by Greg Howard
I don’t know how Julian does all that dancing, shaking, and twirling in those heels without busting his butt. The routine goes by in a blur. I don’t even know if I’m any good or not. I’m more concerned about how short my dress is. I’ve watched Lyla and Gabby do the steps so much that I’m dancing on autopilot. I think my dress flies up once and I wonder what kind of underwear I have on, because I can’t remember putting any on this morning. But I’m sure I did. I hope they were the blue briefs and not the white ones. Mom says white can be so unforgiving.
I know Colton matches me step for step, but I can’t see much of him. I only see Julian. Or I should say—Coco. Because she’s dancing and lip-synching her pizzazz off in front of us. The audience is so dark I wonder for a second if they’re even still there. They could have all up and walked out right after we started and I wouldn’t even know. And I can’t hear anything other than the thumping dance mix behind Miss Lady Gaga belting out “Born This Way.” She’s actually a great singer. I wonder if she needs an agent.
But I can’t think about new clients right now. I just can’t wait for the song to be over and I’m praying that Coco nails her finale. I know it’s coming—the end, that is. It feels like a runaway freight train heading straight for us. The end of this song. The end of my life as a not-gay kid at North Charleston Middle School. The end of Julian’s life altogether if Coco screws up the shablam. The end of Julian’s drag-kid career if his dad hates the performance.
I shake my hips because that’s what I’m supposed to be doing at this part of the dance. I never knew I had hips that would shake, but I guess I do. Maybe I’m better at this being-gay thing than I thought. But I don’t think being gay is just about shaking your hips, loving Beyoncé, and calling other gay guys girl. It just now clicks in my head that both Pap Pruitt and Julian Vasquez gave me the exact same advice. Be yourself. Maybe I was a good gay all along just by being Michael Pruitt. Weird.
And here it comes. The end of the song in—
Five.
Coco moves into position. My heart pounds in my chest like it’s trying to get out of her way.
Four.
Colton and I dance a few steps back to give her plenty of room.
Three.
I spot Lyla and Gabby dancing in their seats.
Two.
Mrs. Vasquez covers her eyes. Actually Trey and Dinesh do, too. Mom and Dad are hunched forward in their seats. Lyla must have told them all what’s coming.
One.
Julian yanks his wig off and hurls it up to Jesus. And then it just happens. Julian lands hard on the stage floor with his left leg bent under him, lying flat on his back with his arms splayed out. The music stops. Colton and I freeze on our last pose—one knee bent, one hand on a hip and the other raised straight up in the air. Julian could be dead for all we know because he’s not moving. And for a couple of seconds that seems like forever, there is complete silence in the auditorium. Then the most wicked-cool thing ever happens. Just about everyone in the audience bolts up out of their seat all at once—clapping, cheering, whooping, foot-stomping, and whistling. The auditorium erupts with noise—a super-crazy-good kind of noise.
I look out at the faces in the audience. I can’t be sure, but it looks like Mrs. Vasquez and Abuela are crying. Mom and Dad are cupping their mouths and yelling my name like crazy people. Gabby is screaming out her brother’s name. Lyla is standing in her seat, clapping so hard she looks like she’s going to topple over. Trey and Dinesh pound their fists into the air. Charvi and Sadie stand by the wall jumping up and down and clapping. Fifi barks at the wall. And the craziest thing of all is that I spot Tommy Jenrette in the back row, standing and clapping and not yelling insults at us. Just clapping. He’s too far away for me to be sure, but I’m almost positive there’s a smile on his face.
Julian sits up on the stage floor, looking a little startled by the crowd’s response. Colton helps him to his feet, because getting off the floor in heels and a dress after you just landed a death drop isn’t easy. Finally Julian is on his feet. He straightens his dress and reaches down to pick up his wig. Then he bows to another surging thunderclap of applause. I can tell he’s looking over to the side to see where his dad is and what his reaction is, but I don’t see Mr. Vasquez anywhere. Julian looks back into the audience and just smiles real big with his Coco Caliente face, waving to the crowd like the amazing queen he is.
Colton takes my hand in his and—OMG!—I’m holding hands with a boy. Onstage. In a dress. In front of the entire student body of North Charleston Middle School. I’m sure I’ll freak out and vomit all over the stage any second now. But the most amazing thing happens. I don’t freak out. I don’t vomit. I just stand there holding Colton’s hand like it’s no big deal. I’m not embarrassed at all. Not even a little bit. And I guess my gaydar finally kicks in, because I’m pretty sure now that Colton Sanford really like-likes me. That makes me smile bigger than I think I’ve ever smiled in my entire life.
Julian walks to the side of the stage, waving the entire time like a Miss Drag America contestant as the curtain begins to close. Colton pulls on my hand, leading me in the same direction. The applause, hollering, and whistling follows us all the way to the backstage area.
When we reach Mr. Arnold, I brace for a what-was-all-that-foolishness and an I-told-you-not-to-try-me lecture. But he doesn’t say anything like that. He stands there, towering over us like a giant beanstalk with a hand covering his mouth. He doesn’t even look mad at all. There’s actually a tear running down his cheek. Weird.
“Vasquez,” Mr. Arnold says, clearing his throat and batting away the tear with the back of his hand. “That was . . . you were . . .” He sighs real big, shaking his head. “You are amazing.”
Mr. Arnold pulls Julian into a hug, just about knocking him off his high heels. I did not see that coming. They’re both quiet for a few seconds, just hugging each other as the noise from the audience finally dies down. Colton looks over at me with that wicked-cool smile of his and I realize that he’s still holding my hand. I also realize that I honestly don’t want him to let go.
Mr. Arnold finally looks at me and Colton, his eyes moist. “You boys were wonderful, too.”
Colton squeezes my hand. All my insides turn to goo.
“Oh no,” Mr. Arnold says, looking panicked.
“What is it, Mr. Arnold?” Julian asks.
“The emcee that canceled was supposed to sing a song now while the Arts Boosters judges choose a winner,” he says. “They need a few minutes to deliberate.”
The idea comes to me in no time flat, which is why I’m so good at this talent-agent thing.
I look over at Colton and stare into his eyes. And it’s like he can read my mind, because after a couple of seconds, he smile-nods.
“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Arnold,” I say, standing up a little straighter because that seems like the professional thing to do.
Mr. Arnold glances down, noticing that me and Colton are holding hands, but he doesn’t say anything. “Okay, Pruitt. You steered me right with Hill as the emcee, so I’ll trust you once again. Don’t let me down and do not—”
“—try me,” Colton, Julian, and I all say.
Mr. Arnold smiles and then hurries to the other side of the stage.
I look at Colton and squeeze his hand. “You ready?”
He gives me one of those wicked-cool smiles of his. “Ready.”
I finally let go of his hand, even though I don’t want to. I walk over to the center of the stage, leaning into the heavy blue curtain.
“Brady.”
He stops in the middle of his joke about atoms and sticks his head through the split in the curtains. His cheeks are flushed and his bushy hair looks wilder than usual.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s supposed to happen next? I’m dying out here.”
“No, you’re not,” I say, givi
ng him a thumbs-up. “You’re doing great.”
I give him his orders—I mean instructions—and he nods that he understands. Colton joins me center stage behind the curtain.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Brady says. “We have a special treat for you while our judges make their final decision.”
I look over and wink at Colton. I have never winked at anyone in my life and I feel like a total goober doing it. I know if Trey and Dinesh saw me I’d never hear the end of it. But Colton just winks back as I leave him and walk offstage.
“Singing ‘True Colors,’” Brady says, “specially dedicated to his mom, who is here today, is Colton Sanford!”
The curtain opens to polite applause and the crowd quickly falls quiet. Brady hands Colton the microphone as he walks to the side. Julian and I stand on the edge of the stage just behind the curtain watching Colton. At first, nothing happens. Colton just stands peering out into the auditorium, his eyes searching the half-lit crowd. I know he’s looking for his mom. I guess he finds her because a smile finally spreads across his face and his shoulders relax as he holds the microphone up to his mouth.
There’s no music for Miss Troxel to play. Nobody plays a guitar or a piano or anything. There’s only Colton’s small but steady voice pouring out of the speakers and filling the auditorium. That’s called a cappella. And Colton sounds amazing. His voice is high and clear, like a real-live angel. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a voice so beautiful. Not even Lady Gaga or Mrs. Beyoncé Knowles-Carter. It’s one of those sad/not sad songs that he sings. It talks about being discouraged and afraid. And Colton sings his heart out for his mom:
But I see your true colors,
Shining through
I see your true colors,
And that’s why I love you
I peek around the curtain and spot my mom with her head resting on Dad’s shoulder. Shiny tears reflecting the stage lights streak her face. Trey and Dinesh sit staring up at Colton with their mouths hanging open. Lyla is smiling. Colton’s mom and grandma stand near the back of the auditorium with their arms around each other’s waists. They’re too far away for me to see their faces, but I bet they’re crying, too. How could they not be? The song ends way too soon for me. I could listen to Colton sing all day. And I wouldn’t even want to make any commission off his performance or anything.
The only thing missing in this perfect and beautiful moment is Pap.
29
THE WINNER
Nobody stands up for Colton when the song is over like they did for Julian. But they do clap like crazy for a gazillion minutes. I clap, too—so hard I think I might break my hands.
Beside me, Julian cups his mouth with his hands and yells Colton’s name right in my ear. There’s a couple of whoop-whoops from the audience. I’ll bet that was Trey and Dinesh. The curtains don’t close, so Colton walks offstage and over to us as the applause dies down. I want to say something to him, tell him how incredible that was, but I can’t get any normal human words out. I just nod my head, smiling. He smiles back at me like he understands.
Mr. Arnold walks out onto the stage, taking the microphone from Brady. “Thank you, Hill,” he says. “How about a big round of applause for Brady Hill, everyone.”
The crowd goes crazy clapping and hollering. Brady takes a long bow before leaving the stage. He was amazing, even though he didn’t get paid for the gig. It’s okay, though. It was great practice for him for Later Tonight with Billy Shannon.
Mr. Arnold holds up an envelope to show the crowd. “I have the final results, everyone. And please help me thank the Arts Boosters for donating our one-hundred-dollar cash prize this year.”
People clap, but not like they did for Colton or Julian or even Sadie and Fifi. Colton grabs Julian’s hand and Julian grabs mine. Holding Julian’s hand doesn’t feel the same as holding Colton’s and it doesn’t give me blender-stomach, but it feels nice.
“Can I have all the contestants back on the stage, please?” Mr. Arnold says, waving us all out.
Everyone files onto the stage, forming a messy line. Colton and I stay behind, giving Julian this moment all to himself. We’re only backup dancers, after all. Coco Caliente is the star. Julian has transformed back into full-on Miss Coco mode, with his wig in place, his head held high, and striking a confident hand-on-hip pose. The audience settles quietly, waiting for the big moment.
Mr. Arnold opens the envelope, pulling out a white card. “Our second runner-up today is . . .”
He looks out at the audience and then back at the row of contestants.
“Chad Charles,” Mr. Arnold says into the mic.
The audience claps and yells and whoops for Chad and his wicked hip-hop dance moves. All the contestants clap, too, because that’s the professional thing to do. Chad steps forward as Miss Troxel appears onstage to hand him a small gold trophy.
“Congratulations, Charles,” Mr. Arnold says. “And now, the first runner-up is . . .”
He looks at the audience, then back at the contestants.
I think Mr. Arnold loves having this much control of the room.
“Taylor Hope,” Mr. Arnold says.
Some girls in the front row squeal. They must be Taylor’s friends. Everyone else claps super loud as if to say that they agree with the judges’ decision. Taylor was by far the best singer in the competition. Miss Troxel gives Taylor a slightly bigger gold trophy than the one she gave Chad.
“Well done, Hope,” Mr. Arnold says. “Very well done, indeed.”
Colton looks over at me, worry creasing his eyebrows. I’ll bet he’s thinking what I’m thinking. Either Julian or Sadie and Fifi won, or else neither of them even made the top three. It wasn’t Sadie and Fifi’s best performance, but the Arts Boosters of North Charleston Middle School just might not be ready for a drag kid either—even though I’m pretty sure the rest of the world is judging by the crowd’s reaction to Julian’s performance. Now I’m getting worried, too.
I peek around the curtain into the audience. Mrs. Vasquez and Abuela have their eyes closed. Lyla and Gabby hold hands, eyes closed, too. As if closing your eyes will make bad news not so bad. Colton takes my hand and squeezes it. I squeeze his back. It feels like the most normal thing ever.
Mr. Arnold flips the card over. “And the winner of the North Charleston Middle School end-of-year talent contest, who will receive a one-hundred-dollar cash prize . . .”
He looks at the audience. Then back at the contestants. He would probably go to commercial if this were a live television show.
Mr. Arnold looks back at the card like he already forgot the name of the winner. Then a big smile crosses his face. “Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem!”
I can’t feel my face. Or my feet. Or my hand, which Colton is squeezing the life out of. I look over at Julian. His hand covers his mouth. His eyes are full of tears and mascara runs dark down his cheeks. All of North Charleston Middle School is on their feet clapping and cheering for him. He’s being swarmed by the other contestants. Miss Troxel can barely get to him to give him the huge trophy. Mr. Arnold pushes his way through to give Julian an oversize check printed on cardboard. I hope the bank will cash that thing, because I need my commission.
“Would you like to say anything, Caliente?” Mr. Arnold says, quieting the crowd with outstretched arms. He hands the microphone to a trembling Julian.
Julian’s voice is shaky at first. “Thank you.” Then it gets a little stronger. “I want to thank the Arts Boosters. And my abuela. And my mom.” He looks around the auditorium, but his gaze never lands anywhere in particular. “And my dad, too. He doesn’t understand all this . . .”
Julian chuckles, running a free hand up and down in front of him, from his wig to his heels. Most everyone in the audience laughs along with him. Colton and I sure do.
“But he’s still my dad,” Julian says. “I’m still
his son. I’m still the same Julian he taught to swim and ride a bike and to play tennis and to make churros. And I just want him to be proud of me.”
I peer around the curtain again. I hope Mr. Vasquez is out there somewhere and that he didn’t get mad and leave already.
“But I need to thank the person who took a chance on me,” Julian says, looking down. “The person who believed in me. Who guided me and gave me great advice. And who reminded me that I can do anything. And that I matter.”
Julian looks over at me. “My agent, Michael Pruitt of the Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency.”
Colton slaps me on the back as another lump forms in my throat. And then a super-crazy-weird thing happens. People in the audience start clapping. Because of what Julian said about me.
“Come on out here, Michael,” Julian says, waving me to center stage.
Colton pushes me and I kind of stumble toward the center of the stage until I meet Coco in the middle. And more people clap even harder—for me.
Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, and CEO of Anything, Inc.
Trey and Dinesh are on their feet going crazy. Mom and Dad, Mrs. Vasquez, Abuela, Gabby, and even Lyla are all standing up and clapping, too. Sadie, Stuart, Brady, and Charvi all yell my name. Fifi barks at the ceiling. And the weirdest thing is, I spot Tommy Jenrette in the back row—standing and clapping. He even nudges Trace and Colby, making them stand up, too, even though they look like they really don’t want to, but they clap politely.
Julian looks over at me. “Thanks, dude.”
He hugs me tight. But he doesn’t hug me like a client hugs their agent. He hugs me like a real friend would and that feels good. I almost forget that I didn’t change after the performance, but now I remember that I’m standing out here in front of all of North Charleston Middle School in a dress, a wig, and wearing makeup—again. But I realize something wicked cool. I don’t care. Not even when Julian grabs my hand and holds it up between us like I just won a boxing match.