“Boy, I can’t afford no assistant.” She cackles. “Besides, you should be in school.”
“I finished school early.” Not really a lie. I am done with school.
“University, then.”
“I’m a tutor. I swear I am. Before you found me on the street, I tutored kids. Wealthy kids just like the ones you make dresses for. Maybe your posh friend could find me kids to tutor. I’ll give her a cut. I’ll give you a cut too.”
“Honey, you’re getting way ahead of yourself. I’m a busy bitch, and I’ve done my good deed for the day. This is goodbye...”
I know she’s waiting for my name. I feel suddenly sick. I’ve assumed over thirty names since going by Shams. I’ve pretended to be so many people. I don’t want to pretend with her. To my surprise, I tell the truth. “My name... Well, the name I was born with... It’s Shahriar... But I hate that name. I don’t want to be... I’mnothis son anymore.”
She places a hand on each of my cheeks. Her fingers are strong and soft at the same time. “You don’t need to be anyone you don’t want to be. You think the name I was born with was Lily? No, I named myself after my favorite flower while staring at a lily pond.”
“And your last name? You named yourself after Donna Summer?”
She laughs as Donna’s silky voice continues to fill the room. Singing about finding a sweet romance. “No, no, no. I really am a Summers. Of the Kingston Summers, darling. That’s just a lovely coincidence. Of course, her name is one singular summer. And mine is plural. I’m all the sunshine.” She sings to the tune of Chaka Khan. “I’m every summer. It’s all in me.”
“Will you give me a name?” I’m tired of birthing new versions of me. All I want—finally—is for someone to create me not from duty or from ambition. But from love.
“Honey, that’s a big responsibility. I don’t know enough about you. What do you love?”
“Poetry.” I close my eyes. “Poetry and words, and nature and spring, and love. Ilovelove. And this horrible city that makes God cry. I love it, too, for all its flaws, because the streets here seem to rise above their memories. I came to London when I was younger,and it was horrible.” I open my eyes. “But now here I am with you, in a new London.”
“It’s still the same city. Horrible. Wonderful.”
I pull a piece of fabric from the hard chair. “What about Polyester?”
“As your name? Have you lost your mind?”
“It can be Polly for short.”
“Are you a woman?”
“No.”
“Do you plan on pursuing drag?”
The question brings me back to the masquerade ball. All those decades ago. It still feels like yesterday sometimes. And like three dozen lifetimes ago at other times. “No. I did do drag once. I don’t think it was my calling.”
“All right then. You’re not Polly.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I have nothing in mind, you wild thing. Now go. I have to work.” She makes her way back to the sewing machine.
“How about this? Once you get to know me a little better, you can name me. It’ll be fun. Like a game.” I try to catch her gaze. She ignores me. “All right, I’ll go. But thank you for saving me from the police, and for the clothes and the shower and the food and—”
She looks up at me in exasperation. “Honey, come to the Blitz next Tuesday. I’m there every week with my friend Archie. Now go.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My smile feels like it takes over my face. I leave satisfied that this isn’t the end of us.
The two drunk punks are still out on the stoop when I leave. One of them whistles at me in my new outfit. I’m pretty certain it’san insult. But I take it as a compliment. I twirl around to show off the flow of those baggy pants. I feel free.
On Tuesday, I make my way to the Blitz Club on Great Queen Street. Still in the clothes Lily made. I stand in line outside. The dramatically dressed people ahead of me are all desperate to be let in. They tap their sharp heels. Smoke cigarettes as they lean against the dilapidated wall. Partially exposed brick. Torn posters. A sign reads:Keep gates in locked position when premises are open. I feel nervous as I inch closer to the entrance. I’ve now heard the creature at the door turn multiple people away with stinging judgment.
To a man in slacks and a cashmere sweater:Would you let yourself in?
To a pair of girls in Audrey Hepburn–inspired black dresses:Try harder next time, luvs.
