An Excerpt of He’s So Possessed with Me

By Maggie Montgomery

THIS BOOK!! I love a book that can balance horror, themes of homophobia, racism, and exploitation AND stay campy and full of pop-culture references—I’m looking at you Celine Dion! Check out an excerpt of He’s So Possessed with Me below and don’t forget to add it to your fall TBR!

Prologue

I was less than thirty-five seconds old when the universe decided I was ugly. Or at least, my mom did.

She still tells me the story, like a lullaby or a Grimm fairy tale before bed. How, seventeen years ago, I was born at Women’s Grace Hospital, just a few ticks before midnight. How she held me in her arms, all six pounds of crying, splotchy boy. How she brought her nose to my forehead and breathed in her love of me. How she then cooed into my ear, like a prayer, “Oh my lord. You are one ugly baby.”

She didn’t say it to be mean. It was a blessing. An amulet, made out of words, to ward off the evil.

“So, is evil scared of ugly things?” I asked her once. I was eight at the time, and we were in the kitchen—back when the two of us still lived in the one bedroom in St. James Town. Mom was washing the rice. Cockroaches scuttled across the parquet floor like little elves’ feet.

“Not scared,” Mom replied. Her words still had the accent from back home in Kolkata, which confused all my teachers. Because if we looked Chinese, we should at least have the decency to sound like it. “Evil things—demons and spirits— they want pretty things.” She placed the pot in the rice cooker and flicked it on. “So, I called you ugly and they left you alone. Because when they heard me say it out loud—‘you are ugly’— they didn’t stop to ask questions.” She winked. You’re welcome. I teased, “Maybe one day I’ll grow up to be pretty like you, Mom. Make my hair and lips all fancy. Make all the evil in the world fall in love with me.”

A cockroach scuttled onto the counter. Mom smacked it flat with her palm. “Colin. Never say that again.” She didn’t look at me when she spoke.

I used to close my eyes and imagine Mom standing over my crib, like the fairy godmothers do in Sleeping Beauty. All pro- tective spells and enchantment. And the promise of something more—a kiss from Prince Charming.

Lately, I wonder if Mom cursed me instead. Crushed that horrible word onto my face like a stubbed crayon, drawing everything wrong. My eyes, too small. My nose, bulbous and long. Lips so chapped that no boy would ever want to kiss them.

Ugly.

I got older. Mom used the word less. Then, one day, she didn’t use it at all. She didn’t need to. Ugly was already written all over my face.

Well, Mom got what she wanted. The evil things never came for me. Neither did the things that would fight them off. The white knight. The prince. The woodcutter with the big, cal- loused hands. Why should they?

When the evil things won’t touch you, neither will anything else.

1

Before anything else about him—his eyes or arms, that thick neck—I notice his hands. They’re bigger than mine. Much bigger. With rough cuts and hair scattered all across the knuckles. Daddy hands, Ren would call them. Hands that make you feel safe but also that much more breakable.

I wouldn’t mind being broken, if it was because of those hands.

“He’s cute,” I tell Ren, trying my best to sound blah. Which is hard when you’re yelling the words over Cyndi Lauper.

“Cute?” Ren laughs. And the sound is so magical that, I swear, even under these dim blue spotlights I see the glitter around his eyes fall off like fairy dust. “Colin, he’s cuter than cute. He looks like Keanu.”

“He’s, like, forty,” I say. “He’s old enough to be our dad.” “Everyone here’s old enough to be our dad.”

I look around. Fair point.

It’s Friday night and we’re at Fulcrum, the gay club on the corner of Church and Wellesley. Ren’s eighteen and I’m seventeen, meaning we’re both too young to be here with everyone else: the older, fancy Suit Types on Bay Street who slip in at night to become leather bears and otters, silver foxes and brown-haired stags.

Earlier, when the barrel-chested bouncer asked for our IDs, we whipped out two driver’s licenses Ren borrowed from some friends in Kitchener. Tonight, we are Chester Chao and Phillip Ma, two engineering students at Waterloo.

Mr. Barrel Chest looked down at our IDs, then up at us. Same heights. Same weights. Same kind of Asian. Close enough.

“Thank you, Chester Chao,” I whispered to my ID as we slipped into the music.

Ren said, “And thank you, White Person Who Can’t Tell Asians Apart.” At the time, I could barely hear Ren, the synthesizers were so loud. Could barely see him, too, in this dark and tangled mess of sweaty bodies—his coiffed white hair bobbing between them like sea foam. Ren grabbed my hand and led us right into the pulse. Thump thump thump. It was like being swallowed by Middle Earth’s gayest dragon. Like we were listening to its heartbeats.

Ren asks, “What should we do now?” We’ve been standing alone at the bar for ten minutes, and no one will buy us a drink. Even worse, the bartender with the handlebar mustache is eyeing us over the tap, like he’s in on our secret. “Should we start dancing?”

“Are we allowed?” Somehow, dancing doesn’t feel right when no one’s asked you to first.

“We should do something,” Ren moans. “Or I’m wearing my Slut Shorts for nothing.”

He’s not joking, but I laugh—two helium-filled hahs that float over to the table of Ken dolls sitting six feet way. I hope the sound will pop over their sandy heads and make them look over. They don’t. Probably because they can tell how badly I want them to.

I pull down the sides of my shirt until they stretch. “Maybe I should’ve dressed slutty, too  ”

“Shut up. You look hot.”

I gesture to the T-shirt design I’m wearing over my cutoffs: a giant tufted pineapple wearing sunglasses. When I first put it on, I thought it’d make me look adorkable. Now I see it just makes me look stupid.

Ren looks hot. Last night, when I slept over, I rubbed a box of Molly Moonshine into his hair, the pearly white one with flecks of silver and rose gold. Splashes of aquamarine. Now, whenever Ren sweeps the bangs out of his eyes, the whole world crackles with K-pop.

The DJ changes things up. It’s “Ashes.” Club remix.

“Is Celine Dion queer?” I ask.

“Deadpool likes her,” Ren screams back. “And he’s violently queer.”

Ren steals another look at the man with daddy hands, who, we decide, should be called Papa DILF. He must feel us looking at him because now he’s looking right back. He winks.

At Ren.

I can’t blame Papa DILF. Everyone looks at Ren, even the seniors who make fun of us at St. Brandon’s. Sometimes I even catch the straight boys stealing looks: during art with Ms. Paul; before morning mass; in the cafeteria line on pierogi day. I guess that’s what happens in a grody all-boys’ school. Straight boys are so hungry for pretty they start finding it in other boys.

My pants vibrate.

“Is that him?” Ren asks.

I pull out my phone. No. Message from Mom.

Where are you son call me back now.

Ren snatches my phone before I can text her back. “Is that Ferris? We agreed, Colin. This is a safe space from all confused, mediocre straight boys.”

I show Ren the text. “It’s not him.”

“Oh.” Ren chews on his lip. “Should we go?”

The smart answer is yes. Maybe Mom figured out that Ren and I aren’t in his room, watching reruns of Sailor Moon. Which is only slightly less gay than the actual truth.

Yes, Ren, I should say. Take me home to my bigot mom before she traces my phone’s location and screams half this club out of its neon crop tops.

Yes, Ren, I should say. Because I’m smart, and that’s the smart answer.

Only tonight, I don’t want to be smart. I want to be rid of this dried spider’s husk Ferris has left in my chest. I want to channel the power of our Lord and Savior Celine Dion.

Can beauty come out of ashes?

Yeah, Celine. Damn straight it can.

I take Ren’s hand and pull him onto the dance floor. “That’s my girl,” he says.

At first, we’re like the cows in that old movie Twister. This vortex of music bumps us into trucks and barns and sweaty man bodies. Then Ren and I are laughing and by some magic we’re the ones moving everything—feeling the song between our fingers, bumping it off our hips.

We are not Ren and Colin anymore. We are the old Chinese ladies who do tai chi in the park every morning. We are Gohan turning Super Saiyan when the dust settles. We are Mario, high on Flashing Star—no one here can touch us.

We are mighty. Indestructible. We are dazzling.

Ren presses his forehead against mine. “I’m so happy you came out tonight.” And I’m about to say “So am I,” except Ren is looking past me now.

At first, Papa DILF just hovers around us, looking from Ren to me. Like he can’t figure out what we are—to each other, mostly. Then Ren smiles back, and Papa DILF takes this as some kind of permission to slide in between us.

He dances like a dad, I want to whisper to Ren.

But they’re both so into each other they forget all about me. I shrug, mostly to give myself something to do. And then I feel pathetic just standing there, so I squeeze past the other bodies and head for the bar. “Ashes” is over, anyway.

“Having fun?” someone asks when I grab the stool next to him. Wait. Is a cute guy talking to me? I chew on my bottom lip, the way Ren does when he talks all flirty to Plopping Dave. Then I see who it is.

“Oh,” I hear myself blurt. “You’re in my class.”

I almost don’t recognize Blair without his Brandon’s blazer and tie. Not that he looks any different sitting here. Formal wear seems to be his default. Like always, Blair Prince is the yearbook picture of Black Goth chic meets Ruth Bader Ginsburg, with frostbite-blue lips and cat-eye glasses. He’s even wearing a collar ruffle, which he’s fidgeting with now.

“So,” I start, “did you also break the law to get in?”

Blair takes a sip from his drink, so poisonously green it must’ve been ladled from a cauldron. “My cousin is friends with the bouncer.”

“You mean Mr. Barrel Chest?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

Blair takes another sip. He doesn’t ask me how I got in.

Of course he doesn’t. In all the years we’ve gone to St. Brandon’s, Blair’s never said a peep to me, even though we’ve taken all the same classes. Even though I usually sit two or three seats behind him.

Gay solidarity, sister?

Okay.

Blair fidgets with his collar again and I notice a tattoo on his wrist. A crimson upside-down heart with an arrowhead aimed at the sky.

I grin. “Sailor Mars.”

“Who?”

I point to his tattoo. “Sailor Mars. You know”—I press my hands together and mime shooting liquid flame out of a water pistol—“Mars Fire, Soul! Pshoo pshoo.”

“Actually,” Blair says, “it’s the mark of Ares. The god of war? And of—”

“Agriculture,” I finish, a little rudely. “Yeah, I took Classics, too.” Then, even though no one has asked, “I got an A.”

Blair tugs at his collar again. He got an A+, and we both know it. “Sorry,” he begins. “What’s your name? Colin, right?”

“Colin Ong.”

He cups an ear. “Dong?”

What. I take a deep breath and tell myself Blair probably didn’t mean anything by it. Only I don’t care. I’ve heard it three thousand times before, ever since Coach Krevz mispronounced my last name during roll call in gym, freshman year.

Ong, which sounds like Dong, which means my name is two degrees away from an overused Asian penis joke.

“Uh, no,” I reply. “Not that.”

Blair seems to realize what he’s said. “Oh, wait. No, that came out wrong.”

“Forget it.”

“I couldn’t hear—the music.” He’s frazzled, his fingers playing tug-of-war with his collar. “Although Dong is a common Vietnamese name…” He changes the subject. “Hey, isn’t that your friend?” I follow Blair’s pointing finger to where Ren is still dancing.

Next to Papa DILF, Ren looks small. Like David rubbing up against Goliath, Ferris would tease.

Ferris.

His voice slips into my head so clearly it makes me want to cry. No, the reasonable part of my brain says, Ferris doesn’t want me. Not anymore. Maybe he never did. But at least I have Ren. Except right now he looks perfect and a part of all this and I hate myself because why can’t I be happy for him?

Blair fidgets in his stool, like he’s catching my bad vibes. “Are you okay?”

“Better than okay,” I lie. Then I fold up the edges of my Sad Boy Thoughts and head for the door. “See you in class.”

“See you,” I hear Blair mumble.

When Ren waves at me, I wave my phone back. I should go. He mouths, You sure? Then Papa DILF wraps his arms around Ren’s waist, and I wonder how nice must it feel, to have someone want you that badly they won’t let you leave?

Or maybe it’s creepy. Maybe it’s both?

Ren breaks away from him. “Where are you going?” he asks, grabbing my wrist. He tries to pull me back onto the dance floor. “Come on.”

“I’m so tired.” I emphasize my point by giving the world’s greatest yawn. “You stay. I’m going home.”

Ren pouts. “But what about your mom?”

“Don’t worry about her. I’ve got a plan.”

Which I don’t. Mom closes the restaurant on Friday nights, meaning I’ve got an hour before she gets home to wash off. But say she already knows I lied about staying in? Say she already knows where I am?

Here’s my plan: I’m fucked.

“I’ll be fine, Ren. Just promise me two things. One.” I gesticulate to Papa DILF, who is dancing to Robyn on his own. “Do not leave with that guy.”

“Well, duh,” Ren starts, but I talk over him.

“And two, text me when you get home. Okay?”

But when I reach the big steel doors, I feel a hand on my shoulder, five fingertips clawed like a crouching spider. It’s this thing Ren and I do, our sign to each other since seventh grade, stronger than any pinky promise.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him again. “I know my way home. Stay. Have fun.”

Before I can say anything else—protest or laugh, because the spider-hand thing is so stupid—Ren says, “I’d rather talk about anime.” And he skips out the door.

It’s a little past midnight when we arrive in Markville. It’s the suburbs, so almost everyone is asleep. The 53 bus route drops passengers off at Birchmount and Steeles, ten blocks away from my house, eleven blocks away from Ren’s. We don’t mind walking the rest of the way. We pass the Esso gas station. The plaza with Green Grotto, open twenty-four hours, littered with sleepy-eyed undergrads hunched over their MacBooks, clicking through lecture notes.

“Know what I love most about Sailor Moon?” Ren suddenly asks, hugging his bare arms. Even though it’s late spring, this is not crop-top weather. “The show feels so soft.”

I grin, then respectfully tell Ren he is wrong, just to get a rise out of him. “What’s so soft about it? Sailor Moon kicks ass.”

“But she never hurts anyone unless she needs to. Even then she uses healing-based attacks first.”

I take Ren’s point. In season one, the Dark Kingdom turns the citizens of Tokyo into youma, and Usagi uses Moon Healing Escalation to lift the curse.

“That’s why she’s the champion of love and justice,” Ren con- tinues. “She’s not like the Avengers or the Justice League. Sailor Moon doesn’t have throw-downs with monsters. She makes humans out of them.”

I roll my eyes. I keep on listening, though, because whenever Ren gets hyped up about something, it builds and buzzes inside him like kinetic energy. Then it touches you and sparks.

He asks, “What’s your favorite attack?”

“Love and Beauty Shock.” That’s when Sailor Venus blows a giant heart-kiss at her enemies.

Because shouldn’t love feel like that?

Bright and spinning, strong enough to break through walls?

We walk past the hot pot place where, last week, someone tossed a brick through its window. By now, it’s all patched up, but the restaurant still looks sad. Or maybe that’s just me. Because I cut our night short. Because I forced Ren to leave the club.

Ren says it’s all right. He says talking about dancing with hot guys is as much fun as actually dancing with them. An obvious lie. Ever since we left the club, Ren has been humming “Ashes” whenever things get too quiet. Like one of those wind-up music boxes you buy at the Disney Store. He wants to replay the magic.

“All those guys were into you,” I say, because I think Ren needs to hear it.

“They were not.”

“They were, like, looking.” I bump my shoulder into his. “Just watch. Those artsy boys at MCAD will eat you up, too.” Maritime College of Art and Design, only fifteen minutes away from my dream school, King’s U. Ren and I are already looking into off-campus housing so we can live together.

“No one was looking at me.” Ren pulls the neckline of his shirt so far up I can see only the top half of his face, blushing. “And before I forget: Thanks for leaving me alone with Papa DILF. He was probably a serial killer.”

Ren has good reason to be upset, but I know he isn’t. By the time I can see St. Brandon’s in the distance—a towering slab of concrete peeking over the trees like a tombstone—he says dreamily, “It was fun …”

I don’t think Ren is really talking to me. I think he’s reopen- ing that small music box in his head where he keeps everything safe. Those shiny things. Those moments.

Lingering looks by cute boys. The smiles. The confession that, one day, a lover in college will write for him.

Whenever I see Ren get like this, it’s hard not to feel a lit- tle sad. Because when will I get a shiny thing, too? Just a piece of it.

“Eleven eleven,” Ren says, pocketing his phone.

We’ve reached school grounds. To get home, we should cut across the soccer field and keep going straight until we hit my street, then his.

We don’t move. We just stand there, looking up. Ren takes one of my hands so we can keep our palms warm.

There are more stars here than in the city. Not enough stars, and none as bright as we need them. That’s why we squint until the passing airplane lights above us blink back like a white dwarf. We make stars so we can make wishes.

I wish for my first kiss. I wish to be kissed. I wish for this person to have a six-pack, and for him to let me run my finger along each bump. I wish for Ferris to ask me to prom (and after that I wish for the abs again).

Mostly, I wish for a shiny thing. One I can slip into my pocket before high school ends. I wish for this last thing so hard it feels like there’s nothing else inside me. Nothing but this wish.

Stupid, airy, weightless thing.

Then I stop wishing. Because someone is following us.