“AMrs. Dallowayfan,” Shams says.
“A well-read young man, I see.” Edna seems impressed by him.
“I’m Shams,” he says as they shake hands. “It’s nice to meet you, Septimus.”
The band’s ragtime ends, and a man in Cleopatra drag takes the stage to announce the wrestling match will begin. Anyone who wants to enter the competition and challenge the reigning champion, Violette Ophelia, should line up by his side. As a smattering of queens—including the beautiful one we met at the Rooster—step into their spotlights, Shams tells me I should enter.
“Absolutely not,” I protest. “Look at what I’m wearing. How do you expect me to pin anyone down in this?”
“It’s just fabric. Let it rip.” He smiles.
“Why don’t you enter?” I ask.
“I’m no wrestler,” he says. “But if that’s what it takes to convince you, then let’s go.”
I think about it, then shake my head. “No. I can’t. It’s mortifying. Wrestling in women’s clothing in front of a crowd. I couldn’t.” But then the man with the microphone announces that the grand prize is fifty dollars, which is more than double what Mother makes in a week. I could buy her something beautiful with that kind of money. “Come on,” I say.
“Good luck!” Edna yells as I pull Shams onstage before it’s too late.
Once we’re onstage, I see that Brendan, Jack, Cyril, and all their Harvard friends are clustered at the very front of the crowd, and I have a moment of doubt. I can imagine Jack using this as ammunition to mock me mercilessly for years to come. Already, he’s whistling at me. “Look at them pretty girls up there!” he yells out as he almost throws a cube of ice at me before Brendan stops him.
“You said you’d pay good money to see me wrestle in heels, Jack!” I yell out from the stage. “Double the pot?” I suggest.
“Nice try,” he yells back. “Let’s say ten for being a good sport, twenty if you win!”
I give Jack an elated thumbs-up as all of us onstage are paired up. We wrestle side by side. Winners stay onstage. Losers must walk offstage as the crowd playfully jeers at them. I win my first round. So does Shams. Two rounds later, we’re down to four wrestlers. Me vs. a man in a satin gown that’s now torn to shreds. Shamsvs. the reigning champion. The emcee calls out, “On your marks! Get set! Wrestle!”
The band, who had been on a break, takes the stage behind us, underscoring our competition to a percussive beat. From the crowd come the sound of cheers.Tear her downandpin that bitchand Jack’s inimitable voice yelling, “RIP HER TO SHREDS.”
My opponent is young and athletic, that much is certain, but he’s no wrestler. He has strength to spare, but no strategy. He also loves the applause. The louder it gets, the more distracted he becomes. When he flashes a smile to our audience, I seize the opportunity his distraction provides. I lock his knees together until he tumbles down and pin him to the floor as the crowd goes wild. I look down and see my own dress has torn open, revealing the boy clothes I’m wearing underneath. It’s not until the emcee declares me the winner that I turn to notice the reigning champion is no longer onstage. Shams is. He beat her while I was focused on my own opponent. We’re the only two left.
The band begins a new tune, something appropriately triumphant. The speed of the song revs us up as we’re given our cue to begin. We circle each other at first, smiling, our eyes locked. Something stirs within me. The feeling of connection consumes me. I want to feel his body against mine, and I take the opportunity by shoving myself into him violently and taking him down.
“Oh wow, I didn’t know we were going to be vicious with each other,” he says as he turns the tables on me, rolling himself atop me.
“I’m the best wrestler in my high school,” I say with a smile. “Just give up now.” I lock his head in my arms.
Once again, he has a surprise up his sleeve. He bites my arm. I’m so shocked I let go of him.
“I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules,” I say as we circle each other again.
“I’m pretty sure there are no rules here,” he declares, and I know he’s right. We could bite each other, kiss each other, tear each other’s clothes off, and we would likely be met with cheers of approval.
“What if we declared it a tie and split the money?” I ask. We’re just hopping in front of each other now, each one waiting for a moment of opportunity.
“I think we would disappoint our adoring audience,” he says. “Besides, I don’t care about the money. If I win, I’ll just spend it all on you.”
“On me?” I ask. “I don’t need anything money can buy.” I briefly ponder the truth in this. The things I want—love, freedom, a more accepting world—can’t be bought.
“Then what will you do with the money?” he asks.
The answer comes to me like a tidal wave. “I’ll get my mother a beautiful room overlooking the ocean for a holiday. On the Cape.” I imagine her hair freely blowing in the salty wind. The sun warming her face. Mother deserves to glow. She would ask where I got the money. I would have to think of something, but that’s a problem for later.
“You, Oliver, are too good for this world. You might be what I’ve been searching for all this time.” His body language changes when he says this. He seems to deflate. The competitive tension is gone.
I take my opportunity and slam him down to the ground. I hold his body down hard. He doesn’t struggle against me. Perhaps he’s tired. Or perhaps he’s letting me win. Either way, I’m declared the victor. The emcee helps me back up. Lifts my hand up into the air for me. I feel a rush of pride and adrenaline. Brendan is hootingfor me. Cyril is jumping up and down. Jack is shouting to everyone near him that I’m his friend. Farther down the crowd, Edna watches with a delighted smile on her face. She tips her top hat to me. I wish Mother could see me now. I wish she could be proud of the person I am, not just the one I pretend to be. But perhaps that’s asking too much. In this moment, I have more than I’ve ever had. More than I thought possible. I feel, for perhaps the first time, like a winner.
The elation of the masquerade ball lingers in my body, filling me with my own personal glow. Even Mother notices it. As she fries me some eggs one May morning, she asks if I’m in love. I grab my tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and take a long, slow sip, using the cup to hide any reaction on my face.
