Page 55 of Exquisite Things
Poppy smiles. “He’s very lucky to have you.”
“I feel lucky to have him.” I can’t help but smile when I hear her say this.
Archie puts an arm around Lily. “You’re a born caretaker, Lily Summers. No other sponsor could’ve kept me sober this long.”
“Five years.” She says this with pride. “Not bad for someone who came into his first meeting looking like death was around the corner.”
“I have an idea.” Poppy stands up as she speaks. Joins me in the kitchen. “Boy, stop cleaning. I haven’t even cooked yet. Clean up when I’m done making you the best meal of your life.”
“What’s the idea?”
Poppy takes some chicken out of the fridge. Places it under hot water in the sink. “Some of the queers in Brixton have started a housing co-op. The Lambeth Council is, believe it or not, working with them.”
Archie pipes in. “I hate it. They’re going to destroy the magic of Brixton. All the squats will soon disappear.”
Poppy shrugs. “Everything changes. But this could be right for Lily. They’re mostly single-family units, but there are some family homes. They want people with ties to the community. That’s you, Lily. The whole neighborhood wants you back.” Poppy throws the chicken into a pan. Begins to season it.
“I do miss Brixton.” Lily stands up. Grabs the pepper from Poppy’s hand before she can add too much spice. “You trying to kill us with the pepper, girl.” Lily turns to me. “What do you think, kid?”
“I think...” I smile so big that I can feel my face expanding. “I think that a house is nothing without someone you love to share it with.”
We move in on the first day of March. Thick flakes fall from the sky. London feels like a snow globe. Perfect and fragile. Ideal weather for carrying boxes into our bright new home. Archie, Poppy, and Azalea help unpack along with one more of Lily’s friends, an Indian drag queen named Blossom. Lily makes extravagant costumes for Blossom’s legendary shows. But today she’s dressed in everyday clothes. The kind you wear only at home. Only in front of people you trust enough to see you in baggy sweatpants. We organize the books together. Decide which blanket should go where. Re-create the Donna Summer shrine. Blast the newBad Girlsalbum to make more mundane tasks—putting the plentiful beauty products away and making the beds—seem fun and glamorous. Donna sings,love will always find you. Like she really means it. Lily makes plans for the house. We’ll get a phone line. Make it a helpline for queer people. We’ve been gifted a home. We’ll needto give back. I tell her I’ll sit by that phone as long as she needs me to. I’ll help. I’ll give. I’ll do anything for her. For these walls that will keep us warm and dry. It took me over a hundred years to find a place that feels—finally—like home.
I feel an ache for the old place as the days pass. We were always together because the flat was so cramped. Lily would be working in the same living area I slept in. Always bumping into each other in the bathroom. The new house is bigger. Lily disappears into her workroom for hours. Door closed. Singing as she creates. I’m afraid to disturb her process. We have our own bathrooms. I miss brushing our teeth next to each other. Miss finding her long black hair in the shower. This new place feels like home. It also feels empty with just the two of us. Could use more life in it. Barely anyone even calls the queer helpline we’ve set up. Not that anyone would know about it. We put a sign on our front window:Queer Helpline. You’re Not Alone. Call between 5 and 7. Weekdays Only.We distribute some leaflets around town. I spend lonely hours alone by the phone. Waiting for it to ring. All I get is cranks. Groups of boys huddled by the receiver together. They call me a sod. Then laugh. Call me a tosser. Laugh some more.
One slurring boy takes it further than the rest. Doesn’t hang up after he and his friends get their laughs. “You a pillow biter, then?”
I decide to play along. To try to get the last laugh this time. “There’s other things I’d rather bite. Like your head off.”
“Which head?” Hysterical laughter from his end of the line. He must have at least four friends listening in. “Did the good old MP bugger you too? Tell us the truth. Me nan’s from his district. She don’t deserve to be represented by a sodomite.”
“She doesn’t deserve a piece of shit grandson either. Such is life,my friend.” His friends clap in approval of my comeback. I know their kind of boys. They love nothing more than a fight.
He spits out one morebuggerbefore hanging up.
I get my first genuine caller a week into March. Not an asshole trying to look cool for his friends. An actual human being in need of help.
“Hello.” Azalea gave us a few hours of advice on how to talk to callers. She is a nurse after all. A professional giver of care. She told us to ask gentle questions. Open questions. To listen actively. Never judge. Clarify by summarizing what they said. Ask if they’re thinking of harming themselves. Call for professional help if we suspect a caller is at risk of suicide. “Hello, is anyone there?”
Deep sighs on the other end. Not the heavy breathing of a prank caller. The desperate exhalations of a person in need.
“Hello, this is the queer helpline. May I help you?”
Finally: “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” Her voice is weary.
“My name is Bram. What’s yours?” No response. Azalea told us to open up. To make them feel they’re not alone. “I’m gay. Hasn’t been too easy for me. How about you?”
“I’m not gay. I’m a girl.”
“There are gay girls out there. Plenty of them.”
“Black butch girls like me?” Her tone dares me to contradict her. “Haven’t met one yet. I don’t fit in anywhere. Don’t have no one. Don’t even go to school no more. They put me in an educationally subnormal school. I could teach the teachers. Every other kid in that school was Black. What doessubnormaleven mean?”
“Apparently, it means Black.”
She chortles. “No, really though.”
“I don’t know exactly what it means, but it sounds a lot more fun than being normal.”
