The Wings Of A Caged Bird | First Draft

chapter 37: flirting 101

9th August, 2019

"Can't believe I'm attending a revolutionary wedding wearing . . . this."

I turn away from the mirror and look at him, sitting on the bed. He is looking down at his attire, which is nothing more than a plain gray sweatshirt, plain black sweatpants, and a pair of brown sandals one size too big for his feet. A very typical look for university students of our country, though he never made it to one. Dale dresses almost like that too. The first time I met July, I remember absent-mindedly thinking whether he came to the graveyard straight from his bed.

That day feels like eons ago.

"It's not like anyone else is going to see you except me," I reply while working on the navy blue necktie.

"But still! Sometimes I want to look good for you too, you know."

I bite the inside of my lip, holding back a smile. How can he say such things so easily sometimes? It baffles me. But I say, "You look good all the time, July. Don't worry."

"Noooo." He plops back into the bed, arms outstretched as he blinks at the ceiling. I watch him for a while. That's when I get an idea.

"You don't have to change your clothes," I say. "You can just change the way you wear it."

"Eh?" He sits up. "The way I wear it? How else can you wear a damn sweatshirt?"

"I don't know, just roll up your sleeves maybe. Oh, you could also tuck the shirt in."

Despite looking a bit doubtful, he does as he is told. "Like this?" He looks at his hands and then down at himself. "Woah, this really does look different."

"Definitely." I take in his whole picture and smile at how attractive he looks. "I think wearing it like this suits your body type more. And! You can also change your hairstyle a little, and that will be a whole new look."

"OMG!" He rushes to the my side to take a look at himself in the mirror, but his smile falls when he can't see himself there.

I quickly pull him away from it. "I'm saying you look good. And different. You look like a, uh, like an 80s queer kid. That's right. It's perfect for today's revolutionary wedding. Now go."

"80s queer kid . . ." He mutters as he walks back to the bed while I grab my belt. "You mean Will Byers?"

"Shut up." We both laugh. He begins to hum to a song while I put on the belt, which is also rented. The blue shirt is rented, the black pants are rented, the necktie, the shoes, and the suit are also rented. At this point my whole existence might as well be rented. Both uncle Ray and aunt Sayra insisted on buying me one several times, but I refused, letting them know I have many of these at home.

"Ugh, what's wrong with this belt?" I say as I walk to the bed.

"You can't lock it?" July asks, sitting on the edge.

"It's different from the one I wear at school. I think I have to attach this hook somewhere . . ."

"Let me see." With that, July touches my belt, without standing up. I abruptly realize the position we are in, and immediately pull away. "Huh? What?" he asks, hands still raised mid-air.

Meanwhile my face is growing hotter and hotter as I blink at him. Shaking my head, I stammer, "N-nothing. I'll- I'll do it . . . myself." I go to a corner of the room, cursing myself and my dirty brain under my breath. God, what is wrong with me? Was my mind always like this? I'll end up in hell at this rate.

So while I struggle with the belt, I imagine myself floating in the black waters of a sewer—where I belong. But finally, I manage to lock it. I come back to the bed and sit down, feeling exhausted all of a sudden.