Who We Are Read online

  But it was all fake.

  That was who I used to be. I think.

  At home, I pretended some more. At home I pretended I had my shit together. I pretended I knew what the hell I was doing, that we had enough money, that we were going to be okay. I pretended I wasn’t out and proud. I was out, but not so proud – not around Tyler. He’d never said it directly but I knew I embarrassed him. I didn’t talk with a higher pitch to my voice on purpose, though I knew he thought I did. I didn’t walk with a swish to annoy him. It’s simply how I walked. I didn’t wear make-up to piss him off. I just liked the confidence it gave me. The fact is since he turned fourteen six months ago everything I did annoyed him.

  So, I pretended even more. I tried to act differently around him. I made a conscious effort to walk ‘straighter’, talk deeper, hide my make-up. Rightly or wrongly, I tried to rein in my gayness, like that’s even a fucking thing, effectively stuffing myself back in the closet, because I didn’t know what else to do.

  I’d raised Tyler since our mum died, but maybe I hadn’t done it right. Maybe that’s why he was acting out and getting into trouble at school. Maybe I’d failed him, failed my mum. I wouldn’t know because I didn’t have anyone to ask. Fuck knew where our dads were. Mine stuck around until I was three and Ty’s disappeared before he was born. Our grandparents died when I was a baby, my mum was an only child, and old Mrs Henderson from around the corner, who used to watch Tyler after school for me, was taken into a care home several years ago after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

  So yeah, at home I pretended to be responsible. I pretended to be an adult, which I guess I was at thirty years old, but I sure as hell didn’t feel old enough to cope with this life most of the time. I pretended a lot.

  And I was exhausted.

  “Gimme that.”

  Blinking myself free from the daze I seemed to have slipped into, I noticed my friend, Rhys, in the mirror in front of me, dressed only in his underwear, a breastplate, and a hairnet.

  He took the sculpting brush from between my fingers and then grabbed my chin, turning me to face him. “You’re missin’ your sparkle tonight, girl,” he said, using the brush to feather bronzer over my cheekbone. “Don’t get me wrong, your contouring looks great…if you’re going for the my three-year-old niece applied my make-up look.”

  I snapped my gaze back to the mirror before rolling my eyes. My make-up was flawless, as always. “I don’t have a niece, and your tits are sagging like an eighty year old’s.”

  My alter ego, Miss Tique, and I weren’t fans of breastplates, nor sequined dresses and extravagant wigs. As a genderfuck queen, rocking my designer stubble - that I occasionally grew out into a short beard - modern clothes, and daring make-up, I preferred a more avant-garde style. I came alive when I played Miss Tique. She had no responsibilities or money worries. She was bold and fierce. Passionate and proud.

  Free.

  Funnily enough, pretending wasn’t always tiring. Pretending to be Miss Tique felt…liberating. One night a week I got to breathe for a few hours. I got to forget all the roles I had to play, ironically, while playing another one.

  “Ouch.” Rhys hissed before pouting, dramatically of course, over my snarky remark. Looking down to his chest, he tweaked his rubber nipples. “Don’t listen to him, girls.”

  Exhaling a breath of laughter, I snatched my brush back from Rhys and finished touching up my face until I looked utterly fantabulous. Smoky eyes accentuated by long, fake lashes, sharply contoured cheeks, rich purple lips, and the pièce de résistance? Immaculately pruned facial hair.

  Tonight, I opted for my short lilac wig that was cut into a pixie-style bob to complement my lips and shoes. Complete with my outfit – a backless silver dress with metal eyelets trimming the knee-high hem – Miss Tique looked pretty damn fine.

  “You know you can talk to me, right?” Rhys said, placing his hand on my shoulder as I stood in front of the full-length mirror, giving myself a final glance over. “I meant what I said about your sparkle. You look weighed down with a thousand different worries tonight.”

  Same as every night. For some reason, it just seemed harder to hide than usual, most likely because tomorrow marked the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death. Naturally, I didn’t mention that to Rhys. As always, I pretended. “I’m just practicing my sultry look for my first track,” I said with a wink, the heavy lashes tickling my cheek as I did. “Don’t you worry about me. It’ll give you wrinkles.”

  Slipping my silver and purple bangles onto my wrist, I sashayed away, swishing my hips as I called over my shoulder, “And you’ve got enough o’ those already!”

  “Bitch!”

  “Whore!”

  God, I loved being here. I discovered Canal Street, the heart of Manchester’s gay village, in my late teens, and back then I spent as much of my free time here as possible. It wasn’t just about clubbing, drinking, entertainment, or finding someone to get laid, though of course there was plenty of that on offer. The village was a safe space, a place of acceptance, somewhere to be open and free. The rest of the world still seemed like a scary place for someone like me.

  Sure, the strides taken in LGBT rights in recent history had been huge, the positive changes remarkable even in my relatively short thirteen years as an out gay man, but we weren’t there yet. We weren’t equal. Not completely.

  I still felt uneasy riding the bus late at night. People still sniggered if I dared to wear heels in public. I still received disgusted looks, words like shirt lifter, poof, and bender thrown at me. I still felt…different.

  But not here. Not in this wonderful village filled with people who represented every colour of the rainbow. That’s not to say everyone here was nice, of course. Being part of a minority group doesn’t guarantee a decent person. Idiots, wankers, and prejudice are everywhere. That’s life. Some of the ugliest personalities I’d ever met were fellow queens. But here, even as I stepped out onto the stage, dragged up to the eyeballs, ready to break out into the first verse of Grace Kelly by Mika, I felt normal. Accepted.

  Safe.

  I knew who I was, right then. Oliver Clayton, the same little boy whose dream had been to play dress up and sing for as long as he could remember.

  * * *

  “Stage is all yours, sugar tits,” I said to Rhys, who was now dressed entirely as Violet Gold, as I danced back to the dressing room, my veins tingling with the rush of the show.

  “That’s no way to speak to a lady. You’re not too old to take over my knee.”

  Grinning, I winked. “Ooo, promise?”

  “Cheeky,” she said, lightly slapping my cheek. “By the way, Gary’s lookin’ for you. Wants to know if you can do the last set tonight.”

  “Umm…”

  “I’ll do it if you can’t,” he offered with a sympathetic smile. Despite the clothes and the make-up, he spoke as Rhys now. My friend. My biggest supporter. I’d met him right here in the village, way back when I was completing my hairdressing apprenticeship. He noticed me, a scrawny nineteen-year-old dressed in silver hot pants and a cut-off vest, watching him perform on the stage, with what I’m sure was pure adoration in my eyes…because damn I wanted to be up there too. And then he held out his hand, pulling me up on the stage, as he often did with members of his audience – for a joke, usually – but instead of laughing or shying away, I started to sing along with him. Somehow, from that night on, he became a permanent fixture in my life. We clicked, as they say.

  He was my best friend, and I loved him.

  Rhys knew about my responsibilities, about Tyler. Not many people did, because I didn’t tell them. I wasn’t one to discuss my personal life. I didn’t want sympathy. I hated that pitying frown people always seemed to give when they found out I was an orphan raising my brother alone. Or even worse, when they commended me for it like I was special. I didn’t deserve praise or recognition for fuck’s sake. He was my brother. Of course I was going to take care of him, or at least try. I wasn’t convi
nced I’d done such a good job so far.

  “Thanks,” I replied. “It’s just Ty. I still need to get changed and I don’t like leaving him alone past midnight.”

  “How’ve things been between you lately?”

  “You need to get ready.” I cocked my chin towards the stage doors. “Your set starts soon.”

  “Girl, I look fabulous. I’m ready. Now, how’ve things been?”

  Sighing, I sank down into one of the pink leather tub chairs and kicked off my heels, letting my toes uncurl. “He hates me. He hates everything I do, everything I say. He hates that I’m gay. I don’t know where I went wrong. He used to be such a sweet kid, you know?”

  Rhys perched on a stool in front of me, crossing his long, fishnet-clad legs, and placed his hand on my knee. “He doesn’t hate you, and he doesn’t hate the fact that you’re gay. You’ve brought him up better than that.”

  “Have I?” I wasn’t so sure anymore. “A few months ago, before one of his mates came ‘round to the house, he asked me if I could ‘tone it down’. I swear, Rhys, that gutted me.”

  Rhys’ eyes widened, a flash of horror heating his cheeks, visible even through the copious amount of blusher he wore. “And you didn’t rip the cheeky little bastard a new arsehole?”

  Shrugging, I lowered my head. “I’m not a parent. I’m not his dad, and I’ve never tried to be. I’ve always tried to love him like a big brother, like a friend…but maybe it’s not enough. It wasn’t this hard when he was little. He just…I just…I’m not a parent dammit!”

  “You know what I think? I think he’s a teenager. Teenagers are hormonal arseholes. Hell, I know I was. But if he ever spouts homophobic bullshit like that again you nip it in the bud, you hear me? And if you don’t want to, then give me a call and I’ll bring my fabulous arse ‘round and teach him a lesson on ignorance. Let the little sod try and tell me to tone it down.” Rhys finished his rant with a flick of his long, blonde wig and it brought a wide smile to my lips.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not usually such a whiner.”

  “Oh purrlease.” Standing from the stool, his red, glittering gown flowing down to his ankles, he flicked his wrist. “We’re queens. Whining’s part of the job description.”

  Standing to join him, I patted his shoulder and air-kissed his cheek. “Thanks, babe. Go knock ‘em dead out there.”

  “Any time, sweetness. Remember, nothin’ lasts forever. He won’t always be a teenager.”

  Forcing a weak smile, I nodded. “Yeah.”

  Perhaps Rhys was right. Maybe I hadn’t failed. Maybe raising a teenager was supposed to be difficult. I didn’t remember causing my mum any trouble, but then my mum was amazing. She always knew how to talk to me, what to say when something was on my mind.

  Maybe Ty has things on his mind.

  Should I talk to him?

  What do I say?

  Damn, I wished my mum were here.

  I arrived home just before midnight, all traces of Miss Tique firmly packed away into the holdall in my hand. Tyler knew about my drag act but, as with most things, we didn’t really talk about it. When I started it was because I loved it, because it was fun, because I got paid to be where I spent most of my spare time anyway – Canal Street. It was never a profession, like it was for Rhys. Rhys, or rather, Violet, had a name for herself. A brand. She had quite the following on social media and took bookings in various bars and clubs.

  Now? Now I did it for the extra cash, and for an excuse to visit the village, escape reality for a few hours.

  I stopped having free time and nights out shortly after my mum’s diagnosis. I had to become an adult. Responsible. I had a child to take care of. Once my mum passed away, Miss Tique became a lifeline almost. She stopped me losing myself completely. She reminded me that I, the old me, the real me, was still here.

  Somewhere.

  After closing the front door and sliding the chain across, I dropped my bag down in the entryway, noticing that the skirting boards could do with a wash down. Sometimes I wished Ty would help out with the housework a little. I honestly didn’t know if he was genuinely blind to the dirt building up or if he simply didn’t care.

  “Hey,” I said to Tyler as I walked into the living room. “You’re still up.”

  “I’ve not ‘ad a bedtime since I was eleven.” He had an attitude, as usual. He didn’t even look away from the TV as he spoke.

  “I know that. I’m glad you’re up. We don’t spend much time together these days.” I tidied as I talked, picking up the empty cola cans from the coffee table and taking them through to the bin in the kitchen. “How was school today?” I called from the next room, rolling up my sleeves as I prepared to tackle the sink full of dirty pots Tyler had created in my absence.

  “Fine.”

  Fine. I guessed fine was better than being dealt behaviour points for back-chatting a teacher and then spending a day in the unit like last Friday.

  “My drama teacher wants me to move into a higher group.”

  Dropping the spoon in my hand, I abandoned the washing up and headed back into the living room. “Yeah?” I asked, my smile wide as I perched on the arm of the couch where Tyler was sitting. “I didn’t know you were so into drama. That’s fantastic!”

  Tyler shrugged, picked up the remote and started flicking through the TV channels. “I’m gonna ask her not to. All my mates are in basic.”

  “It’s one class. You’ll still see your friends in other lessons, and at break and dinner. You should be proud of yourself, Ty. I am.”

  Again, he simply shrugged. Silence followed, thick and awkward, as always, until Tyler broke it by standing from the couch. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

  “Wait,” I called, making him pause by the door. “You’ll be home when I finish work tomorrow, right?”

  Every year on our mum’s anniversary we’d taken flowers to her grave, along with an updated photo of the two of us. Then, on the way home, I always took Ty to McDonald’s, something he used to love as a kid, but I figured tomorrow it’d just annoy him like everything else did these days.

  “For the cemetery?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll just meet you there. I’ll be out with Ben and Ryan. Text me a time.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but he was already gone so I closed it again and slipped off the arm and fully onto the couch with a deep sigh. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I tipped my head back and pondered whether to clean the kitchen or go to bed and wake up extra early and do it before I went to work.

  “Fuck it,” I said to no one. Exhausted, I hauled my sorry arse upstairs, carried out my nightly skincare routine, and climbed into the side of my bed that didn’t have springs poking out of the mattress. I knew I’d regret the state of the kitchen in the morning but, right now, I didn’t have the energy to care.

  * * *

  “Like the blonde in her fringe,” my client said, pointing towards the girl in the magazine before making eye contact with me through the ornate mirror in front of us. “Can I get it like that?”

  Combing through the ends of her shoulder-length auburn hair with my fingers, I nodded. “Eventually. We need to neutralise some of this red first though. I suggest we go for a medium-brown for your next two or three appointments, and then we’ll work on getting it lighter.”

  She looked disappointed. They always did. It wasn’t uncommon for clients with years’ worth of dark colour build-up to come in and expect to leave a beautiful blonde a couple of hours later. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy. Not if you wanted to leave with your hair still attached to your head.

  “Oh,” she said. “Okay. Let’s do that.”

  We’d already worked out the cut she wanted so, after offering her a drink and another magazine, I went into the back room to mix her colour. I loved working here, really I did, but I always thought I’d have achieved more by now. When I began my career I put a lot of thought into which path I’d follow, whether I’d become a stylist or a colour technician. I wond
ered when, not if, I’d open my own salon, what I’d call it, which services I’d offer.

  Yet, fourteen years after starting my apprenticeship I was still stuck in a small salon where you didn’t get a chance to hone your chosen craft, because here we all did a little bit of everything. I did cuts, colours, and blow dries, and since taking a course in acrylic enhancements two years ago, I worked the nail station on Tuesdays, too.

  It was a great job with fantastic people, but with the salon being outside the city centre we were never overly busy, which meant my wages weren’t overly amazing either. I was good at my job, but sometimes I couldn’t help wonder if I should’ve tried harder to be better, if I should’ve put my career before spending time with Tyler, not because I didn’t love him, but because I wanted more for him too.

  When Mum died, I figured being together was the most important thing. I put my whole life on hold. I swapped my job as a junior stylist in one of the biggest franchise salons in the area for a tiny backstreet salon nearer home that offered fewer hours and less opportunities. I rushed through work each day so I could get home and read him stories, play Power Rangers with him, bake cakes from those boxes that come with the ingredients inside. That made him happy, then. It didn’t take him long to stop asking why Mummy had to go to heaven, although I’d always tried hard to keep his memory of her alive.

  I was enough for him then. I wasn’t anymore. Now he was older, now he understood more, knew how the world worked, bedtime stories and baking didn’t cut it. He wanted what his friends had. He wanted a decent house, the latest games consoles, flashy trainers, and a The North Face coat. He deserved all of that, and maybe if I’d taken a different route, worked harder, sacrificed my time with him, he could’ve had it.

  Honestly, it seemed like whichever option I chose would’ve failed him on some level. There were no right or easy answers when it came to being responsible for another person, for a child. The only way I can describe what being a parent felt like for the past ten years is giving everything I had, trying my absolute best, and my best never seeming nearly good enough.