Middle School's a Drag, You Better Werk!

by Greg Howard

  ALSO BY

  GREG HOWARD

  The Whispers

  Social Intercourse

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  AN IMPRINT OF PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE LLC, New York

  Copyright © 2020 by Greg Howard

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  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Howard, Greg (Gregory Steven), author.

  Title: Middle school’s a drag: you better werk! / Greg Howard.

  Other titles: Middle school is a drag: you better werk!

  Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2020. | Summary: In Charleston,

  South Carolina, a young business entrepreneur, newly out as gay, starts his own

  junior talent agency and signs a thirteen-year-old aspiring drag queen as his first client.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019039242 (print) | LCCN 2019039243 (ebook) |

  ISBN 9780525517528 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780525517535 (ebook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Entrepreneurship—Fiction. | Business enterprises—Fiction. |

  Talent scouts—Fiction. | Female impersonators—Fiction. | Gays—Fiction. |

  Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.H6877 Mi 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.H6877 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019039242

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019039243

  Ebook ISBN 9780525517535

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people,

  or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events

  are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual

  events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Jacket art © 2020 by Michael DiMotta

  Jacket design by Lindsey Andrews

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  For Michelle, Hal, and Tom

  CONTENTS

  Also by Greg Howard

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1: The Office

  2: The Walk-In

  3: The Gazillion-Dollar Idea

  4: The Family Interrogation

  5: The Worst Gay Ever

  6: The Wicked-Cool Smile

  7: The Problem Employee

  8: The Audition

  9: The It Factor

  10: The Board Meeting

  11: The Diva Tamer

  12: The Open Call

  13: The New Clients

  14: The Very Important Call

  15: The Research

  16: The Emergency Client Meeting

  17: The Free Sample

  18: The Sizzle Reel Smackdown

  19: The Middle School Justice System

  20: The Murdery Detention

  21: The Traitor

  22: The Epic Disaster

  23: The Tryouts

  24: The Shablam

  25: The Wicked-Cool Mask

  26: The Very Unprofessional Rehearsal

  27: The North Charleston Middle School End-Of-Year Talent Contest

  28: The Performance

  29: The Winner

  30: The Big Time

  Resources

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  BE YOURSELF, ALWAYS.

  —DESMOND IS AMAZING

  1

  THE OFFICE

  I sit behind the huge oak desk in my office at the world headquarters of Anything, Incorporated, organizing my homework like I do every Sunday afternoon. I spend a lot of weekends in the office. If I didn’t, I’d never get anything done. I think CEOs of big-time companies like mine shouldn’t be required to attend middle school. It seriously gets in the way of doing important business stuff.

  I’ve created an Excel spreadsheet on my laptop and sorted my assignments into three columns:

  Teacher Will Check

  Teacher Won’t Check

  Teacher Will Collect but Won’t Check

  Normally I’d have my assistant handle this kind of thing, but she quit last week. It’s okay, though, because she was a climber. More interested in having a fancy title than doing a good job for the company. She started as an intern about a month ago, recommended by one of our board members. She was terrible even back then. I could never find a stapler when I needed one, and my printer was always out of paper. I thought if I gave her a real title and some responsibility by promoting her to assistant to the president, she’d step up her game. But she didn’t. All she wanted to do was criticize me. Her boss! That’s not how it works in the corporate world.

  I open my “Brilliant Business Tips” Excel spreadsheet, scroll down to the next empty cell, and type:

  Michael Pruitt Business Tip #347: There’s only one way to the top. Keep your head down, apply yourself, and do your time.

  It sure would be nice to have someone handle all this busywork now that my assistant bailed on me. I’d much rather be spending my time doing real boss stuff, like planning my next exciting business venture. Retail wasn’t the right fit for me. Neither was professional sports instruction. But I have a million other ideas. Those are just two recent ones that didn’t work out.

  Pap Pruitt always says, If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

  I’ve had my share of failures, but I never give up. I know I’ll have a successful business empire one day just like my hero, Pap Pruitt. Technically Pap is my grandfather. He taught me everything I know about business.

  My desk first belonged to Pap when he started his real estate business at seventeen years old. When Pap moved into the nursing home, Dad didn’t need it for his landscaping business, so he lets me use it. It’s a real boss-looking desk and I always feel real important sitting at it. I also feel close to Pap when I’m at my desk. He’s been in the nursing home for a while now, and I don’t get to see him as much. Plus he’s sick a lot, so Dad doesn’t always let me go with him to visit Pap. He didn’t let me go today, which I guess is why Pap’s been on my mind.

  Pap was a super-crazy-successful entrepreneur when he was younger. He started his own general store, a dry cleaning business, two fast-food franchises, a hotel called the Old Pruitt Place, a pet-grooming business, a landscaping business, three automatic car washes, a boiled-peanut roadside stand, and a whole lot more. I asked him once how he became so successful. I remember the sparkle in his eye when he grinned a little and said, All it takes is a dream and a prayer.

  I’ve got lots of dreams. And even though I’m not the best at prayers,
the Almighty is pretty used to hearing from me when it comes to a new business idea. Pap started his business empire in his garage with only a hundred dollars, a dream, and a prayer. Pap’s blind now because of the diabetes, but he’s still a wicked-cool guy. I really want to make him proud, but he didn’t have to build his business empire and go to middle school at the same time. I guess Pap was a late bloomer.

  It’s a little embarrassing, having to do homework at your real job. I’ll bet Malcolm Forbes never had to do that and he was, like, one of the most successful business guys ever. Luckily my office is pretty private, but that doesn’t always keep the riffraff out. Sometimes it can get so noisy in here, especially when the dryer’s on its last cycle like it is now. It sounds like a space shuttle getting ready to launch. And there must be a shoe in there, because something bangs against the side every few seconds, distracting me from my work. I lean back in my executive, fake-leather desk chair and stare at Dad’s tools hanging on the wall, waiting for the banging to stop.

  The annoyingly long honk of the buzzer sounds and the pounding inside the machine finally fades away. I hit the Talk button on the intercom on my desk.

  “Mom,” I say, pretty loud so she can hear me from anywhere inside the house. And because I’m annoyed that there’s a washer and dryer in my office.

  No response.

  I hit the button again. “Mom!”

  A few seconds later, her voice crackles through the intercom speaker. “Yes, Mikey, what is it?”

  I sigh and press the Talk button. “Mom, I asked you not to call me that when I’m at work.”

  “Oh, sorry, honey. Michael, what is it? Is the dryer done?”

  We’ve talked about honey, too, but I’m too busy to get into that right now.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ll be right there.”

  Dad found the old-timey intercom system at a garage sale and hooked it up for me. It’s lime green and nearly the size of a shoe box, but at least it works. Dad thought it’d be a perfect addition to my office and an easy way for Mom to call me in for dinner. Dad gets it.

  Mom comes through the carport door—without knocking—carrying a laundry basket.

  “Mom, the sign’s out,” I say. “You’re supposed to knock when the sign’s out.”

  “It’s getting late, honey. I thought you’d be closing up shop by now.”

  She’s wearing light blue mom shorts and one of Dad’s old white button-down shirts.

  “I’m rebranding,” I say. “It takes a lot of thinking time.”

  Wait a minute. That would be a cool business idea. I could be an expert at helping businesses rebrand. Like I could go down to the Burger King on Palmetto Street and pitch them the idea of updating their brand to make it more modern and hip. The first thing they need to do is change their name to something more welcoming of all people instead of just men. Something like Burger Person or Burger Human Being would be a good choice. I open up my spiral-bound Amazing Business Ideas notebook and write that million-dollar idea down before I forget.

  Anything Modern and Hip Rebranding

  A division of Anything, Inc.

  Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, CEO, and Brand Expert

  “So how come the putt-putt lessons didn’t work out?”

  “Croquet lessons, Mom,” I say. “Not putt-putt.”

  “Oh, right,” she says. “We used to play croquet all the time when I was a kid.”

  “I know,” I say.

  Grandma Sharon gave me their old set of clubs and balls and taught me how to play last summer. None of the kids in the neighborhood had ever heard of croquet, which was perfect because it made me the local expert. I might have added a few new rules to the game to make it more interesting, but my students never knew the difference.

  Mom rests the basket of towels on her hip. A shoe sits on top. I wonder why she only washed one. It’s a perplexing mystery.

  I write down another incredible idea in my Amazing Business Ideas notebook:

  Anything Perplexing Mystery-Solving Detective Agency

  A division of Anything, Inc.

  Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, CEO, and Head Snoop

  I put a star beside that one because that’s a super-crazy-good idea.

  “Well, how many kids signed up for croquet lessons?” Mom asks.

  Before I can answer, my little sister, Lyla, appears in the doorway cradling her fat gray cat in her arms. The cat’s name is Pooty. Lyla named him that because he farts a lot. I hate that cat.

  “He had four students show up for the first lesson,” she says with all the innocence of a demon-possessed doll in a horror movie. “They each paid him a dollar, if you can believe that. But no one showed up for the second lesson. He made four dollars, but he gave them each a whole bottle of water, so he probably lost money.”

  “I haven’t run the final numbers yet,” I say, looking back at my spreadsheet, trying to ignore Lyla and her gassy cat.

  “And kids around here don’t know what croquet is anyway,” she adds like she’s some kind of marketing expert. She’s nine.

  “That was the beauty of it,” I snap back. “Nobody knew if I was teaching it wrong or not.”

  “It was a dumb idea, if you ask me,” she says.

  “You were a dumb idea,” I mumble under my breath.

  “Mikey! That’s enough,” Mom says.

  “She started it,” I say in a pouty voice that makes me sound like a little kid.

  Mom shifts the laundry basket to her other hip. “She’s only nine. Be a better example.”

  That’s Mom’s excuse for everything Lyla does. She’s only seven. She’s only eight. She’s only nine. You see where this is heading, right? It’s never going to end.

  “Sorry,” I say, even though secretly I’m not.

  Lyla smiles at me like she won or something.

  There are no trophies for being possessed by the devil, Lyla!

  “I’ll give a full report on the Sports Instruction division of the company at the next board meeting,” I say to Mom.

  She kisses me on top of the head. “Sounds good, honey.”

  I sigh. I don’t think she’s ever going to get the honey thing. And don’t even get me started on the kiss.

  Mom leaves, but Lyla still stands in the doorway. Both she and Pooty glare at me. The cat hates me as much as I hate him. He always stares at me like he’s planning to murder me. That’s why I lock my bedroom door every night before I go to bed. You just never know with cats.

  “So what’s your next big idea, Mikey?” Lyla says, stroking Pooty’s head like an old movie villain who’s trying to take over the world. I wouldn’t put it past her, even though she’s only nine.

  “It’s Michael when I’m in the office,” I say. “You know that.”

  She looks around the cramped, unfinished space with tools hanging on the walls like they’re standing guard. “You mean our carport-storage-and-laundry room?”

  I turn my back to her, attacking the keys of my laptop like I’m typing a really important email. “You didn’t mind it when you worked here.”

  I hear the door close behind me.

  Thank God. She left.

  2

  THE WALK-IN

  “My talent was being wasted.”

  Or maybe not.

  Lyla sits in the metal folding chair beside my desk; it used to be her work area. I asked for a cubicle wall to put between us for privacy, but the board denied the request. They said it wasn’t in the budget.

  “You were my assistant, but you wanted me to make you junior vice president of the company.” I shake my head at her. “Not going to happen. You’re too young and you don’t have enough business experience.”

  She swings her legs. “Your loss.”

  Poo
ty settles into a ball on her lap, staring at me like he’s going to eat me. I shake my head again and look back at the spreadsheet. My sister is three years younger than me, but she acts like we’re the same age. Or like she’s my older sister. She’s always been weird that way. Mom calls her precocious. I call her a pain in the butt.

  A three-rap knock sounds at the door.

  “Come in, Dad,” I call. Dad never forgets to knock when the sign is out.

  He hurries in and over to his wall of tools. “Sorry to bother you, Michael. Just need to grab the spatula. I’m grilling burgers.”

  Forbes, my cocker spaniel, follows Dad in, but Pooty hisses at Forbes and he retreats with a whine. Pooty’s a bully and Forbes is his favorite target. Poor Forbes. Pooty would fit right in with Tommy Jenrette and his jerk friends at school.

  Lyla looks up at Dad and plasters on the big baby smile she’s way too old to still be using. “Dad, did you know that Mikey’s latest business idea was a humongous flop?”

  Dad looks over at me. “Oh no. Is that right, Michael?”

  I look away, mumbling back, “You’ll get a full report at the next board meeting.”

  “Oh, okay, then,” he says, and I can hear the support in his voice.

  Like I said, Dad gets it. He built A to Z Landscaping from nothing to one of the busiest in southeastern North Charleston, in spite of the lame name. Time to rebrand, Dad! He even advertises in the PennySaver and the online Yellow Pages. Pap Pruitt taught him well.

  “How was Pap today?” I ask, my voice tightening around the words.

  Dad’s face sags. Not a good sign.

  “Not great,” he says, fake-smiling. “But he’s hanging in there. He asked about you. Maybe he’ll be well enough for you to visit him next Sunday.”

  A lump swells in my throat and I swallow it back. I just nod and fake-smile back at him.

  “I want to go see Pap, too, Daddy,” Lyla whines.

  Dad musses her hair. “Like I said, honey. We’ll see.”

  After the shadow of sadness fades from Dad’s face, he grabs the big metal spatula off the wall over my desk. “Dinner in twenty, okay?”