Page 11 of The Masks We Wear
“Look…” I put my hands on his shoulders to shut him up. “Why don’t you go practice with Serena now? I’ll take care of the judges.”
“Are you sure?” He looks at me with big brown eyes of concern. “I know you and Jamal aren’t exactly friends.”
I shrug, knowing he has a point. “I can put aside any annoyance I have with the new guy for a few minutes. It’s for the betterment of you and the ballroom team.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“It’s our last semester. Our last comp.” I smooth his tie and we share a smile. “I, Jung Choo, solemnly swear to help you, Firass Odom, with this simple task. In honor of the end of our ballroom college careers.”
“Aw, thanks, you big professional dancer you.” He hugs me and we share a laugh. I’m gonna miss him and all the teammates when we graduate in a few short weeks. Firass has been a true pal, and, even though he’s gay, I’m glad we never tried to hook up—that would have been an awkward mistake.
Besides, no guy has been able to take my mind off the boy who gave me that little plastic ring that burns in my pocket wherever I go.
Jamal and I stand outside the subway station, waiting for the arrival of the professional ballroom couple. Pigeons flap in the distance and the scent of cigarette smoke lingers in the air, so it’s a typical New York afternoon. We’re both changed into our sneakers, with overcoats on to combat the final blast of wintry air of the city. After Firass pawned me off to him, he barely said a word as we walked down five blocks.
Now, however, the tension is awkward. Everyone else on the team seems to love him, and I love the team—therefore I should at least try to befriend him before we all graduate, right?
“That’s awesome that you got this couple to come to our competition.”
“It’s my job. You’ve got yer responsibilities, I’ve got mine,” he mutters. His face is nearly scowling as he stares off in the distance. I want to call him out on being rude, but his accent is throwing me off.
“Uh...are you from around here?”
“Nope. Transferred here from the South.”
Huh. The only other person I know from the South is… “Where in the South?”
“Why you so interested, Jung?” He turns to look at me, daggers in his eyes. “Black guys from the South can do pre-med in New York City too, ya know.”
I shake my head as I attempt to process all this information. These coincidences are making me dizzy. Jamal reminds me so much of the boy who only lives in my Halloween memories.
“Chill, dude. I wasn’t stereotyping or anything. I’m just trying to get to know you.”
He bristles. “Why now? I’m busy competing and coordinating this comp. Seriously, where the hell is this couple we’re waiting for?” He clenches his jaw in irritation, as if staring at the underground subway station will summon them up faster.
He checks his phone for the time, but I don’t miss that his lock screen is a picture of Black Panther. My eyes widen and my pulse quickens.Cool it, Jung, everyone loves Black Panther.
There’s no way that Superhero is on my ballroom team. Even though…he did mention trying out. Staring at Jamal’s chin…oh fuck—he has that nice lower lip I’ve been beating off to for over a year.
After a moment, I clear my throat. “Well, we didn’t get to hang out much last semester.”
“I reckon it was hard fer us to meet considering yer noticeable absence,” he says curtly. Fuck, that Southern twang just made my dick twitch.
My eyes glare at him as my heart threatens to beat out of my chest. It’s now or never, time to get some answers. “I was…at my dance internship uptown at‘The Christmas Picturesque’.”
“Yeah, well I bet you—” His posture abruptly straightens as his eyebrows jump. The words seem to hit him like lightning up his spine. He slowly turns to me, eyes blown wide open. I have the most vivid sense of déjà vu, and my image of Jamal keeps swapping with a guy in a Spider-Man costume.
The blood drains from my face as memories from the past two Halloweens flood my mind. Jamal is the guy I spent two magical nights getting to know? He’s the scent I memorized, and the firm body permanently etched into my daydreams? My eyes pour over that perfect jawline and down his body as I recall vividly the taste of his skin below the belt.
I reach into my pocket, and then, hands trembling, take out a plastic green ring. Jamal’s eyes are somehow even wider as he stares at it. “S…S-Superhero?” I ask, voice trembling.
“Kitty Cat?” His voice sends chills up my spine. Those two simple words confirm what we both learned in the last two minutes—Jamal is that perfect masked man who bared it all to me these past two Halloweens.
I almost begin to hyperventilate when two figures appear to my left. “Privyet!” Jamal and I nearly jump, and I fumble shoving the ring back in my pocket. “You must be Jamal!” A woman in an animal-fur hat gives us a big wave, and standing next to her is a tall, solid mass of Russian man.
“I am!” We all laugh, and I recognize them from that dancing competition reality show. “Inessa! Vlad! So glad you could make it! How was the train ride?”
The tall couple rolls their eyes and laughs. While Jamal lays on the Southern charm, I come around and help them move their massive boxes, grateful to whomever invented wheeled luggage. The four of us move forward as a unit down the New York City sidewalks, and Inessa tells us all about their trip.
