by Greg Howard
“Mikey?” Lyla says. She waves the business card she just corrected back and forth so it can dry, I guess. This is going to take forever.
“What?” I ask, annoyed.
I’m not sure if I’m annoyed at Lyla or at the intern on the phone or at my jacked-up business cards. It’s just kind of a natural response whenever Lyla speaks. It’s like how Dad says Grandma Sharon’s voice sounds on the phone: like nails on a chalkboard. Whatever that means. We don’t have any chalkboards at North Charleston Middle School, just whiteboards. So I wouldn’t know.
“Are you gay?” Lyla says. Right out in the open. In real life. To her boss.
Well, that didn’t take long.
“It’s none of your business if I’m gay or not,” I say.
She glances up, all angelic eyes and rosy cheeks. “Lots of people are gay. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not ashamed of being gay,” I snap.
I don’t know why I snapped at her. What she said was actually pretty nice.
“Um . . . hello?” a female voice on the phone says. “This is Allie Rosen in booking. And I’m glad you’re not ashamed of being gay.”
My whole face heats up like there’s a bonfire on top of my head.
“Oh, hi,” I say into the phone. “This is Michael Pruitt, president, founder, and CEO of Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency in Charleston, South Carolina. And I’m calling to let Mr. Billy Shannon know that I’m willing to give him an exclusive on the television debut of the hottest new comedic sensation in the country, thirteen-year-old Brady Hill.”
I give Allie Rosen my best pitch about Brady before she can respond. I tell her how funny Brady is, how good he is in front of a crowd, how he’s the president of the entire seventh grade of North Charleston Middle School, which he won in a landslide because no one ran against him. I think it’s going pretty well. Allie even asks some questions about Brady and a couple about me, too. I only tell one small lie, when she asks how old I am and the first thing that flies out of my mouth is fifty-one. I don’t know why I lied, but it seemed like the smart thing to do at the time. I don’t think Allie would have taken me so seriously if she knew I was only twelve. Fifty-one just felt right. I’ll be thirteen next month so, you know, close enough.
“Can you send me a link to your client’s sizzle reel?” Allie asks.
“Of course,” I say confidently.
I scribble on my legal pad:
Google sizzle reel.
“What’s your email address, Miss Rosen?” I say.
She gives it to me and I write it down carefully. It’s an actual NBC email address with the letters N-B-C in it and everything. I give her my phone number because I know she’ll be needing it soon to book Brady on Later Tonight.
Lyla’s swinging leg kicks me and she doesn’t even look up or apologize or anything. Ugh.
“Well, thank you for letting us know about Brady, Mr. Pruitt. We’ll check out the sizzle reel as soon as you send the link and we’ll contact you if we’re interested. No need to follow up.”
She called me Mr. Pruitt and it sounded super-crazy professional. Maybe I should make all my clients call me Mr. Pruitt. And Lyla, too. Maybe even my board members.
“Okay, thanks, Miss Rosen,” I say. “Next time I’m in New York, lunch is on me.”
She giggles. I don’t know why I said it and I don’t know why she thought it was funny. Who knows if Allie Rosen will even still be working at Later Tonight when I make my first trip to New York. Or I guess she might be running the show by then. Like executive producer or something. I don’t even know if I’ll have enough money left in my operating budget to take anyone out to lunch. I’ll bet restaurants in New York are super-crazy expensive.
I give Allie Rosen my phone number, say goodbye, and snap the phone closed, feeling pretty proud of myself and like a real professional talent agent. Forbes trots happily in through the partly open door, wagging his tail. Pooty hisses at him. Forbes turns right around and leaves. Poor Forbes.
“Do Mom and Dad know you’re gay?” Lyla says, like that’s the most important thing in the world right now.
“Yes, they know,” I say with a sigh. She’s not going to let this go.
“So it’s true,” she says, adding one too many purple z’s on a card. “You are gay.”
I take the business card from her and drop it in the wastebasket.
“If you tell anyone, I’ll fire you again,” I say.
“You can’t,” she says. “My job is board-approved. You can’t fire me without a vote, and Mom and Dad won’t vote to fire me because I’m only nine.”
Ugh.
I open my laptop to add Allie Rosen to my contact list. “Now you’re just making up company policies. None of that is true.”
“Besides,” she says, “I already knew and I haven’t told anyone yet.”
I shoot her a glare. “Yet? And how the heck did you already know?”
Lyla looks up at me. “Sisters just know these things, Mikey.”
I don’t actually know what she means, because, you know, she’s only nine.
“Plus Dad asked you if Julian was cute the other night at dinner.” She turns her attention back to one of the business cards. “Don’t worry. I would never tell anyone if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t want you to,” I say. “Just so we’re clear. Thanks, Lyla.”
She gives me a little smile and nod and then goes back to her work. And for some crazy reason I have the urge to hug her tight like I used to when she was younger. Sometimes little sisters can surprise you.
Lyla hangs her head, going all quiet on a dime, which isn’t like her at all.
“What’s wrong, Lyla?” I say.
She looks up at me, her eyes heavy and sad. “I missed seeing Pap Pruitt yesterday.”
I take a deep breath, trying to keep my older brother cool in check. “Me too. But Dad said Pap was too sick for our regular Sunday visit.”
“I know,” Lyla says, pushing her hair out of her eyes. I think she might have done it so she could brush a couple tears away, too.
We’re both quiet for a moment. It’s awkward. I don’t want to talk about this, and I hope Lyla will just drop it and go back to being a pain in the butt. That I can deal with.
“Is Pap going to die, Mikey?” she asks.
Well, I guess we’re talking about it.
I swallow hard and take her hand because that seems like the good older brother thing to do. “I don’t know.”
Mom’s voice crackles through on the intercom. “Michael?”
I push the Talk button. “Yes, Mom?”
“Um . . . your friends are here,” she says.
My friends? I don’t remember inviting Trey and Dinesh over today.
Lyla reaches over and pushes the Talk button. “That’s impossible, Mom. Mikey doesn’t have any friends.”
And we’re back.
“Oh my God,” I say, about to lose it. “Why do you keep saying that?”
And then I remember. It’s not Trey and Dinesh. I flip open my phone and check the time. “They’re early.”
I say into the intercom, “I’m coming,” and hop out of my seat.
“Who’s early?” Lyla says, following me out the door, through the carport, and into the house, Pooty draped lazily over her shoulder. “Who’s early?”
When I open the kitchen door, I find Julian and Colton standing there chatting with Mom like that’s a normal thing to do. Lyla lets Pooty down and goes over to a pile of mail on the table. It’s one of her duties to look through it to see if there’s any for the company. We haven’t received official mail yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
“Well, I can’t wait to see you perform, Coco,” Mom says.
“You can call me Julian when I’m in my boy clothes,” he
says, smiling real big. “Coco Caliente is just my drag persona.”
And OMG! They’re talking about this right here in our kitchen.
Lyla holds up a square bright yellow envelope. “Mom! This has my name on it.”
“I see that,” Mom says. “Go ahead and open it.”
Lyla about rips the thing to bits. Julian and Colton giggle at her like she’s the cutest little kid they’ve ever seen. Ugh.
“Oh, look,” Mom says, peering over Lyla’s shoulder. “It’s an invitation to Chandler Martin’s birthday party.”
“Gross,” Lyla says, dropping the tattered invitation on the table and picking up Pooty. “Boy birthday parties are the worst—all superheroes, video games, and fart jokes.” She huffs off into the den.
I snatch up the invitation and slip it into my pocket because my junior talent coordinator just gave me an awesome idea.
“Julian is super-crazy good, Mom,” I say, trying to sound calm and professional. But Colton is smiling at me and, well, you know. Stomach. Blender. On High.
Colton nods. “He’s way better than some of those contestants on RuPaul’s Drag Race and he’s only thirteen.”
Julian grins from ear to ear. Talented people like to hear a lot of compliments.
“Well, now I really can’t wait to see you perform,” Mom says. Like she didn’t actually mean it the first time.
She puts a hand on Julian’s shoulder and winks at him. “I just hope Coco has an easier time in heels than I do.”
Mom laughs too loud, like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever said in her entire life. It’s not, but it makes Julian and Colton chuckle.
Michael Pruitt Business Tip #362: Always have a proper waiting area for your guests with comfy chairs, a water cooler, magazines, and a NO PARENTS ALLOWED sign.
I move to guide Julian and Colton out of the kitchen.
“Okay, Mom,” I say. “We’ve got research to do. Please hold my calls.”
I don’t know why I said that last thing, since I have my phone in my pocket, but it sounded cool and professional to say in front of Colton. He grins at me. So, you know, totally worth it.
15
THE RESEARCH
“I know what a death drop is, Michael,” Julian says. “But my body won’t bend like that.”
I can’t believe I only met Julian one week ago in my office and now he, Colton, and I are lying on our stomachs on my bed watching videos on my laptop. Sandwiched between them, I keep hitting Repeat on one of the gazillion videos we found on YouTube of drag queens doing death drops. Sometimes they call them a shablam. The one we’re watching is from RuPaul’s Drag Race and it shows a queen walking into the workroom for the first time and then all of a sudden dropping all the way to the floor on her back with one knee bent under her. Talk about pizzazz!
After the clip plays again, I look over at Colton. “What do you think?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Mikey. I mean, I know I said we need, like, a more spectacular end to Coco’s routine, but death drops look kind of dangerous.”
“See,” Julian exclaims, rolling over on his back. Forbes jumps up on the bed and goes to town licking Julian’s face.
Colton points to the bottom of the laptop screen. “Look. Somebody even wrote Do not try this at home in the comments.”
Colton turns over on his back, too. Forbes walks right across Julian’s stomach to give Colton the same licky-face spa treatment he just gave Julian. Colton giggles, scratching Forbes behind his ears. I think it’s cool that he likes dogs as much as I do. Especially Forbes. When I roll over on my back, Forbes lands on my lap with a heavy plop. We all stare up at the ceiling a minute before I break the silence.
“Why don’t you think you can do it, Julian?” I ask. “Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem, can do anything, right?”
Julian sighs. “I know. Coco is, like, amazing and all that, but . . .”
I look over at him. All the Coco Caliente confidence he normally has is gone from his eyes.
I give Forbes a scratch on the head. “But what?”
Julian turns his head in my direction. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Michael, but I’m not one of those skinny queens in those videos.”
“So?” I say.
Julian gives me a dramatic eye roll. “So? I’m a plus-size queen. You know, a big girl?” He sighs when I don’t respond. “I’m fat, Michael.”
His eyes go dark. He looks hurt. Like I called him fat. But I honestly didn’t mean to make him feel bad. When he’s all dressed up as Miss Coco Caliente, he doesn’t seem to care that he’s a big dude in a dress.
“Sorry,” I say. “You always seem so cool being who you are at school. And you ignore Tommy Jenrette and his jerk friends when they call you names in the cafeteria.”
Julian stares at me. “Just because I ignore them doesn’t mean I don’t hear them. And it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt. I act like they don’t bother me so they’ll get bored and stop. It’s exhausting.”
“Oh,” I say. Lame. “How do you even do that? Ignore them and act like it doesn’t hurt?”
Julian shrugs. “Like Lady Gaga says, Don’t be a drag, just be a queen.”
And somehow, I get that. Julian is brave—like a heck of a lot braver than I am. Because he chooses to be brave. He chooses to be a queen.
“You’re not fat,” Colton says softly. “You’re . . . well rounded.”
There’s a slight pause before we all start cracking up big-time—even Julian, his eyes sparking back to life.
“Girl,” Julian exclaims, kind of loud and snort-laughing. “Miss Coco gonna roll over on you and crush your skinny butt flat as a fritter.”
Colton looks over at me, flashing all his shiny white teeth. “Miss Coco gonna squash me like a bug.”
That makes us all laugh even more.
When I catch my breath, I say, “Miss Coco gonna go all King Kong on your butt.”
Julian and Colton stop laughing and the room is suddenly quiet. I glance back and forth between them. They both have super-crazy-serious looks on their faces.
“What?” I say, worried but not sure why. “What did I say?”
Julian props himself up on one elbow. “Michael, you don’t ever compare a gorgeous Latina queen such as Miss Coco to a hundred-thousand-pound gorilla.”
They both give me hard looks and I feel about one inch tall. Me and my big mouth. I thought we were all doing a thing—poking fun at Julian’s size. Just like sometimes Trey and I make fun of how skinny Dinesh is and he laughs as much as we do. On RuPaul’s Drag Race they call it throwing shade. But I guess I did it wrong or went too far.
Finally, like after a gazillion seconds pass, Julian’s hard-as-stone face cracks. He throws his head back and snort-laughs loudly. Colton rolls over on his side, roaring with laughter and holding his stomach. Dang, they got me good.
“You guys suck,” I say, shaking my head at them, but I can’t help but grin a little.
Julian points at me, barely able to speak. “You should’ve seen your face. OMG. Hilarious!”
He rolls off the bed, still laughing, but manages to land on his feet. “I’ve got to pee.”
I point to the door. “Down the hall.”
Forbes jumps off the bed and follows Julian out the door. For some reason Julian closes it behind him. Suddenly, lying here on my bed with the door closed, just me and Colton, feels way different than it did before with Julian and Forbes in the room. It feels like we’re doing something wrong, which is weird, because we’re not.
Colton finally stops laughing at me and we just lie there on our backs, both looking up. My ceiling looks like it has a gazillion white pimples on it, so your eyes can kind of get lost in the crazy patterns. There’s only a couple of inches between my hand and Colton’s hand, I guess, but it’s like I can feel the hea
t of his skin. My heart is pounding so loud in my chest that I’m sure Colton can hear it. It’s embarrassing.
“So why don’t you sing anymore?” I say, trying to drown out my loudmouth heart.
Colton runs a hand through his hair. It’s so thin and silky that it slips through his fingers and falls right back into place. His hair is just as cool as he is.
“It was just something I did for my mom,” Colton says. “She taught me this song called ‘True Colors.’ It was her favorite. She asked me to sing it for her all the time.”
“So where is she?”
As soon as I ask, I can tell by the way Colton’s face goes blank that I shouldn’t have. He doesn’t answer.
“Sorry,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
Colton pauses. It just might be the way the light is shining down on his face, but his eyes look as glassy as marbles.
“It’s okay,” he says, turning his head in my direction. “She’s in rehab in Summerville.”
Wow. I wasn’t expecting that and I don’t have any idea what to say next. I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend with a parent in rehab—not that I know of anyway. But I guess that’s not the kind of thing kids usually talk about at school.
“Is that why you were in the guidance counselor’s office the other day?” I say, hoping it’s okay to ask.
Colton nods. “Miss Troxel is the only one at school who knows. She checks on me sometimes.”
Colton’s eyes look even glassier now. He holds the tears back, though. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I feel like I should touch his hand or hold it or something, just so he knows he’s not alone and that I care that he’s sad. So I inch my fingers closer to his—very carefully.
I’m still not even sure if Colton is gay or not. If Colton’s not gay, he might punch me for touching him. But I guess if he is gay, he might punch me, too, if he thinks I’m trying to put the moves on him—which I’m not. I mean, I’m only twelve. I don’t think I even have any moves yet.
I finally decide I’m willing to chance getting punched if I can make Colton feel better about his mom being in rehab by holding his hand. Or at least just touching it. But it’s taking, like, forever for my fingers to cross the two-inch ocean of comforter between us. My comforter has an underwater scene with fish and sharks and dolphins and stuff printed on it, so it’s like my fingers are swimming over to Colton Island. My fingers have almost made it, too. I can feel the heat of the Colton Island shoreline. But when I reach across that last little bit for it, a sharp snap of static electricity zaps our point of contact. Colton yanks his hand away, but I don’t know if it’s because of the electric shock or because I freaked him out by trying to touch him.