She had never like Bruce anyway. They had worked opposite shifts, rarely seeing each other for more than a few minutes unless it was a holiday, and he was kind of weird. He wore eyeliner and would burst into falsetto unexpectedly. Plus, if Girl was late for her shift, which she generally was, he would lock the shop and leave, instead of waiting for her like he was supposed to.
“Where do you live?” Ryan asked her as their fingers twisted the white ribbons into a string of bows, ten to a length. It was quicker to just make a daisy-chain that could be hung on the wall than to cut them as they went.
“I rent a room on Beresford, near Mercy High,” she answered.
“You don’t live at home?”
“No, I moved out this past January,” she said. He didn’t ask why, and she didn’t offer.
“And do you have siblings?”
“I have a brother who is a year older than I am.” No sense in mentioning half- and stepsiblings at this point. It was better to keep things simple. She wished she didn’t sound so awkward, but she couldn’t help it.
“I have two boys, sixteen and eighteen, about your age, right? Ryan Junior is in twelfth grade at Rush-Henrietta.” Ryan continued. “Manny is a sophomore. You’ll meet them one of these days. They come in every now and then.”
“I’m a senior, too, at Irondequoit.”
“That’s awfully far, isn’t it?”
“I take a bus and transfer downtown. It’s okay, I don’t mind, and I’m saving up for a car.”
“Well, if it’s ever raining, one of us will drive you home from work,” he said sternly. “And your parents? Are they still together?”
“My mom and stepmother.” She paused. It had never been safe to just come out and say they were lesbians, but she was ninety percent sure Ryan was gay. “Mother and Stepmother have been together since I was three. They’re lesbians. My dad lives in Alaska.”
Ryan’s fingers stopped twisting the ribbon. “Will my children hate me for being gay, do you think?” he asked. It was interesting—every man Girl had ever met asked her if she was a lesbian when they found out about her mom. Ryan was the first one who didn’t. She’d come to learn that his question—about his children hating him—was the first question every gay parent would ask her the moment they found out about her family. She wondered what it would have been like to have parents that didn’t hide their orientation. In her house, the secret hung over every new friendship. Being gay was about the worst thing she could imagine happening to someone, but here was an obviously gay man, running a business peopled by other obviously gay men, and it suddenly didn’t seem so bleak. It seemed … well, not exactly mainstream, but okay, fun. Ryan smiled a lot, and the shop was filled with laughter.
“I don’t know,” she hedged. “Well, yes, they will,” she amended, deciding to be honest. “But if you weren’t gay they’d hate you for something else, like if you had an accent, or were too strict or were overweight. Teenagers always hate their parents every now and then. They’ll get over it, though.”
From then on, Ryan looked out for Girl like she was one of his kids. He’d cut off shoptalk that got too sexually explicit, and he’d give her a ride home if they stayed even a half-hour late. At the same time, he treated her like a fully-formed grown-up, quickly trusting her to do all the corsages and boutonnieres for the weddings, rarely double-checking her work.
Girl only worked three days a week: two half days on Thursdays and Fridays, and a full day on Saturdays. She mopped floors, dusted shelves, washed out ashtrays, and cleaned the bathrooms in addition to the wedding work. She didn’t mind—she was used to working alone, so it was a nice change to have other people around.
Ryan took her along on her first wedding detail, showing her how to reach inside a woman’s dress to secure the pin to her bra strap underneath, saying, “Now just let me know if I get too fresh!” Girl learned to mimic him, the teasing flirt of gay-speak putting the mothers and grandmothers of the brides at ease. He showed her how to pin down an aisle runner, how to tape bows to pews, and her favorite—how to fluff a bride’s train. It was like when they did parachute games in gym class—Girl’s arms went up and snapped back down, a puff of air raising and lowering the white satin fabric so the train would trail perfectly behind the bride. The gesture transformed Girl from a high school senior to a lady in waiting granted the servant’s intimacy of seeing the back of the knees of the princess.
Girl spent Saturdays sending brides down the aisle, then raced ahead of the guests to the reception site, where Tony would be high on a ladder, stapling yards of fabric to the ceiling while Girl decorated the wedding cake with fresh flowers and tied gold ribbons on napkins. They placed arrangements on glass stanchions three feet above the round mirrors at their base, and she’d arrange votive candles around each one. Girl lost herself in daydreams of her own elegant wedding someday. She wanted to be a bride more than just about anything.
Because the shop serviced at least four weddings every Saturday, Girl often had to drive herself. Whenever possible, Ryan would let her use his car, a white 1978 Mercedes, instead of one of the big white vans. He didn’t care that she’d only just gotten her license. Stepmother wouldn’t even let Girl drive her five-year-old Toyota. “It’s too special to risk at the hands of an inexperienced driver,” Mother had explained. Ryan treated Girl like he treated his son. “Here’s the car, be careful, fill it up on your way back, but be sure to go to full serve, so you don’t get fuel on
