Rainbow Elixir

Rainbow Elixir

© May 2017 by Foxglove Lee

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design © 2017 by Foxglove Lee

Rainbow Elixir

Love, Loss and LGBT Lives

Young Adult Fiction

By Foxglove Lee

Table of Contents:

Gayboy (And Plaid All Over)

You Can Never Go Home Again

Top Ten Ways to Die

Gayboy

Bisexual Teen Romance

Previously Published as:

And Plaid All Over

The 800-year-old ticket-seller at the New Yorker Theatre regarded Marco and Anna with her usual suspicion. She’d never voiced her misgivings before (except with her eyes) but she did today (with her mouth):

Shouldn’t you kids be in school?

We are, Anna said, because she was the better liar (she could do it with a straight face, whereas Marco couldn’t do anything straight). We’re doing a project for music class.

Oh yes? the woman behind the glass asked (she obviously wasn’t buying it). What sort of project, then?

"A project about boy bands across the ages—from The Four Tops to Boyz II Men."

The old woman raised an unruly brow. That’s not exactly across the ages, is it?

Marco didn’t possess Anna’s level of patience, much less her delight in tormenting the elderly. He slapped his ticket money down beside his best friend’s and said, Look, we’re paying customers—

Patrons, Anna corrected him.

—so maybe you should think about treating us with a little more respect.

We’re also level-five members of the Frequent Plaid Club, Anna added. Which means we’ll be taking home our complimentary Forever Plaid cast recording after the show today, thank you very much.

The ticket-seller didn’t seem as impressed as she should have been that two fifteen-year-olds were seeing a show featuring four-part harmonies from the 1950s (for the fifth time). In fact, the old woman huffed as she took their money. She slid their tickets through the slot and said under her breath: The nerve…

Marco and Anna were the youngest people in the New Yorker Theatre by at least fifty years. It was really noticeable, too, because the New Yorker wasn’t like the Royal Alex where you could catch Les Mis, or the Pantages where Phantom would probably be playing to sold-out houses at least until the new millennium. The New Yorker was tiny by Toronto theatre standards. Some people had never even heard of it, even though it was right there on Yonge Street. True, it didn’t stand out like the others. If you weren’t specifically looking for a theatre, you could easily walk by it without even noticing it was there.

Why’s it called a Plaidbill? Anna asked as they took their seats in the third-last row. She was looking at the program they’d been handed when they entered the theatre.

It’s a Playbill, Marco said, but Plaid.

"Playbill? Does anyone even use that word anymore?"

Marco didn’t answer. Sometimes Anna’s negativity bugged him, especially when he was getting into his Plaid state of mind. He loved the show, sure (four cute guys harmonizing like angels—what’s not to love?), but there was another reason he spent every cent of his burger-flipping money on Forever Plaid tickets:

Neil.

Neil, Neil, Dreamboat Neil, voice from Heaven, lips like pink paradise. Blond boy Neil, Marco’s perfect man (meaning not too manly—more boyish, cute, sweet dimpled smile).

Marco’s crush played the role of Frankie in this production of Forever Plaid. In costume he, like the other Plaids, wore an old-school tuxedo. They all wore their hair slicked back because that was the style in the early sixties, when the show was set. Actually, that’s not true, because here’s the plot:

The four Plaids experience a fatal car-crash in 1964, and instead of going to Heaven (or wherever else) they time-travel into the future to give one final concert.

So, really, the show is set today (May 12, 1994), it’s just that the characters are coming at you from thirty years ago.

That’s why the old ladies in the audience liked the show so much. Reminded them of when they were younger, the music they listened to in their poodle skirts and sweater sets. Simpler times.

Marco asked Anna: "Do you think one day we’ll look back on high school and be like: Man, I wish I could go back in time?"

Go back in time why?

Just for fun, to relive it.

No way, she said, kicking off her shoes and planting her feet in the crotches of the seats in front of them (there was nobody sitting in that row, and the show would be starting pretty soon). Once I graduate and get a job and move out, that’s it. I’m never looking back. Buh-bye, cruel family! Hello, big bad world!

"What, like, you’re never going to visit your parents?"

Pfft! Maybe once a year for Christmas, but I won’t be flying home from London or Brazil or Singapore or wherever I’m living just so they can tell me everything I’ve done wrong with my life.

I love your mom.

You can have her, Anna said, waving her program. We can trade. I like yours better anyway. She’s so cool.

She’s always trying to be my best friend. I don’t need a best friend—I already have one. And with a best friend like you, one is more than enough.

Anna punched him playfully, and he rubbed his arm even though it didn’t hurt. Still, it’s better than having a mom who won’t let you go anywhere or do anything or have a boyfriend, even.

She lets you hang out with me.

Yeah, because you’re gay. She knows you won’t get me pregnant.

Marco felt his chest clutch, and he struggled not to react. You told your mom I’m gay?

Anna shot him a look just like the one the ticket-seller had given them earlier. "I didn’t have to tell her. It’s obvious."

But I’m not gay.

She rolled her eyes, waved her program. Fine, bisexual, whatever.

Right, so stop saying I’m gay when I’m not.

Her stocking feet slid from the chair crotches, and she searched the floor for her shoes. It’s hard to not think of you as gay when everyone you have a crush on is a guy. Like, tell me one girl you think is hot.

He felt his cheeks flush and hoped Anna wouldn’t notice. I don’t want to say.

It doesn’t have to be someone we know. She got down on the floor because one of her shoes had slipped down into the next row, and she had to reach under the chair to grab it. Tell me a celebrity who’s hot.

Brent Carver.

A woman, stupid. She hit him with her shoe, leaving a dusty mark on his thigh.

Chita Rivera.

"Someone who wasn’t in Kiss of the Spider Woman. Sitting back in her seat, she said, Anyway, Chita Rivera is literally a million years old."

So what? Have you seen the pins on that woman?

Okay, so that’s your pick: I ask you to name a hot celebrity and you choose Chita Rivera?

You got a problem with that?

He only meant it in a joking way, but the look on Anna’s face told him he’d somehow proved her point. He was just about to tell her how wrong she was when the lights went down. The show started with the screeching sound effects of a bus crash.

Even after five times, it never got old.

~~~~~~~~~~~

After cashing in their ticket stubs as members of the Frequent Plaid Club, Marco and Anna received their cassette tapes of the soundtrack. It was the original Broadway cast, not Toronto, which meant Neil’s beautiful voice wouldn’t be on it, but a boy could dream.

Don’t you think Neil’s cute? Marco said as he opened the door to Song and Script.

Cute? Yeah, but James is cuter.

Which one’s he?

Jinx.

Okay, yeah, he’s cute. Marco hooked the plastic bag containing his tape around his wrist and started flipping through piano and vocal scores to all the latest musicals. But Neil’s cuter.

Anna gave him a shove. And you say you’re not gay.

Marco glanced bashfully at two guys holding hands across the aisle. He didn’t want them to be offended, so he said, I’m bisexual.

I used to be bi, one guy said. Don’t worry—you’ll get over it.

His boyfriend or whoever laughed and whispered something in his ear, and then they both laughed and Marco felt ashamed of himself, but he wasn’t sure why. It was just as hard to say you were bisexual as it was to say you were gay, so why did he always get that reaction, that eye-roll? Everyone seemed to think he was either deluded or in denial, and he was neither of those things.

They didn’t stay long in Song and Script. Marco