Glitter

By Ayla Starr

Published by Ayla Starr at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Ayla Starr

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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**

You were born with a bottle of glitter by your side, an invisible crown on your head,
and the image of a sequin-covered diaper implanted in your mind. I think it’s safe to

say that even way back then, during the days of nursery school and preschool
television, you stuck out prominently. No one was sure if you did it on purpose, or if it

came naturally, but as far as I was concerned, there was no one else on earth quite
like you.

From the moment you could walk and talk, you began lighting up the world around

you, whether it was by dancing, writing your own songs, or creating colorful outfits on
paper.

Our mothers were best friends, and because of that, our very early years were spent

side by side, drool dripping from our lips.

Looking back in photo albums, it seems we were nearly inseparable, tied together by
our mothers’ friendship, and the fact that we were born hours apart. But the shame of

that is that I have no memories of our moments together; the days we spent waking up
after an afternoon nap, sharing apple juice and animal crackers, and fighting over

plush toys.

The only reminders left of those days are the scraped photos and lively home videos.
And I can honestly say that it’s strange; missing something I can’t even remember. But

if there was a remote that could control time, I would easily choose to go back to
those days of Blue’s Clues, chewable fruit snacks, and decorated bibs.

The sad truth is that as we grew older, we slowly began drifting apart. The wedge that

formed between us was caused immensely by my embarrassment, and partly by your
flamboyant nature that exuded confidence. It always seemed as though that invisible

crown was perched regally on your head, but it was just the way you carried yourself;

tall, and eager to smile and talk with anyone.

I was a coward in every way possible, unable to handle someone who bled joy out of
every pore of his body. But every year was still marked by some memory.

It was by age five that you’d decided your favorite colors were pink and gold and you

refused to wear anything that wasn’t either of those colors. Your room was painted
pink with gold stripes, and whenever I came over for play-dates, I’d be hypnotized by

the majestic aura of the room.

When night fell, we’d set up a tent on your ground using the lamp, a bed-sheet, and
several chairs and rulers. We’d laugh and chortle, hungrily eating cookies that left

crumbs all over your floor.

Every night, right before we went to bed, you’d ask for a kiss from your best friend.
Back then, I thought little of it—seeing my mom kiss so many of her friends—and

always leaned in, pecking you lightly on the lips. Your face would absolutely light up.

By age seven, you’d grown accustomed to playing with dolls, and during recess, you’d
always be found playing dollhouse and tea party with the girls. All the while, the guys

would shake their heads at you, forcefully chucking balls at one another. They’d turn
to me, ask why I bothered hanging out with such a girly-boy, and I’d turn my red face

away in shame, thinking about the good-night kisses and long hugs that came along
with being your friend. And when I’d look back at you, your face glowing as Barbie and

Ken kissed, I’m ashamed to say now that I always spat in your direction. And the guys
would laugh like hyenas.

After that, we saw less and less of each other. Plans to hang out were canceled, and I

spent more and more time with the ball-hugging guys. By age ten, you and I were in
completely different worlds; me constantly surrounded by friends from baseball, while

you were normally by yourself.

By age thirteen, you were well known around the entire elementary school as the
Glitter Boy. It was utterly corny and derisive, but strangely, it fit you. You were

always wearing diamond studded tiaras to school, and outfits dotted with dazzling,
luminous jewels. That, and you just seemed to shine, wherever you went.

You’d walk down the hall with a spring in your step, bobbing your head to some

energetic song and swinging your bag freely. No matter where you were or what you
were doing, all eyes were locked on you, whether they were scrutinizing or admiring.

In my case, my eyes were always admiring.

I would always look away before anyone could notice.

By age fourteen, there was no one in the school who hadn’t heard about you, and no
one who hadn’t seen you at least once. Your actions were uniformly talked about, like

the time some kid made fun of your jewels, and you went as far as to sit next to him
during lunch—glitter sticking to your eyelids—and talk with him; your hand on his arm,

your voice soft and gentle, and his face growing redder with every second. He almost

jumped you, and even had to be held back by his friends, but you just sat there, a

kind smile on your face.

Then, there was the time someone drew a picture on one of the stalls in the boy’s

bathroom: an explicit sketch of you having sex with something that resembled a
baboon. All the guys talked about how you walked into the stall and came out crying

like a baby; how you tried preaching them about wrong and right. We were at lunch
when we were talking about it, passing snacks between us. In the middle of the fourth

time retelling the story, we heard a loud laugh, and turned to see you at a table by
yourself, happily writing in your notebook.

You didn’t look upset.

In fact, you looked like you didn’t have a care in the world. You were maybe putting

on a façade, but we still knew that the story we’d heard before was false, and we all
fell quiet, some of the guys muttering about how gay you were. None of them

mentioned the picture again, and by the next day, it was gone. You continued as if
you’d never even seen it.

Moments like that weren’t unusual. You were the school’s own personal celebrity, and
rumors about you spread like wildfire; things like your mom being just like you—a boy

who dressed like a girl— and your dad being a girl who dressed like a boy. Then, there
were the rumors about how you wanted to marry a boy one day and be his bride. Some

even said that there were at least three guys who wanted to meet you on Myspace,
and you were cheating on all of them with an old geezer who you saw every night.

I remember when one of my friends confronted you about getting married. You looked

him straight in the eye, and with a quirk of your lips, answered, “Would you come to
my wedding if I invited you?” My friend ran faster than he ever had before.

You had zero shame, no insecurity that anyone could see, and that terrified so many

people, especially my friends. As for me, I was slowly burning on the inside, because I
wanted your fortitude and buoyancy. I wanted to look at you and your glitter and your

sparkle and your creativity freely. I wanted to talk to you without restriction, and
maybe even touch you.

My mind was constantly filled with memories of stolen kisses and chocolate smudged

drawings, made just for me. I missed you like crazy, but my fear of being an outsider
overrode my other emotions, and maybe you were simply afraid of getting hurt. Either

way, we remained apart.

The next year was spent far apart from each other. I spent my days tossing balls
around and pretending to love my girlfriend, my buddies glued by my side. Time

passed leisurely and without much excitement. When my girlfriend and I broke up, I
put on a sad face and pretended not to feel any glee. The rest of the year passed even

slower. Summer flew by without a sight of you, and then, with the two of us finally
sixteen, our sophomore year started.

The start of sophomore year brought many surprises, one of them being in the same

history class. The two of us were paired up for the first project of the year, and I

remember our eyes meeting and locking. It seemed as though those emerald colored

eyes were glaring, and not just staring, so I looked away nervously. When I looked
back, you were still staring, but the gaze was softer, kinder. You still hadn’t changed.

And when I looked away again, I realized I hadn’t either. I was still the same damn
coward I’d always been.

The project forced us to meet outside of school, and I was careful to make sure that

was the only time we met, when all my friends from baseball had left, and there was
no one important nearby. We’d walk home together, the leaves falling around us, the

wind blowing your long blond hair in unruly angles, and the sun shining down on your
jewel-covered dress.

I kept tripping over my feet, tripping over my words, and eventually gave up talking all

together. You continued to smile anyway.

When we’d get to your house, we’d work for hours in your living room; the music
blasting from your speakers, you dancing in all your glitter and makeup, and me

watching with a goofy grin on my face. Finally, when we were covered with glue and
exhausted from research, you’d ask me if I wanted to watch some TV, maybe eat

something. I would say yes without hesitation every time.

We’d sit on your couch, a bowl of popcorn between us, and exchange jokes and
comments as MTV ran on. Occasionally, there’d be arguments that resulted in popcorn

fights, our fingers touching, and our bodies closer than they’d been in years.

And then you’d say it softly, every single time; “Feels like old times, huh?”

I’d back away as if I’d been burned and scurry as far away as possible. It was like a
game, this thing we did every day; the two of us coming closer, only to have me run

away. Run like the coward I was.

But the fact was, I always came back; no matter what was said between us, how close
our lips got, and how frightened I became.

I always came back.

The day we finished the project, you turned to me with a fake smile, your eyes

twitching sadly.

“Finally done, huh?” You said.

The tears welled up in your eyes, and my chest collapsed. It was the first time I’d seen
you be anything other than happy, and it made me angry. Looking back, I’m not sure

why I felt like that. Maybe it was anger that I’d hurt you, anger that I couldn’t be with
you, anger that I was too afraid to do anything, and anger that the moment had finally

come.

With a deep breath, I pulled you to me forcefully, nearly crushing you in my grip. You

cried into my chest, and I held you tightly, whispering with a broken voice how much I
missed you, everything we had, everything we were, and all the things we could have

been. And when we pulled away, you looked me in the eye.

“I won’t ask you to kiss me,” you said softly.

I could feel you clinging onto me tightly, as though I could disappear any second. All

the past memories came flooding back, and I could only hold you closer.

“You don’t have to,” I answered.

Without another thought I pressed my lips against yours. And when you kissed me
back, I wanted to press pause on that remote control, the one that controlled life. I

wanted to pocket the moment and take it with me everywhere. But when I realized
that was implausible, I continued to kiss you, and kept it up until our lips lost feeling,

your knees gave out, and my fear returned.

When we pulled apart this time, my heart was pounding, my head was spinning, and
you already looked heartbroken. The latter I couldn't stand, so I did the only thing I

knew how to do, and ran. Ran until my legs collapsed.

The next few days were spent avoiding you, and those emerald eyes of yours.
Whenever I thought about the kiss, my heart went racing along with my mind. But

whenever I thought about my friends, and the relentless stories and rumors about you,
my heart would break for the things that could never happen, the things I wouldn’t let

happen. I was still the coward I’d always been. And I didn't know how to change.

All of that brings me to the present, only a few months after the kiss. Looking back,
maybe it would have made more sense to start this off with ‘Dear Danny,' or 'Dear

babe,' or something sentimental of that sort but, for whatever reason, I don't think it
would have fit, at least not with us; definitely not with you. You’ve always encouraged

individuality in every possible way. Maybe it’s about time I followed your lead.

I guess you could say that I'm writing to apologize, or even check up on you. A month
ago, I heard about the beating at school. I don’t know what pushed them over the

edge, but I heard it was bad; they’d broken a few of your bones, and no one outside of
family was allowed to visit you at the hospital. One part of me wanted to find the guys

who hurt you, and make them suffer through the same things you had, if not worse.
But a larger part of me knew that you wouldn't want me to. So I kept everything

inside, even my pain at not being allowed to see you. But honestly, I questioned
myself whether or not you’d want to see me. After all, I kept deserting you, didn’t I?

A few days ago, I finally saw you again. But you weren’t yourself. Your blond hair was

tied up, and you wore a sweatshirt and sweatpants. No glitter, no tiara, no bounce in
your step. When I got home, I went through all the photos, all the memories…and I

started crying. Not just with tears, but heavy sobs. Sobs that rocked through my body
and shook my soul, breaking my resolve in the process. I cried until I felt empty, until I

felt nothing. Eventually, I did feel empty, but the thing is, I still feel that way. That
emptiness brings me to today; my real reason for writing.

I think you’ve forgotten who you are and what you stand for, and I needed to remind

you; needed to let you know that I’m ready and willing to stand by your side, no

matter the consequences. No more hiding and no more running, because I’ve realized

that cowardice has gotten me nowhere, and it hasn’t gotten me what I want: you.

My god, all I want right now, and maybe ever, is you.

Right now, all I want is you and me, together, because together, we could build a wall
so strong; no bullet could possibly penetrate it. And together, we could rebuild that

relationship we once had, maybe make it even stronger.

Those shadows from the past will always remain, those wounds might not go away
easily, but they didn’t steal your tiara, Danny. They didn’t steal your glitter, your

jewels, and your light. They don’t have that power. No one does unless you, yourself,
let them.

So all I’m saying is take that tiara back out, place it on your head, and prance around

like a goddess. Paint your face, paint those pictures, paint the entire world if that’s
what you want. Leave your colorful mark in this school, and together, we’ll wear our

hearts on our sleeves and make the area explode with spouts of laughter.

I haven’t forgotten, Danny; about anything. So don’t you forget either, okay? And if
you’re ready to take those first few steps forward, so am I. But it’ll have to be one

step after the other.

A coward can’t handle too much at a time.

Happy Valentine's Day, Danny.