bears an unpleasant expression.

The commotion has ended; the wine scrubbed from the scene. People turn away, gossiping about him, everyone eager for a topic besides the art. I can’t help but notice Perry and I have a few extra feet of space around us, no one eager to be implicated by proximity.

Perry turns to me and says, “Well, that was embarrassing.”

I wait a few seconds before speaking. “Why did you do that?”

“I stepped —”

“No, you didn’t.” I nod to the space behind him. “Seriously. Why?”

He blushes for real now. “I used to be a caterer when I moved here. It was my third job, my weekend job, in addition to my day job and evening job. Competition for the good catering gigs is savage.”

Perry adopts an exaggerated, serious face. “You’ll never pour merlot in this town again, kid.”

I nod and take this in.

Compassion.

Compassion toward someone who can do nothing for him, someone who offers nothing in return. He’ll never see her again, but his response was immediate. They’ll never even exchange names.

The spark.

Keep him talking. “What was it like to be a caterer?”

Don’t get ahead of yourself; run the checklist.

Personality. He’s unconsciously snobbish and spontaneously compassionate. He’s got humor and humility. But damn, he’s also way uptight. He evolved his first impression of me, moving beyond his initial judgments. Chemistry. Fuck yeah, I’d suck his dick and I think it’s pretty mutual. Issues. He still hasn’t volunteered his connection to the paintings. I think that’s big. I’ve got an idea to test this. I’m thinking somewhere between nine and twelve. Need to establish timelines; I can’t do the math this quickly. 70-what? Skip it; come back to it later.Emotions. Other than his being a little affected, I think he’s pretty solid. But he couldn’t recognize a suitor. Why is his heart so shut down?

Who is this man, this handsome investment banker with a stunted heart?

My own heart pounds.

King him. King Perry.

Okay, that’s it; message received. Let’s fucking do this.

I wait for Perry to wind down his latest catering anecdote and then ask, “Are you ready to get kinged?”

He glances around the gallery with a mischievous smile.

“Not sure. Which painting are we talking about now?”

Well, here goes. I’m having my very first book reading the night before Thanksgiving.
http://www.intermediaarts.org/literary/calendar#glbt

With the assistance of a devoted, fantastic editor, and amazing internet friends who served as awesome beta readers, I have finished a novel which has meant a great deal to me. I had no idea writing could be such a hmmm… “community” event. I told my editor, Rhyss, that I had never thought that writing could be a team sport, but there you go.

This coming Wednesday, I’ll read a selection from my finished novel, hopefully soon-to-be-published.

Know a good literary agent?

I’m writing a novel. Or rather, WROTE a novel. I’ve finished the first draft. (Or rather, as Anne Lemott puts it in her fabulous Bird By Bird, “the shitty first draft.”)

I’m revising. Editing. And soon, looking for a writing coach.

When asked what’s it about, I blush and tell people variations of detail, depending on whether they’re just asking to be polite, they seem genuinely interested, or they really want to engage in a conversation. I might say:

“It’s about a Wisconsin family that falls apart and pulls themselves back together again.” (the one liner)

“It’s a first person narrative about a family that has by accident, circumstances, and sloppy intention, created a rift that drives them apart from each other until they cannot even stand to be in each others’ physical presence. They’re suffering in their own unique hells – all of them – unless they figure out how to undo the curse they laid upon themselves.” (The one paragraph summary.(

“It’s about twins. And babies. And weddings. And love. And how to become friends with your adult siblings. And how to get unstuck from a life that’s lost. And how to date. And gay families. And how ineffectual ‘I’m sorry’ is. And how love is more important than pride.” (This is what I say when I’m drunk at a party.)

All those are true.

And sheeeesh…they all seem really pretentious and overly dramatic. I should be sprawled over a plush, hunter-green divan grasping a pomegranate martini screeching, “IT’S ABOUT LOVE! IT’S ABOUT LOVE!”

Ugh. Actually, it’s hard for me to talk about this creation of mine…it means so much to me and it’s been a companion for years now, that I get tongue-tied despite my best efforts. If surprised by the question by a coworker or near-stranger, I mumble, “Oh, I’m not finished.” On a Good Writing Day, I might have a ferver’d glint in my eyes and be desperate to talk about character development with whomever will listen.

Enough chatter.

I’ll publish the very first chapter, and you can decide what it’s really about.

(But seriously, it’s about love.)

“Just so we’re clear.” Sarah spoke crisply. “About the terms.”

“Absolutely.” said Marc. He leaned forward, hands on knees. He smeared the sweat dribbles across his forehead and whisked it through his bristly hair.

Sweat pooled on both of them, but they pretended not to notice. The windows were open but lifeless, thick humidity pouring over the sill, asserting itself with drowsy anger without rustling the flimsy, translucent cloth stretched poorly across the window’s girth.

“So you’ll participate fully in the wedding all day. And no Brent.”

“Yes.” He said.

“And by participate fully, that means you’ll help out in whatever capacity is needed that day. You’ll help Lindsey if she needs it. You’ll help Mom if she needs it.”

“Yes.” Marc repeated.

As Marc and Sarah stared each other down, I glanced towards Mom. She sat on one end of the peach couch with both hands gently clasped, eyes downcast as if to suggest she wouldn’t dream of trouble anyone for assistance on Sarah’s wedding day. Maybe she absorbed in self-reflection. After all, she had already said it.

“So if the best man is drunk and I ask you to take him outside…”

“I’ll do it.”

“Turgessons’ can’t deliver all the flowers in time…”

Marc hesitated slightly. “I’ll go pick them up.”

“And Brent’s not showing up at all. Not to the wedding, the reception, the limo – anywhere.”

“Not at all. He’ll stay in Chicago the entire time I’m here for the wedding.”

Without taking here eyes off Marc, Sarah slowly drew out a silver cigarette case from an eggshell box purse. A silver lighter followed. She clicked the pearl latchet without once breaking her careful visual surveillance.

Sarah accessorized well, I could easily give her that.

Snap, the lighter.

Crackle, the cigarette.

Hiss, the first inhalation.

Sarah eyed him carefully. “And no snide remarks to relatives or anybody at the reception.”

“None.” replied Marc.

She broke eye contact to breathe in the smoke deeply, and her eyelids flitted in orgasmic twitter. She exhaled deeply with a “uhhhhhnnnnnnnn” that made me blush.

It seemed small, that single cigarette, but I inwardly groaned at the extra heat it would generate. August sunlight blazed through the south-facing windows without apology, without mercy. Mom never closed the curtains until 6:00 p.m. Not even the translucent scrim could filter or soften the afternoon’s dazzling heat.

Our parents did not believe in air conditioning. It was never quite clear what aspect of air conditioning they “didn’t believe in,” but years ago when our teenager selves complained, she would firmly restate that she had “never believed in it” and publicly expressed her distain by toting a sweater to all public, air-conditioned buildings. During the 1984 Anderson family Fourth of July, Mom vehemently denounced “the waste of energy” before dozens of amazed cousins. Championing this prejudice, our childhood home was subject to the mercies of Summer Breezes, which Mom also submitted were plentiful in Eau Claire.

Of course, all Mom’s children had central air in their homes.

The heat worked almost as a gritty spice throughout the house, bringing every unflattering odor to the fore, including the fermented taste of my own mouth. The glum peach couch where I sat smelled like cheap furniture polish, and the scratched end tables (which really should have smelled like furniture polish) instead stank of musty newspaper. Dad’s mangy brown recliner, which may have once been described as “plush,” indeed smelled like rotting dog. The two guest chairs (rescued from Aunt Donnie and Uncle Jim’s garage) emitted a faint cousin smell.

The colors of the room melted: grungy lemon walls exhausted by the years, a wilted green oriental rug. The peach couch which usually mustered enough self-confidence to seem buoyant if not quite cheerful, was petulant, tired of serving this large family. The ugly farmhouse painting twelve-year-old Ricky proudly gifted Mom looks as though it might sweat off a layer of varnish. That might improve its oily appearance, but to be fair, it’s hideous in any temperature. Even as an adult, Ricky agreed. Theresa dubbed it “The Fugly Farm,” But Mom loved it, warty paint knobs and all. It remains centered behind the exhausted peach couch, right over Marc’s head. Sarah’s cigarette smoke hung right at the farm house foreground like distant fog.

A feeble protest wafted from Mom’s corner and then evaporated, unheard.

Even the bluish strings of her cigarette smoke could not deter his steady, unsmiling gaze. He usually vehemently opposed Sarah’s smoking anywhere near him. The sweat, the smoke – nothing phased him.

Sarah leaned forward.

“You’re not going to wear a button that says ‘Ask me about my absent lover?’” she asked with a churlish tone.

Marc’s chest indicated the a dry chuckle had passed through him, but his gaze didn’t waver. “No.”

“What about friends of yours? Friends of Brent’s. There’s not going to coincidentally be some sort of gay protest out in front of the church that day, is there?”

Marc seemed bored. “No scene-causing. No attention-getting. No gay-anything. No rainbow flags. No showtunes.” He paused. “Well, except for the Time Warp and the medley from Grease but I can’t control the DJ, can I.”

“No. You’re off the hook.” Sarah didn’t smile.

The heat didn’t seem to bother Sarah, it never seemed to bother her at all. But that was Sarah; she had a certain hardness which could not be softened or made vulnerable by something as transitory as weather. Her face planed in hard, accurate curves. Her eyebrows arched precisely, clipped just right. Her nose was small and straight, efficient usage and beautiful in its functionality. Her brown eyes expressed what they needed to express: her anger, her distaste, her resentment. Like her nose, they seemed models of efficiency. Even her eyelashes were straight and strong. Her mouth didn’t always comply with this rich efficiency standard, and odd noises emerged sometimes. Laughter sometimes came out of her as a bark.

Her body reflected this curved hardness too. Sarah worked out at a gym very regularly, and several times a year encouraged me to take spinning classes with her. At first I was too embarrassed to ask her what the word ‘spinning’ meant, so I politely declined after expressing enthusiasm for the invitation. After a while, I was too embarrassed to break my pattern of saying, ‘no,’ even thought I thought it might be fun.

A year ago Sarah and I were shopping at one of Kohl’s two-day clearance sale. She stood in the Men’s Clearance Bin rifling through rugby shirts. I glanced nervously around, not eager to be seen with her digging through the clothes that even men had reviewed and passed over.

She saw my nervousness and glared. “What?”

That’s when I remember her at her most beautiful: clawing a crumpled yellow and blue rugby. Her hair was longer then, and pulled back. She squinted at me and I could see the eye shadow she had applied matched her robin’s egg sweatshirt through which you could still somehow see her thick breasts and hips. Hard planed and scowling, yet somehow still beautiful in her scrubbed, unimpressive features. I got the impression men noticed her the second time they met her.

I could almost see the invisible list as the-bride-to-be checked off her items. “I asked you to introduce some of the dances.”

“I’ll do it.” Mark said, tired in his voice.

“First husband and wife dance.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Smiling?” she prodded.

“Smiling.” he replied grimly.

“Father/daughter dance?”

“Yep.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Chicken dance?”

Marc cocked his head. “You’re pushing it. But I’ll do it.”

Dad leaned forward in the mangy recliner, inadvertently assuming the position of The Thinker. Well, the Aged Thinker. His position hadn’t changed since the last time I glanced his direction, worn, baggy knuckles bracing his softening, wrinkled chin. So still, so attentive. Was Father listening to Sarah and Marc, or just replaying his own exchange, ten minutes ago?

His turn had scorched us all.

I could suddenly imagine our Father sitting this way, this position, a pensive, small boy listening intently to a crackling presentation of something like The Lone Ranger or Dick Tracy. Did I create this image from wistful stories or invented this context for him? Had he told us about The Shadow?

Ricky fidgeted on the peach couch next to Mom, crossed his legs, jerked his left leg impatiently, then shook them both out, and recrossed in the other direction. He sighed heavily, making sure we all understood his impatience. Mom was having a hard time remaining stationary with him bouncing at her side but she did not complain.

Ricky was the only of our family of conspirators to agitate physically, almost as if he had stolen all of our natural tendencies to stretch, reposition, or yawn and now was condemned to pantomime all of our fidgeting. The rest of us remained alert and twitched minimally, as deer standing next to a highway. Theresa, Mom, Dad, me. Theresa rhythmically fanned herself with a newspaper section, pretending not to care but keenly alert to each syllable, each movement.

Even Marc and Sarah stared each other down with only limited body movements.

“Ushers smile, you know. You’ll be required to smile at the wedding and through the pictures.”

“I know. I’ll smile. I’ll be cheer–.”

Sarah caught her breath sharply and jabbed a finger at him. “You’re going to ruin the photos.”

“No I won’t. I’ll smile. I’ll pose. I’ll do what you want. It’s your Perfect Day.”

She exhaled deeply to the left side. I assumed she rolled her eyes. If she didn’t, she should have. Her cigarette smoke seemed quite obedient, tailored to enhance her drama. The thick summer air pressed down her cigarette smoke, creating living room smog.

“Yeah,” she said tersely. “All fake smiles.”

“Yes, of course fake.” Marc said dryly. “How could it be anything but fake? As earnest and real as I can muster, but yes, fake.”

“Let’s see.”

Marc broke into a broad grin. His eyes lit up and the laugh lines creased from the corners of his eyes. There seemed to be new wrinkles present. His smile was so infectious that at first, I almost smiled in response. But I remembered this was merely part of the negotiations.

Sarah examined his face carefully. “That’s not bad. Tone it down just a little bit so it’s not damn cheerful. It’s like you’re mocking me.”

“How’s this.”

“Better. That’s good. I’ve seen that grin in vacation photos.”

“This would be acceptable then?”

“Yes. That works.”

Marc smile melted and his face returned to granite. His green eyes didn’t seem to flash as angry as they had a minute ago. Maybe he was growing weary of his game, this test. He just seemed tired. The T-shirt he wore was damp at the collar and chest.

Marc always exuded the smell of coffee. Not the good coffee smell, but the smell of burned coffee. He managed a coffee shop in Chicago and every bit of his clothes smelled like coffee, even the ones he didn’t wear to work.

Ricky always emitted the odor of mildly offensive chemicals, a take-home from Danderson Plastics Factory where he managed the night-shift QA Lab. Ricky’s armpits were soaked and as his arms were often jerked over his head, I had the displeasure of seeing his pit stains. Theresa smelled like dirty laundry, but to be fair, she always smelled like that.

I must have frowned at her during this observation because she shot me her standard glare, lacking any real intensity, just standard animosity.

Perhaps this afternoon’s family meeting was more than Marc bargained for. He palmed his skull as if tugging back his short, bristly hair but it hadn’t gone anywhere. I saw more gray spikes amid the black crop, more gray than I had ever noticed.

“Could you guys just DO THIS already?” Theresa blurted. “This isn’t a fucking legal brief, Sarah! Jesus, just say it.”

“Shut it, T.” Ricky growled softly.

“I’m bored.” Theresa whined.

Mom hadn’t even chastised Theresa for swearing. Sarah was smoking in the house. This was an odd day, indeed.

Sarah stubbed the remainder of her cigarette into a Time magazine featuring presidential candidate Al Gore. I had read it two weekends ago while visiting Mom and Dad. Under it was a newer Time featuring the women from Sex in the City. Really, it would have been more appropriate had she extinguished her cigarette on their singledom.

Marc blinked his green eyes several times. I didn’t think it was the cigarette smoke, though, nor the heat. He smeared the sweat across his forehead again. No, he was weary.

When he was 12, Marc bragged he could ride his bike all the way from Eau Claire to the neighboring town of Altoona. The trip was only 11 miles along Wisconsin back roads, but far enough away he may as well have bragged about riding his bike to all the way to St. Paul; it was just as improbable.

Sarah, his twin, barked a laugh and a few dares later had escalated into called him a liar. Ricky had stopped building a parking garage in the sand box and watched attentively. Marc had glared back at her. His pride was at stake. He looked to me. I said nothing, but glanced nervously at his used, red Schwin with neon blue spoke covers (last used by Cousin Russell). Seconds later Marc sped down the driveway, weight shifting from side to side as he pedaled furiously. Ricky began to cry. He always used to do that when Marc went away.

A half hour after we watched Marc disappear, Mom poked her head from the screen door and asked sharply why he wasn’t in the backyard. Sarah and I shrugged. How could we possibly know? If Sarah did not reveal her complicity in his disappearance; why should I? Ricky had forgotten already and was re-parking every car in sand. Mom had been inside most of the time with Theresa who had colic or some related, fussy ailment.

After an hour pacing the yard and standing staring angrily down the street, Mom muttered to herself crossly and went into the house. It wasn’t long before an older cousin, (I think it was Mary Elizabeth of Ruby’s brood) showed up to watch Theresa.

Mom hurriedly corralled us into our midnight blue station wagon and drove throughout Eau Claire, hunched forward and scrutinizing haunts where Sarah and I knew she would not find him. Not in playgrounds, Boyle Construction’s dirt hills, three strip mall parking lots, or behind the high school. We didn’t even bother to tell her she was looking in all the wrong places. We did happen upon four high schoolers smoking behind a TJ Maxx. Sarah and I shrunk into the backseat, mortified at Mom’s scowling drive-by.

Brief stops to other cousins’ homes revealed nothing new. Aunt Donnie, Aunt Pearl, and Aunt Nadine met Mom in the driveway, having heard of her impending arrival from Mary Elizabeth’s mother. Marc had disappeared. News traveled fast in our Anderson clan.

Mom endured the silent, tentative judgments of Marc’s friends’ mothers with a casual wave goodbye and expressed confidence that ‘he was probably already home.’ I suppose Sarah and I figured it would be worse for Marc (and certainly worse for us) should we disclose our information.

At last Mom slowly navigated our driveway with deliberate precision and gently rolled the car to a stop. She crisply ordered us to get out of the car. We reluctantly obliged, slowly dragging ourselves across the sweaty vinyl seats and gingerly extricating our legs. Ricky was gabbing, excited to have spent so much time riding in the car. He had even babbled about Marc on his bike, but Mom hadn’t caught it and I had gotten him to stop by encouraging him to start singing instead.

After gently closing the rusty, paneled doors, Sarah and I shifted our feet uncomfortably in the crunchy gravel. I think Mom had meant for us to go further away, but we stood outside the drivers’ side window a few feet away, motionless, limply, while she wept over the steering wheel.

She called Dad at work.

They agreed to call the police.

An hour later, the police picked up Marc along a cornfield near Otter Creek. He was on his shiny red bike headed towards Eau Claire. Back from Altoona. The police informed our parents that Marc was pedaling so slowly he almost could have walked the bike faster. As the police hauled Marc’s bicycle out of their trunk, Mom swatted his bottom while crying and shouting incomprehensible words.

Marc stood before her dazed and unblinking.

Ricky danced around the police car and made up a song.

Sarah and I didn’t say anything, nor dared to look at each other.

Marc didn’t say anything.

This is how it is with siblings.

That evening, Marc shuffled around the house awkwardly. The next morning, he couldn’t walk.

Marc sometimes doesn’t think things through.

***

“What about in the weeks before the wedding. Are you going to be totally unreachable? Difficult?” Sarah asked evenly.

“What do you mean by ‘reachable?’ What kind of turn-around-time for wedding-related news?”

“A day or two, depending on the situation. I’m flexible. I just don’t want you to ignore all of us for the next two months.”

Marc considered this. “A day or two works for me. But I won’t promise to call you back within a half hour or anything.”

“I can live with that.” Sarah conceded. She snapped the pearl and dug eased forward the silver case.

“And my enthusiasm extends only to the actual wedding. I’m not faking anything while it’s just the family. I’ll help planning and preparation, but don’t expect me to get creative or inventive.”

“Ooookay.” Sarah said slowly. She seemed reluctant to end the word, as if removing her hand from a knight or rook. “But wait a sec. Wait. No, not okay. Everyone expects you to do something…unique. Butterflies at the church or a balloon-animal clown at the reception hall. Some crazy stunt involving a live chicken or something. You wouldn’t do something like an Anderson wedding straight.”

Marc’s eyes flickered angrily for a second and his lips parted.

“Sorry. Seriously, no pun intended. Believe me. I didn’t mean to make fun of you or anything; it just slipped out. This is too important for a bad joke.”

He measured the sincerity of her apology and jerked his head into a nod.

“Seriously, Marc, all of Mom’s family and anyone who knows you from high school will notice if you don’t do something crazy or goofy.”

Marc sometimes paid for singing telegrams. At one of our Memorial Day picnics he spray-painted a hundred nickels and led the younger cousins on a treasure hunt. He brought bubbles and wands to Grandma Anderson’s funeral.

Of course, he was drinking back then.

“You’re right.” He said somberly. “People might expect something…goofy. And yet, tough shit. That’s completely beyond what you could normally expect under these circumstances.”

The second cigarette emerged from Sarah’s silver case.

Snap, the lighter.

“This is a deal-breaker, Marc.” Though Sarah’s voice had an edge, she spoke uniformly, an odd contradiction.

Crackle, the flame ignited.

Hiss, Sarah’s first inhalation.

“If you don’t have something silly prepared – some prank – everyone will notice right away. And if that’s the case, everyone on our side is going to know something’s wrong. At least tie something crazy to the back of the limo.”

Marc spoke slowly. “I will take orders and smile about it. I will help problem-solve anything that goes wrong with the cake or flowers. I will be helpful. I will play along. But you cannot legislate that I do something creative. You have already decided that you don’t want that part of me at your wedding.”

Sarah groaned and rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. So to be creative, you have to be gay? Gays have cornered the market on creativity?”

Marc cocked his head. “You can’t randomly select what parts of me get to show up and then demand I act a certain way. I can fake a smile, I can fake a belly laugh, and I can fake enthusiasm. I cannot fake a creative expression of joy. There is no joy here.”

“No joy.” Sarah repeated softly, smoke twisting out her nostrils. “Your sister’s wedding. And all you can say is ‘no joy.’”

Marc’s gazed sharpened and flashed angrily. “None whatsoever, Sarah. Not a single moment of joy. Tell me, Sarah. What part of this wedding planning has been ‘joyful’ to you and Dirk?

“Since your engagement last November, we’ve bickered in person, through email, over the phone, in letters, and even through other family members about whether Brent could attend your wedding. For ten months everyone’s had opinions or tried to suggest ways to compromise. Dad argues this. Lindsey suggests that. Ricky tries not to take sides. But there ARE sides and you keep pulling out your trump card: ‘the Bride’s Perfect Day.’ Each bride deserves her single perfect day. We suffered through an awkward flurry of winter emails – a tense Easter, a painful summer. So let’s look at how much ‘joy’ has been present, sis.”

She dismissed him with a wave. “You keep –”

“Hey,” he continued sharply, “I don’t just mean our little family gatherings. Has any of it – has one fucking minute – been utterly ‘joyful’ for your and Dirk? Really joyful? ‘Cause all I’ve heard from Mom was you stressing over desserts, the DJ, cringing over Dirk’s demanding parents, you and Dirk fighting for a whole fucking week over carrots, losing sleep over the cost of an open bar, which flowers won’t droop if it rains, and every other stupid goddam detail you think is going to make or break this day.

“Not once have I heard these words from anyone in this family: “Sarah is absolutely joyful…”

“Yes, it’s a deal-breaker.” He continued, but anyone could see he was winding down. “You cannot ask me to fake something that I could only provide willingly and joyfully. The live chicken thing was only because Lindsey’s birthday party was outside at a park. This is formal. Nobody will expect me to do something.”

Sarah considered this as her eyes wandered our family’s living room. Mom visually pleaded with Sarah, though it wasn’t clear what she wanted Sarah to do. Dad now stared down at the wilted rug. Theresa had started flipping through the Time magazine with Sex in the City on the cover The pages made rasping clicky noises as she flipped them, expressing her impatience. Ricky bounced his feet up and down while looking at me, also pleading.

For what? To do what?

It’s too late, Ricky, I tried to communicate with my eyes.

Sarah was the last to go.

It’s too late.

Sarah was not the first in our immediate family to wed, but she was the first to have an Eau Clair church wedding with all the trimmings. Catholic marrying Catholic. No previous cohabitation for either party. And as far as we knew, she wasn’t pregnant. Dirk had a decent job doing something with computers. He had braved a few Anderson family gatherings, demonstrating a willingness to participate in the ridiculously-large Anderson clan. So Sarah had decided the wedding would be magnificent. Colossal. Awe-inspiring. A page out of Bride magazine.

Sarah nodded slightly. “Okay. Yeah, okay fine. No pranks. No silliness.”

She leaned forward. “If there’s a catch, some sort of loophole, you’d be a real asshole in my book.”

He shook his head and wiped the sweat through his hair again, leaving a bristling, gleaming shine. “There is none. No loopholes.”

“Well actually,” Sarah cocked her head, her hard curves bending sharply. “It’s not really fair on my part to suggest that. You’re already an asshole in my book. You’re doing a horrible, horrible thing putting us all through this stupidity, this game. But really, no loophole? No finger-crossing or trick wording?”

“Game?” Marc whispered softly arching his eyebrows. “Does this seem like a game?”

“What would you call it, then?”

“Survival.”

Sarah rolled her eyes slumped backwards. “Oh God. What a drama queen.”

I bristled. We were so close to whatever ending was coming, and she went ahead and used the word ‘queen’ and there would be more explosions. She should have just used her cigarette smoke.

“And during the actual dancing – you’re not going to mope around and make mooney faces to show there’s somewhere else you’d rather be? You’ll stay until the end?”

“Full participation. Smiling participation.”

“And all I have to do is say this one sentence.”

“Say it.” Marc said, his voice soft.

“And I just have to say it this one time.”

“Say it.”

“Lindsey,” Ricky whispered across the couch.

I looked at Ricky. His broad face was tight, dark eyebrows furrowed with fearful expectation.

“What?” I asked him softly.

“Lindsey.” Ricky repeated evenly.

When did Ricky stop singing?

“And you won’t have this sentence written on the cake at the reception or make a toast using these words or something like that?”

Now, she was just being redundant.

“No.” Marc stated firmly. “We’ve been over all this.”

“Chriiiiist on a platter!” Theresa gasped. “Just fucking say – “

“THERESA!” Mom yelped. “Quiet.”

Sarah exhaled deeply and broke her poker face. The negotiations were over. She rolled her head to the left and then to the right and then shook a chill from the back of her neck. “I was sure that this was too good to be true. But it’s really true, huh?”

Marc stared at her, but his eyes were glazed. The negotiations were over.

She popped another cigarette from its casing.

Snap, the lighter.

“Appearances,” she said, leaning forward with cheerful confidence.

Crackle, the flame ignited.

“are more important…”

Hiss, Sarah’s first inhalation.

“…than family.”

I’m sure that if Sarah was the first to go we might have gasped. But our Nanners went last. Each of us had already uttered the same single sentence looking into Marc’s eyes.

Barely looking at her fingers, she flicked the cigarette over the magazine. “I can say it again, if you’d like. Appearances are more important than family. If I didn’t emphasize the right words, say it clear enough, look you in the eye enough — Appearances are more important –”

Marc wiped the sweat through his hair and smiled faintly. “That’s fine. We’re done.”