Blackout by Dhonielle Clayton

Mask Off

Nic Stone

A subway car, 5:26 p.m.

TREMAINE WRIGHT ISN’Ta fan of enclosed spaces. A fact that I, Jacorey “JJ” Harding, Jr., only know because six years ago in sixth grade, a group of my goon-ass friends chased Tremaine through the boys’ locker room and shoved him into the tiny custodian’s closet.

So dude’s in there and he’s pounding and shouting, “Let me out, man! This ain’t funny!” And while I wasn’t one of the fools standing against the door to hold him in, I knew my half-assed “Come on, y’all. Let the mans out,” didn’t have enough gas for them to take me seriously. . . . Not my proudest moment, but it’s whatever.

The bell rang, and we all jetted.

I wouldn’t have thought anything of it if Tremaine had showed up a few minutes late to our next class like I expected him to. No harm, no foul, my young (dumb) self thought.

But he didn’t.

Clock ticked on. Tremaine’s seat stayed empty. And I remember looking around the room in a daze, like, wondering if anybody else noticed that homie’s tardy had morphed into a straight-up absence. Which is when I started getting nervous. What if something happened to him? What if, worse (in my twelve-year-old mind at least), he snitched on the group and included me as a culprit? Probably my guilty conscience yacking at me for not actually being helpful to the dude, but your boy was shook, is what I’m saying. I could feel the sweat beading up at my hairline and dripping down my sides from what would soon be funky armpits. What if I got in trouble? If I did, my pops wouldn’t let me hoop. He’d said as much at the beginning of the school year.

Halfway through the class period, I couldn’t take it no more. Asked to be excused to the bathroom. Took everything in me not to run back to the locker room. Walking past the toilet stalls and the showers to that custodial closet was like the longest, scariest fifteen seconds of my young life, swear to God. Wasn’t a single sound coming from the other side of the door. Which to my horror-movie-loving ass meant he was (1) gone and probably telling on us at that very moment, or (2) gone and not coming back . . . aka dead. As a doornail, or whatever they say.

I’mthe one who screamed when I pulled the door open and found him sitting between a tower of giant toilet paper rolls and one of those big yellow rolling mop buckets—full of water the color of gargoyle snot.

Craziest part? He didn’t even look up. Just kept staring straight ahead into what must have been some sorta great beyond abyss or something.

“Uhhh . . . Tremaine?” I dropped down and put a hand on his shoulder. “Tremaine!” Gave him a shake. He snapped out of it and turned to me.

And that’s when he screamed. And knocked the TP tower down. Then just sat there breathing mad hard.

I peeked over my shoulder. Scared. “Yo, you good, man?” Great, homie was alive, but getting caught in here when we were supposed to be in class wasn’t a good look. “We umm . . . kinda need to get outta this closet . . .”

He looked at me in this sorta weird way . . . like confused, but also a little bit sad with a dash of surprise on top? Hard to describe.

Then he nodded. “Don’t really like enclosed spaces,” he said. Mad flat.

“Cool. Let’s exit this one.” I stood and extended a hand. He took it. Climbed to his feet.

He looked around at the scattered toilet paper rolls. “Should we, uhhh—”

“Nah, nah,” I said. “They won’t know it was us. Let’s just go.”

He nodded, and we left the locker room in silence, but as soon as we passed the half-court line in the gym, he said, “Umm . . . so can we maybe not tell anybody about this?”

“Huh?”

“The whole . . . claustrophobia thing. I know your guys like to mess with me or whatever, but I’d prefer if they didn’t have anything extra to use.”

“Oh.” Made sense. “Yeah, of course.” And then that guilt over not doing more started creeping on me. Making my throat itch. “I’m uhh . . . sorry I didn’t stop them.” (And at the same time, my ass was hoping he’d never tell anybody I said that. Just terrible.)

“I heard you tell them to leave me alone,” he said. Which shocked the hell outta me, let me tell you.

“Oh.”

“Could you have tried harder? Yeah.” He looked at me then. “But at least you came back to get me.” And he smiled. I swear I could see his whole set of braces. They alternated blue and green. I quickly looked away because him grinning at me like that made my face feel kinda hot.

Shit was uncomfortable, though I wasn’t exactly sure why.

“I do appreciate that part,” he said.

“It’s cool, man. Don’t mention it. I’ll umm . . . I’ll try to be firmer if they bother you again.”

“That’d be nice,” he said.

And that was it. We broke apart at the front office since he needed to scoop a tardy slip, and I continued back to class with the pass I used to leave.

Zero acknowledgment when he finally did enter the classroom—from me or him.

I kept my word and told my guys to lay off. And they did. But between Tremaine and me? Not a word (that he knows of at least) in the almost six years since that incident.

Zero acknowledgment.

Right now, though? On this dark-ass train? Tremaine Wright is the only thing I can see.

It’s been a little over four minutes since all the lights went out and the train slowed to a stop. We’re on the A headed to Brooklyn. I got on at my regular stop—145th, literally three blocks from our apartment. Then at the 125th Street stop, the doors slid open, and Tremaine stepped on.

My first thought was What the heck is Tremaine Wright doing in this neighborhood when school is out? But then I noticed that he’s got his trusty camera with him, so I figured maybe he was taking pictures or something. Homie’s been on the yearbook staff since eighth grade. Always got some kinda camera on him.

The car we’re on is full but not packed to the brim—seats are all taken and there’s a smattering of folks standing here and there: lady pushing a stroller; hipster-lookin’ bearded dude with his bike; trio of girls in ballet clothes who couldn’t be more than thirteen; pair of guys who I assume are a couple based on how close together they’re standing.

However, despite it not being too jammed, it’s enough people on here for that initial simultaneous Gasp! when it went dark to make me feel like all the air was being sucked out the universe.

Within seconds, the conductor’s bored-sounding voice crackled over the intercom talkin’ ’bout “mechanical difficulties.”

Held breath quickly turned to a collective huff. Mumbling. Grumbling. Sucked teeth.

And then the cell phone flashlights started coming on.

It was eerie as hell at first, but after a few minutes, once my eyes adjusted, I relaxed a little bit. Enough, even, to look in Tremaine’s direction.

Both of the people beside him and the three folks sitting across the aisle have their phone lights on, so despite him being in shadow, I can see him pretty clearly. When he first got on, I tried not to think about whether or not he saw me—so of course that’s all I could think about—but right now he’s got his head leaned back against one of them If you see something, say something posters. And his eyes are closed.

I’d almost say he looks mad relaxed, but every few seconds—and yeah, I do watch long enough to notice—he pokes his lips out like he’s about to whistle. Then his mouth closes again.

I look at his chest to see if I can tell when it’s rising, and as I do, I’m thrown back to a moment I must’ve stuffed deep down somewhere nobody could ever find it—myself included:

Starts with me. Last year. I was the only sophomore to start varsity, an honor I wore around like an invisible S on my chest. Couldn’t tell me nothin’. That is until game four when I went in for a smoooooth lay-up, got fouled, and came down real funky on my right ankle. Major sprain. Never felt pain like that in my life.

I’m sitting on the ground, eyes squeezed shut, hugging my knee to my chest. Scared out my skull, but not wanting to let it show, because according to every coach I’ve ever had, Real men never show fear. Trainer is talking all calm: “Breathe in through the nose . . . mmhmm, that’s it. Now purse your lips, and out through the mouth. You got it.” Then when she gave the word, a couple of the senior guys came over to help me up so I could hop my deflated-ego-havin’ ass to the locker room. When I was on my feet, I happened to look into the crowd. And who did I lock eyes with?

Tremaine Wright.

He was standing in the bleachers, a few rows up from the floor. Bulky camera in hand. Just staring at me. All . . . concerned.

Intercom crackles on the train: “All right, folks, word from up top is city’s experiencing a blackout. Not a whole lot we can do ’cause all the signals are down. So sit tight, and I’ll update you as soon as I know something.”

Another round of mumbling. Grumbling. Sucked teeth.

Settling in.

Except for Tremaine. Homie’s chest is definitely expanding and contracting real heavy right now. Taking deep breaths, I assume.

And his leg is bouncing like crazy. Like a video game controller during a mad intense round of Call of Duty. Not sure I realized a leg could bounce that fast.

My eyes drop to his foot—without my express permission, mind you—and when I see his utterly pristine white-on-white-on-white Jordan Retro 1s (so pristine, they practically glow on this dark-ass train), I look away.

Quick inventory: The two dudes are now sitting on the floor looking at something on one of their phones with heads literally together (gotta be a couple). Trio of dancer kids are huddled in a clump, looking like they wish their parents were here. Bike dude has turned his headlight thing on and aimed it at the ceiling. Looks real proud of himself for having the idea.

The baby in the stroller starts crying at the opposite end of the train, and my head turns (even though nobody else’s does—#NewYork). The moms has her cell phone lying flashlight-up on the top of the stroller, so I can see her swoop down and scoop up the little homie. Then quick as a flash, she’s got a boob out, and the kid is getting its grub on.

It makes me smile. At least one person on this joint won’t have a growling stomach. And real talk, I admire this mom for not covering herself up or whatever. Like fine, it’s dark as hell and nobody can really see anything, but still. I personally don’t think a moms should have to cover the baby when he’s—or she’s, or . . . they’re—eating.

Not that I would say that shit out loud.

I shake my head.

Of all the times for there to be a blackout. Not only am I stuck inside this damn tin can with Tremaine for the foreseeable future, tonight was supposed to be a fresh start. End of basketball season was rough—lost my mojo for a minute—but ya boy was on fire during this whole first week of summer training camp.

Teammates been gassing me up. I’m feeling like a new me. And more than that, Langston’s cousin—Tasha’s her name and she’s visiting from down south somewhere—saw a picture of me with Lang and apparently took a liking. I’m typically not one to entertain even the idea of interacting with the family member of a teammate beyond a certain level (read: saying whassup if I see them in the hallway). But Lang is the one who told me she was feelin’ me. And she’s gorgeous.

So.

When I got that DM asking if I’d come kick it with her at this party in Brooklyn tonight, I said yes. Told said teammate I’d come through and help him pick his ’fit and all that, and figured if I left early enough, I could also pop in on my granddad (gotta love living in Harlem—basically the opposite end of the city from where all the stuff I’m interested in goes down). It’s why I’m on this train in the first place: New season, new girl, new start. New me.

Well . . . as far as anybody else knows, Old me. Ball me: JJ “Jump-Jump” Harding. (And though the “JJ” is technically for “Jacorey Jr.,” it works real nice, don’t it?)

Would I ever tell anybody I’m not really feelin’ the hoop life no more? That where basketball used to be the light of my path/my reason for being/the only thing I looked forward to, it’s just kind of . . . a thing now? Maybe even a slightly tedious one?

No sooner than I’d tell ’em I think women should be able to nurse without a cloth cover joint making the baby all hot.

Speaking of hot, might just be me, but this train car is starting to feel a tad toasty.

Now I take a deep breath. Sneak another peek at Tremaine. His eyes are still closed, and his hardcore deliberate breathing is still evident, but both of his legs are going now. Alternating like a pair of sticks in the thick of a drumroll. I kinda wanna check on him, but after what happened a couple months ago . . . man, I don’t know.

My guess is he was headed to the same party as me. The DJ is his older sister’s ex-boyfriend after all, and I’ve heard Tremaine takes all the “in-action” pics for homie’s website and gets paid pretty well to do so. (I mean, why else would someone follow a sibling’s ex around with a camera?)

I peek back at them white-on-white-on-white J’s before shutting my own eyes and letting my head fall back against the rail map behind me. Honestly feels like self-desecration considering the fresh cut I got this afternoon. Tempted to hold my own cell phone flashlight up and aim it at my head so people can at least see the wonders my barber works.

I think about Tremaine’s chest and try to match my breathing to the rhythm I just saw in his.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

His shoes fill my head.

At some point, I’m gonna hafta stop keeping everything quiet.

Twelve minutes down.

I lied before.

That whole “zero acknowledgment” thing?

Yeah . . . it’s not true. At all.

I’ve always wanted it to be, but if Imma be honest—and that’s all I can be on this dark train with nothing keeping me company but the thoughts I usually drown out with Shit-To-Do—since that day in our middle school locker room all them years ago, “zero acknowledgment” has been impossible.

And I kinda hate it. Not only because I know, and have always known, what it “means” (though admitting it to anyone—myself included—is a bridge I haven’t crossed yet), but also because I’m not the only one acknowledging the guy. Homie could scoop just about anybody he wanted. Like . . . across the gender spectrum, as my baby sister, Jordy, refers to it.

I can’t say for sure because I never let myself get close enough to him to confirm, but I think we’re about the same height. Both six three-ish. He might even have me by an inch or so.

Homie ain’t no lanky joint either. That’s the wild part. He’s as cut as half my teammates. That’s one of the things that bugs me out, honestly. Ain’t nobody saying it aloud, but we all know people expect dudes like me and Tremaine—tall, “athletic”-looking fellas of a certain racial demographic (I’m rolling my eyes real hard right now)—to be athletes. Hoop. Have “hands” conducive to throwing and catching different types of “sports balls” (another one from the baby sis). Hell, I was four the first time my pops put a basketball in my hands.

But Tremaine has always seemed so unfazed about the whole expectations thing. I remember being in the hall at school once and overhearing one of my asshole teammates say, “Tragic that a mans with your height and build would rather handle a camera than a rock” (as in the orange-and-black sphere central to my sport of choice).

It caught me off guard how much I wanted to punch the guy, but Tremaine just smiled and said, “Somebody’s gotta snap the image for that future poster of yours, bro.”

Clown-ass teammate couldn’t even come up with a response. Just stood there with his mouth all open, lookin’ like he’d witnessed something supernatural.

I thought about that shit for weeks.

I dunno. There’s a part of me that wishes I could be as . . . settled as Tremaine seems to be. Comfortable as himself or however you wanna put it. It’s crazy to me that I’m one of the top ten high school hoopers in the state, and I constantly feel like none of it is legit. Like any minute somebody is gonna find out about the real me. Then I bug out wondering why that would be a problem.

Tremaine, though? People be saying all kinda wild shit about dude—there are rumors he “deflowered” both the starting quarterback and his girl—but it never seems to bother him. It’s just him and his camera. Dude is always mad clean (like, wardrobe is immaculate) and cool as a cucumber. Documenting shit.

Usually.

Right now, his chest is moving up and down a little faster than it was before, and as corny as it makes me feel, I’m getting worried.

The urge to go over there and check on him is amping up. . . .

But I haven’t had any real contact with dude in years. What would I look like going up to him on a dark train, during a blackout, acting all concerned like we friends or something?

Bruh would look at me eight versions of sideways.

Wouldn’t he?

Yeah, I half-assed my “allyship,” as Jordy refers to it, and went back to help him in sixth grade. And yeah, if he still has the claustrophobia thing, there’s a chance he’s flippin’ out inside right now, trapped in this narrow-ass subway car.

But what if I’m wrong?

What if he’s mad I haven’t really said nothing to him since middle school?

What if he gets the wrong idea?

His Day-Glo bright white kicks draw my eye again.

What if he gets the right one?

Eighteen minutes.

Folks are getting restless.

The dude couple is definitely a couple couple. One dude is holding the other one, who has his eyes closed. Kinda reminds me of the way Langston’s dads sit all close together at our games, cheering their boy on like it’s the most normal thing ever. Which . . . it basically is, ain’t it? My folks come to our games and be all up on each other. Why wouldn’t Lang’s?

Why am I struggling so much with this shit?

Anyway, hipster bike homie is now sitting on his two-wheeled steed, feet on pedals, looking like he’s ready to ride out this joint the second the doors open.

Ballet girls are huddled together.

Baby is knocked out (I assume) in the stroller, but mom-dukes looks mad frazzled, moving the thing back and forth like she’ll burst into tears if she stops.

And Tremaine . . . well, I haven’t been able to lift my eyes past his feet.

I wish there was cell service in this tunnel. Something else about my baby sis: she knows stuff about me that no one else does. Just off intuition. I haven’t confirmed or denied any of her speculations, but lately she been dropping these hints that let me know she’s got some ideas about me. Like back in March, she was all asking me about my “prom plans”:

Her: “So what’s the move, big bro?”

Me: “What you mean, like what girl Imma ask?”

Her: (with a shrug) “Or guy. We’re two decades into the twenty-first century after all.”

April, she randomly accosted me on one of the rare occasions we were both doing homework at the kitchen table: “You know something, JJ?” she said, peeping over the top of the Malcolm X-ish glasses she rocks. “I’m really looking forward to the day you bring home a beloved.” (What fourteen-year-old even speaks like that?)

“Jordy, are you talking about?” I said.

“I just think you’ll make an excellent romantic partner to someone.”

“Aka you want me to get a girlfriend?”

She shrugged. (This girl with her shrugging.) “Or a boyfriend. Either way. I’m sure Mama and Daddy will be thrilled too. So stop dragging them boat-sized feet.”

She was also the first person to notice my downward slide toward the end of the season . . . and to call me on it: “You got the blues, Jacorey Jr.,” she said over breakfast one morning. “And I know something happened. You should just . . . come out.”

“I should what now?”

“—WITH it. You should come out WITH it. Whatever’s bothering you, I mean?”

“I don’t know whatchu talking about, man.”

But of course I actually did. Know. What she was talking about.

Not that she would know this, but even with my eyes closed right now, I can see Tremaine’s kicks. Because they’re seared into my memory.

And as time ticks on in what’s feeling more and more like a giant coffin made of metal—that is kinda how train cars are shaped, is it not?—I wish I could call Jordy right now. Wish I woulda just told her back then.

Because she’d been right. Something had happened.

Twenty-two minutes.

I lied again. About the lack of “any real contact with Tremaine in years” thing.

I sneak another peek at the dude couple. They’re now all curled up together, both with their eyes closed.

I re-shut mine.

Shit really started back in January. I’d been kinda sad. And not about anything specific either. In a very general sense. I get a little bit down every winter—not that anyone but Jordy knows that. Coaches be feelin’ the same way about “that mopey-dopey shit” as they do about the whole fear thing. Trust.

Anyway, I had an abysmally bad game: couple travel calls, an unnecessary shot clock violation, tripped over air driving up the court and busted my lip, couldn’t seem to sink a shot to save my life, had four fouls by halftime.

I was just . . . off.

So off, Coach benched me.

It had never happened before. And as dramatic as it prolly sounds, with every pity look and pat on the back and “Don’t worry about it, JJ. You’ll be back on next game,” I felt like I was sinking lower and lower. Like tossed-overboard-with-weights-around-my-ankles type sinking.

When I got home, I went straight to my room and locked the door. Popped onto the web looking for the uhhh . . . content I typically turn to when I want to zone out, if you will. Stumbled onto something different than what I typically seek out. (As I think back through this sequence of events, I’m tempted to look at the dude couple again. Because . . . yeah.)

I didn’t hate what I found, is the thing . . . but I also got interrupted. By my dad. Knocking on the door and saying he was checking on me. And despite him not seeing a thing, I was embarrassed to the point where I didn’t pick up my tablet for a week.

Now I do look at the dude couple again.

What’s wild about the whole thing is I’m pretty sure Jordy’s right: our folks—dad included—wouldn’t have a problem with me . . . liking whoever I like. Him and Ma met at a damn drag show. Her best friend from college was performing, and Dad was the bouncer at the club. I never got to meet this friend because he moved to Atlanta before I was born, but from what I understand, he’s the one who set Ma and Dad up.

Still, though: I couldn’t shake the fear of being found out. I’ve heard the stories where a dude like me gets caught lookin’ at some shit, and suddenly the guys he’s around all the time because of sports don’t really wanna rock with him no more.

So my game continued to be off. Because I started having these . . . dreams. About me. And individuals like me. Me with individuals like me.

Guys, I mean.

Fast forward: February. By then I’d found and joined (under a different name, obviously) this site that would list different events for guys who liked guys happening around town. I’d skim through with zero intention of actually going to any of them and delete my browser history afterward, but then one popped up that was happening the day after my eighteenth birthday. A masquerade party.

I logged off.

Birthday rolled around and my teammates threw me quite the bash. Our center’s dad owns this club uptown, and they pulled out all the stops for your boy. Fire-ass DJ, beautiful girls everywhere the eye could see. And one of them from another school, Shelley was her name, really took a liking to me. Danced me into a corner and started kissing on my neck.

And I did kiss her back—she was a great kisser, objectively speaking—and when she pushed things a bit further, I rolled with it. But we were in a club. So there was obviously a stopping point.

What’s wild is . . . I was relieved about this. That there was only so far shit could go. She gave me her number and told me to call her. “You can come over and we can pick up where we left off,” she said. My teammates were ecstatic, of course. “Bruh, you bagged the finest girl from Bed-Stuy Prep!”

But I knew I’d never use those digits. So I erased them.

Following night, I found myself on the train with a tux in my duffel bag.

Along with a mask.

Twenty-seven minutes on this train.

It was 10:29 p.m. when I got to the building across the street from the address attached to the masquerade listing. It had a nook where I could conceal myself in the shadows and shit.

I’d changed clothes in the bathroom at Herald Square, but was wearing a big coat so nobody could see I was in a tux underneath. The building looked sketchy as hell. Five-story brick joint on Bowery with a Chinese food spot on the ground floor. Invite said to go inside, say the password to the person behind the counter, and they’d lead me to wherever I was supposed to go.

I felt like an idiot and a half.

What if this was some kinda trap? Was I walking into a cult initiation? Was I about to get murdered? My parents—who were under the impression I’d gone to a teammate’s house—had warned me about this shit, and yet here I was, standing across the street from some sketchy-ass building at the literal opposite end of the city from my warm and cozy crib in Harlem. Only God knows what horrible fate might’ve been awaiting me.

But then I saw a dude approaching the restaurant from my left.

He also had on a coat and was wearing a hat pulled down low over his forehead. But I woulda recognized the walk—and the kicks—just about anywhere.

Right as he reached the door, he took his hat off, and I caught a brief glimpse of Tremaine Wright’s face before he slipped his mask on. Then he walked inside, and I watched through the wide front window as he raised a hand to the woman behind the counter, who dipped her head and smiled in greeting, and continued into what looked like the kind of dark hallway where the bathrooms would be.

I hurried across the street.

Just like Tremaine, I put my mask on before entering the spot. It was a full-face Black Panther joint. Wasn’t taking any chances on potential recognition.

And I wound up not needing the password. “Down the hall, door at the end on the left,” the woman said without looking up from whatever it was she was doing.

So I followed her directions. Was too curious at that point not to. Through the designated door and down a flight of stairs. Which led to something like nothing I’d ever seen before: guys in tuxes of assorted colors and patterns, wearing a variety of masks.

I had a bunch of “feels,” as Jordy puts it, hit me at the same time. There was a little bit of fear, yeah. Still wasn’t real keen on being recognized. But there was also this sense of . . . not-aloneness. Couldn’t call it belonging per se. I was (am) definitely still figuring myself out. But stepping into that room—with the music thumping and dudes chit-chatting and everybody looking some form of fly—really did something for my heart, as corny as that sounds.

First funny thing of the night: only person in the spot without a mask was the DJ. And I recognized him. Don’t know his real name, but everybody refers to him as Twig (and he did kinda favor that one tree character from those superhero movies about the group that zips around the universe with the green lady and talking raccoon).

Which I knew because he’d been the DJ at my birthday party the night before.

Definitely wouldn’t be taking my mask off.

Though I got the impression nobody would. There were different types of masks all around the room. Some covered only the eyes, some the whole face. There was a guy in a blue paisley tux with a velvet and feathered half-face joint. A dude in black on black on black had a mask that looked like something out of Phantom of the Opera. Another homie in red was rocking a court jester-style piece.

Everywhere, all around, people similar to me dressed up with their faces covered.

Some were deep in conversation. Some had drinks in hand. A few looked mad pitiful checking their phones.

Basically the same stuff I saw at high school parties.

Though I guess I looked pretty pitiful too. “First time,” someone said from my right. I turned to find a dude in a teal satin-looking getup with a mask covered in peacock feathers.

So on the nose, this guy.

“Uhh . . . you could say that,” I replied.

“I like your style,” dude continued, giving me a once-over. “Very classic. The mask is perfect as well. Delightfully overstated. You seem like a man who knows what he wants.”

Homie grinned, revealing crooked teeth.

It was time for me to go.

“’Preciate that,” I said. “You have a nice night.” And I turned to walk away, but dude grabbed my arm.

“Oh, don’t play coy, now,” he said, leaning all close and smothering my ear with his hot breath. “We’re all here for the same thing—”

And just as I was about to haul off and lay dude flat on his peacocking ass, there was another voice, and a hand landed on my shoulder. “There you are,” it said. “I been looking all over for you.”

“Uhhh . . .” But before I could finish calculating how I was going to take both dudes out, and somehow manage to get away so I wouldn’t get caught at that damn party, I happened to glance down. And see a pair of white on white on white Jordan 1s.

I froze.

“My apologies,” Pushy Peacock said, looking Tremaine over the same way he did me. “Didn’t realize he was spoken for.”

Did Tremaine know it was me?His tux was charcoal gray, by the way, and the jacket lacked lapels. Shit was maaaad clean, and his mask was a simple black one that covered the space between his eyebrows and nose. Reminded me of this sword-wielding dude who’s the star of those Zorro movies my dad loves. The whole look made my stomach do a weird swoopy thing.

“All good, man,” Tremaine said. “Killer ’fit, by the way. Come on, babe.” And he took my hand and pulled me away.

I was too dumbstruck to do anything but go along with it.

(Babe, though?)

When we reached an empty tall table at the back of the room, he let go. “Super sorry about that,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t usually hold people’s hands without at least learning their names, but that dude is a grade-A creep, and you’re clearly new around here. I’m Tremaine.”

Confirmation.

It was weird seeing him without his camera. I was also blown that he used his true name.

My throat got tight. How was dude so settled about all this? Would I ever get to that point?

He leaned closer. “And you are?”

“Oh . . . uhhh . . . I’m Tobias.”

I waited for him to laugh or call me out. Some verification that he knew exactly who I was.

It didn’t come.

“T and T!” he said, pointing to his own chest and then to me. “Nice!”

It made me laugh. And loosen up a bit . . . though not as much as I would’ve liked to, considering that my guilt over lying to the guy’s face (mask) decided to drape its ugly self across my shoulders.

Kinda bittersweet thinking about it now.

“So tell me about yourself, Tobias.”

Him emphasizing the name like that was a smidge suspect, but I made myself shake it off. “Whatchu wanna know?”

He shrugged. “You got any hobbies?”

“Oh, that’s easy: basketball.”

Regretted it instantly.

Homie didn’t miss a beat, though: “Ah. A sports guy.”

I laughed again. “Why you say it like that?”

“Don’t get many sports guys around here.” He made a visual scan of the room and I followed his eyes. “And I’m guessing you don’t get a whole lotta guys like the ones in this room at your sports stuff. Is this crazy uncomfortable for you?”

“Uhhh . . .” And I decided to tell the truth. “Yeah, kinda. Between you and me, I’m not sure it would go real well if my teammates found out I came here.” I didn’t realize how trash I sounded ’til the words were outta my mouth. But I couldn’t figure out how to retract them. “You umm . . . come here often?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Often is a stretch. They have things like this weekly here, but this is only my third time ever coming. It’s an interesting place to people watch.”

“People watch?”

“Yeah. I’m super into photography and really like studying people even when I don’t have my camera.”

“How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?” I said then, wanting to see if he’d tell the truth.

“Turned seventeen in December.” He leaned closer to me. “Don’t tell anybody, but they only let me in because I know the DJ. I’ve photographed a lot of his sets. Technically supposed to be eighteen. And you definitely gotta watch your back for people pretending to be someone they’re not.”

He stared straight into my eyes when he said this, and I swear I stopped breathing.

But then he went on. “So . . . how old are you?”

“I’m . . . nineteen. College freshman. Well . . . rising sophomore now.”

“You being honest about that?” And he winked.

If it had been possible to teleport out of that joint? Trust.

Guessing my silence was telling because then he said, “I’m just messing with you. Whatcha studying?”

“Umm . . . mechanical engineering. But considering changing my major.”

(I know I sounded mad ridiculous. Why this guy continued entertaining my ass is beyond me.)

“A smart sports guy! Double whammy.” And he busted out the smile that turns girls all goo-goo eyed and slack jawed in the halls at school. Can’t even lie: with it aimed at me, the effect made perfect sense.

From there, a lot of the night is a blur. Within a couple of minutes, I’d slipped into being what I guess was some sorta dream version of a self I could eventually be: openly bisexual rising sophomore at City College with a rich on-campus life that included student government, intramural basketball, and Alpha Phi Alpha fraternity membership.

And Tremaine was crazy easy to talk to. In fact, the longer we chatted, the more stuff from my actual life started slipping in. I told him about feeling confused because while I knew there were some girls I felt attracted to, I was pretty sure I liked guys too. (To this he said, “Same. And don’t let anyone convince you your feelings are wrong. I’ve known I was attracted to people since second grade. You’d be blown away at how mad some folks get when they realize they can’t box you in.”)

I told him about my Jordy. (“She sounds amazing. Nothing like support from the family.”)

I told him about my coaches. (“Toxic masculinity 101, my friend.”)

And I told him about being nervous about not really know anything for sure. (“Welcome to the party. And I’m not talking about this wack one either.”)

I got so relaxed around Tremaine Wright, when he asked if I was dating anyone, good ol’ Tobias replied: “Well, according to what you told Peacock over there, I’m dating you.”

We laughed about that, and then we kept talking.

We talked more about family: His favorite person is his older sister, Tammi, though his tour-bus driver dad, Sean, is a close second. I told him how my parents met, and he told me about his: Camille, his moms, had been a photography intern from Virginia. She’d gotten lost in the city and decided to hop on a tour bus. Soon enough, they were approaching the Flatiron Building, and her photography office was right across the street . . . so she went up to the driver and asked to be let off, but it was a nonstop tour, so he said no. She pushed harder, and when he finally looked at her, he got so distracted by her beauty, he rear-ended the cab in front of them. “Third day on the job too,” Tremaine said. “Fired instantly.”

We talked about food: He’s half Jamaican, but homie lives for ramen and Korean barbecue. I told him my granddad is originally from Georgia, and waxed all poetic about my love for Southern soul food.

We talked about friends: He admitted that while he knows a lot of people are “interested” in him, he’s never had super close friends, especially guys. It’s a thing he hopes will change once he gets to college. I told him that while I do have close friends—most of them my teammates—I worried about how they might react to me not being straight. “I have heard that guys’ athletics can be pretty homophobic,” was his response to that.

I told him he came across as real comfortable in his skin, and that I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to that point. And he assured me that he hadn’t always been that way, and that he definitely had his moments of insecurity. “Thing is, though,” he said, “if I can’t love and accept myself just as I am, why the hell would I expect anybody else to?”

A fair point, obviously.

Next thing I knew, he was checking his watch and saying he needed to leave so he wouldn’t miss curfew.

And I knew I couldn’t walk him out. It was too risky.

So I said it’d been nice chatting with him (who the hell did I think I was, yo?), and that I hoped he and I would run into each other again.

His eyes narrowed, and the corners of his mouth turned down for like the slightest moment, but he recovered too fast for me to mention it without seeming like I was watching him mad closely. “Yeah, man, absolutely,” he said. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

But when homie turned to leave, I did something I still can’t believe. “Yo, Tremaine,” I said. And I reached for his arm. When he turned back to me, I lifted the bottom of my mask, closed the space between us . . . and I kissed him right on the mouth.

“Okay, then,” is all he said when we broke apart (after . . . some time).

What felt like eighty-three minutes, but was likely only a few awkward seconds, passed. “You should uhh . . . prolly get going, huh?” I said to break the intense silence. And also probably because I was feeling too many things at once: shock over my boldness; guilt over not asking permission to kiss him (that’s something I can say about my parents: they real serious about the consent thing); sadness that we were about to part ways; excitement from the lip-locking; fear about what that excitement was confirming for me. The way I felt kissing Tremaine was far different than I’d felt with ol’ girl Shelley the night before.

Shit was terrifying.

“Yeah . . .” he said. “I guess maybe I should—”

There’s a loud thump and a collective gasp on the train, and my eyes fly open.

“Oh my God, is he okay?”

The words register before the lump on the ground does, but when my brain finally connects the dots between Tremaine’s empty seat and the white-on-white-on-white kicks attached to the body on the grimy-ass train floor, I’m up and then down beside him before I even realize what I’m doing.

“Yo, Tremaine!” I shake his shoulder. Panic starts to make my palms damp and my pits sweaty . . . just like it did in sixth grade.

You’d think I woulda learned something about being helpful when I see a guy in distress since then, right? Just shameful.

“Tremaine!” Another shake. “Man, you all right?”

Dumb-ass question.

But he groans.

Good sign in my book.

“Tremaine, it’s me, JJ,” I say, moving to shift him to his back. “Imma get you outta here, man, but if you could help me a lil bit by letting me know you can hear me, I’d really appreciate it.”

Groans again.

I stretch his legs out and then move back up to his head. Start fanning his face like I seen folks do in movies.

Zero clue what I’m actually doing, by the way.

But it seems to be working. His head slowly moves to the right, then to the left. And once it’s back to center, his eyes open.

I think my heart does a tap dance or somethin’.

“Thank God,” I say. Legit crossing myself. “Yo, can you move at all? I wanna get you up and off this train, but if I gotta carry you, Imma need to strategize—”

“JJ?” he says, all groggy and confused. (And damn do I have a love/hate relationship with what it does to me inside. Gotta avoid looking at his mouth.)

“Yeah, man. It’s me.”

“What happened? Where are we?” His eyes drift shut again.

“Nah, bruh. You gotta stay awake. We’re on the subway. There was a blackout and we been stuck in a tunnel for like thirty minutes.”

“I hate enclosed spaces,” he says.

“That’s what I know. But what I need to know is if you think you can walk. Imma get the door open, and then I’ll help you up and you can let me know, cool?”

“Mmhmm,” he says. Well, hums.

Quick as a flash I’ve got my keys out of my pocket and am using the tiny knife on my foldable mini-multitool keychain thing to pop open the panel above the car’s center doors (thank God I’m tall enough to easily reach it). I’m sure most people don’t even notice it when getting on and off the train, but when I was little, my dad made me learn how to get myself off of all public transportation in case of an emergency.

He’s also the person who makes me carry the tool.

Once I’m inside the compartment, I flip the two red levers—the click of the doors unlocking almost sounds like music—and throw all my weight into pushing the doors open.

Then it’s back to Tremaine.

“Okay, Imma lift you by the shoulders to sit you up, then I’ll slip my arms under yours and wrap ’em around your waist to pull you to your feet, cool?”

I don’t wait for a response this time.

Once I’ve got him up—side note: dude is heavy—and I’m holding him around the waist while he gets his feet beneath him, I ask him again: “You think you can walk?”

His head drops back against my shoulder. (Startles the hell outta me.) “Yeah. With assistance.”

“I gotchu,” I say. “Pretty sure we gone have to walk single file to get out this tunnel, but you can lean against my back.”

I shift to his right without letting go of him completely, and pull his arm over my shoulder before stepping in front of him. Someone comes over and hands me both of our backpacks, and by some wiggly magic, I’m able to get them both on my front—thank God they’re not heavy. And then his weight settles onto me, and we make our way to the open doors.

Within seconds, we’re off. I know some people follow, but I stay focused on getting us to open air.

Full disclosure: subway tunnels outside the train? Real scary shit. Definitely regret my middle school horror film phase. Little rinky-dink cell phone flashlight is only marginally helpful.

We walk, maaaaaad slow, for what feels like an eternity, his whole front pressed against my whole back (which is a lot). I’m holding his right arm against my chest with my left hand so I can hold the light with my right. Train was just shy of the 96th Street station.

So I do my best to focus on dude’s weight against me and the knowledge that it’s on me to get him out of this damn hole in the ground, and by some strange-ass magic, it keeps my feet moving.

Soon, the space is opening up, and I couldn’t be more relieved.

“I can walk easier now, I think,” Tremaine says once we’re almost at the station. His weight lessens a bit, then he pulls his arm off me completely.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I could also be helpful. Let me get that bag.”

“Nah, man, chill out. I got it.”

“So JJ Harding’s a gentleman, huh?” And I can’t see the look on his face, but I’m glad ’cause it means he can’t see mine either.

Truth be told, I wasn’t paying attention to which direction we were headed, but the moment we’re on the platform, which honestly feels even darker than the train did, it’s like all the energy drains outta me. “Yo, you mind if we cool it here for a minute?”

Before he can even answer, I’m feeling my way to the wall and sliding down like the condensation on the side of a cup. Probably not the cleanest floor to be sitting on—especially in my new jeans—but I couldn’t get back up right now if I tried.

I feel a body settle in beside me. Like reaaaaal close.

“You all right, man?” Tremaine’s voice is low, but thick in the dark. I can hear other people making their way onto the platform—lots of talk about finding an exit—but Tremaine’s bare arm against mine makes me feel like it’s okay to just . . . sit.

“I’ll admit: I’ve been better.”

He laughs. And though fifteen minutes ago, I wouldn’t have been ready to acknowledge how it makes me feel, right now? With him this close—and safe?

Shit’s incredible. Real glad it’s dark because I would probably be tryna sneak peeks at his mouth.

“Definitely feel you on that one,” he says. “When that train stopped . . . well, let’s just say I knew things were headed downhill fast. Whole enclosed space thing is a no-go for me. Being on the train doesn’t bother me so much as long as we’re in motion. But being stopped? In a tunnel? The claustrophobia got very real.”

“Like in sixth grade?” I ask.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“I uhhh . . .” Am I really about to say this? “I could tell you were struggling a little bit. I’m sorry I didn’t act sooner.”

“I mean, with your track record . . .” And he bumps my shoulder with his. My stomach feels like it just went up for a 360-degree dunk in my throat.

Which I clear. “Are you okay, though?” I ask.

“Oh, you know . . . just literally fainted on a subway car full of strangers.”

“Guess it’s a good thing none of them could actually see you.”

He laughs again.

It’s too much, man.

“You know, I gotta tell you,” he says, “despite your heroics—hesitant though they may have been—you look a lot better without the Black Panther mask.”

I can’t even breathe, let alone speak.

“I saw you at Herald Square that night. You were coming out the bathroom in your tux—very fresh by the way—and I followed you at a distance. Got on the F on the same car as you, just at the other end. I thought—hoped, really—you might be headed to the same place I was, but it didn’t seem possible. Jump-Jump Harding at a masquerade party for queer guys?”

Won’t even lie: Despite everything he’s telling me, I smile at the sound of him saying my nickname. Also didn’t miss that hoped he said.

“When you got off at Second Avenue, I was floored. I didn’t split off from you until you tucked yourself into that building across the street from where the party was happening. And after waiting a few minutes to see what you would do, I went on in, really hoping you would follow me.”

“And I did.”

“Yup.”

I take a deep breath now. Honestly sorta relieved . . . but also annoyed if you want the truth. “So you knew exactly who I was the whole time.”

“Sure did. And Imma be honest with you, JJ,” he says, “I was pretty mad at you. I gave you my real name hoping it would encourage you to give me yours. But you didn’t.”

Welp. There goes my annoyance.

“For weeks—WEEKS, JJ!—I was conflicted. I’ve had a crush on you since even before the whole sixth grade locker room thing. I loved talking to you and learning more about your life. You didn’t realize it, but you actually mentioned your sister by name at one point.”

“Well, damn.”

“Right. You were you . . . but pretending you weren’t. And I didn’t know what to do with that. Especially since you knew I was me. And that kiss—”

“That kiss.” The words are out in the air before I can catch them.

“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong: I enjoyed it. Which I’m sure you could tell: I didn’t exactly push you away.”

I’m glad it’s dark cuz that makes me cheese like a damn kindergartner who got an A+ on a crayon project.

“But I also kinda hated myself for getting any pleasure out of it, JJ. You were lying to me the whole time and you kissed me without my permission. It was confusing.”

“I’m sorry, Tremaine,” I say. “Like real, real, real sorry, man.”

He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t say anything else, so we just sit there. I check my phone and am surprised to see that using the flashlight for forty minutes hasn’t affected my battery life too much.

I wonder if this is some kinda metaphor.

“Yo, why didn’t you say anything?” I ask Tremaine then.

“You know, I’m not sure,” he says. “I’ve been asking myself that for weeks. Why didn’t I just call you out? I still don’t really have an answer. I guess like . . . well, I get needing some space and time to figure yourself out. Though I will say: based on what you told me about your parents, I do think your sis is right about them likely being supportive.”

I nod. “You know, that’s something I figured out while we were walking up outta that tunnel, T. It’s not that I think my parents will take issue with me liking who I like. It’s more the basketball thing. There’s only ever been one openly gay NBA player.”

“Jason Collins,” he says.

I’m impressed. “Right. And yeah, he got a lot of support or whatever. But it’s been like a few years, and nobody else has come out. In sports there’s just this . . .” And I pause, not really knowing what word to use.

“Stigma,” he says.

So I guess I can check off “finishes my sentences” on the Ideal Partner list.

“Right. And while my folks won’t take issue with my . . . orientation, I suppose is the right word, they not gone be too keen on me not hoopin’. In their minds—and in mine too until recently—that’s my ticket to college tuition. And even though I’m not sure I even want to hoop anymore, being out will potentially mean being on the outs with my teammates and coaches, which would obviously mess up my whole game. I’m sure they’ll all act supportive—nobody wants to be labeled homophobic. But this shit runs deep, man.”

I hear him sigh beside me.

We’re quiet for a few minutes as my dilemma settles in the dark around us. I have no idea what I’m gonna do.

I will say, though: some of the pressure on my chest has loosened. Knowing someone else knows my secret and isn’t looking at me all different is . . . helpful.

Baby steps, I guess.

“You were headed to that party Kareem is DJing at in Brooklyn?” I say just to be saying something.

“Yeah. Gotta take pictures.”

“That’s what I figured. I was too.”

“No surprise there.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“So uhhh . . . how we gonna get there now?”

He looks up at the station sign. “I mean, we are near the park . . .” He turns to me. “Bike it? I’m sure we could grab a couple of rentals. Yeah, we’ll be sweaty as hell when we get there but . . . at least we’ll get there. You down?”

“Hell yeah, I’m down,” I say. “Actually sounds kinda fun.”

“Hey, JJ?”

It’s crazy how much I dig the sound of those two letters coming out of his mouth. “Yeah, Tremaine?”

“Can we agree that you won’t ever lie to me like that again?”

Shit hits hard. “Yeah, man. Again: I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you. This time.”

I laugh. Feels real good. “I can respect that.”

“If you want the truth—and you better not use it against me: I don’t think I could really stay mad at you.”

“You know, I think I’ve had a thing for you too, since that day in sixth grade,” I finally admit. “Though I obviously tried to deny it.”

Now he laughs. “Good to hear, man.”

We lapse back into quiet, but the dark is starting to make me itch.

“You think the lights will come back on soon?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but I don’t press. Just . . . sit. No idea what comes next or where we go from here.

But I also find that I don’t really care. Not in this moment.

Just when I think he’s not gonna answer, he does: “I don’t know. But I hope so.”

It occurs to me: “Is the darkness messing with your claustrophobia? Anything I can do to help?”

He laughs again. “Nah, that’s not it at all,” he says, leaning into me. I swear if melting was a literal thing, I’d be a puddle of goop on this floor instead of a person.

He goes on: “I’m honestly not scared at all right now. Just looking forward to seeing you with your mask off.”