Martin McLean, Middle School Queen

by Alyssa Zaczek

  “Jeez,” I said, “how does anyone choose?”

  “I think the most important thing is that you pick a name that means something to you, right down in your bones,” he said, chewing. “You know what I mean, león?”

  I felt a spark ignite in my heart, a rush of realization.

  “What about that?” I asked. “León.”

  “Ooh,” Tío Billy said, catching on. “Yes! I like it. I think you’d need a first name, though. It has to roll off the tongue. Maybe something with a little alliteration?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Like what?”

  “Liza?” he tried. I shook my head—it wasn’t quite right. “Lola?”

  “No, but that’s close.” I drummed my fingers against the table, wracking my brain. Then: “I’ve got it!” I cried. “Lottie. Lottie León.”

  It was perfect. I liked the way it tripped about in my mouth, the long la cut off gracefully by the ti, the roundness of the ón.

  A thrill ran through me when I said the name. There it was: my drag alter ego. Lottie León was someone who could conquer the world. She wasn’t afraid of the sound of her own voice—she wasn’t afraid of anything. I didn’t know her very well yet, but I did know one thing: I wanted to follow in Lottie León’s fabulous footsteps.

  “Lottie León,” Tío Billy said, trying it on for size with a cheeky smile. “I love it. I think you’ve got your name, Miss León!” He stood up from the table to clear his plate. “Now you just need an act.”

  An act! The most important part and the part I was most afraid of. I had no idea how to perform in front of an audience. How in the world could I learn to do it in just a few months?

  “Hey, león?” Tío Billy said. He cocked his head toward the clock above the stove. “You keeping an eye on the time?”

  Shoot! Figuring out a drag queen training program would have to wait. It was time to get ready for Mathletes. I thanked Tío Billy for breakfast and ran back upstairs to get dressed. My Mathletes uniform is awful: khaki pants, a gray pullover sweater with a blue button-down beneath it, finished off with a terrible plaid tie. All tucked in neatly and nerdily. I guess it could be worse; the girls look like extras on Little House on the Prairie in their lumpy blue sweaters and plaid skirts that go down to their calves. The Mathletes community isn’t exactly a hotbed of fashion.

  Around 7, Mom roused herself and started her coffee. She doesn’t really become a person until 8, but on competition days she does her best to join the land of the living. By 7:30 we were in the car, Mom in her bathrobe and bonnet and me in my itchy sweater. Technically, we were supposed to be dropped off at school by 7:15 so Mr. Peterson could drive us as a group to tournaments on the Mathletes bus. But Mom was always running late, so rather than hold everyone else up, she usually drove me straight to the competition herself.

  “So,” she began in between yawns, “what’d you think of Miss Cassie Blanca?”

  I blinked and whirled my head toward her in surprise.

  “You knew he was taking me to a drag show?” I yelped.

  Mom gave me a dubious look. “You think I would let my little brother take my baby boy out somewhere without knowing where? Please.” She reached over and tapped my arm playfully with her fist. “So? Did you have fun?”

  “It was . . . the greatest,” I said.

  “I had a feeling you would like it,” Mom said. “You know, when Billy first started doing drag, I thought it was so strange. I knew he was gay, and I knew other queer people, too, but I had never seen anything like drag. It was so . . . flashy. I didn’t understand why he had to be so, yo no sé, so public about it all. Couldn’t he have a different hobby? Something that called a little less attention to himself?” She shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe her past self. “I was afraid for him, afraid that people wouldn’t accept him. And then, I went to one of his shows.”

  “What did you think?” Wait, does Mom even approve of drag? Tío Billy said she did, but . . . Suddenly, my chest was tight, but Mom smiled.

  “I thought it was incredible,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I saw my brother up there, looking happier than he had in a long, long time, and I realized that drag was just another form of expression, like my painting. It’s his art.”

  “It’s beautiful!” I gushed. “I can’t believe I didn’t know we had drag in Bloomington!”

  “Oh, sure. Your Tío Billy actually helped the scene take off here. You know, you remind me so much of him, when he was a kid,” Mom said.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re both smart and sensitive, with a good head on your shoulders. You even look a little like him,” she said. “You’re a lot alike. That’s one of the reasons I thought it would be good for him to stay with us for a while.”

  My stomach went sour at the thought of how I’d flipped out on Mom the night Tío Billy arrived. I bit my lip, trying to find the right words.

  “Mom?” I said. “I’m really sorry for yelling at you the other night.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said lightly, not meeting my eye.

  “Yeah. It was . . .”

  “Uncalled for?” she suggested. I nodded.

  “I thought maybe you had called Tío Billy because . . . because you thought I was like him in other ways too. And maybe you thought that if it was true, it would be . . . bad.” I heard Mom suck in a sharp burst of air, and I knew she understood what I was trying to say.

  “Mijo,” she said, “I love my brother for exactly who he is, and I love you for exactly who you are. And I will support you no matter what.” She looked over to me and squeezed my hand. “It really did just work out that Billy was going to be headed this way anyway. But I do think he’ll be a good person for you to have in your life—even if he’s bound to get on my nerves a little while he’s here!” she said, rolling her eyes. I smiled and squeezed her hand back. What a relief.

  She dropped me off at Eastern Greene Middle School with a big wet kiss on the head and a wave, which in Mom language means “Love you, pick you up at 6.” I waved back as she drove off. Inside, I checked the room assignment sheet posted in the lunchroom, then went in search of my team. The pre-tournament ruckus was already in full swing when I opened the door to the homeroom.

  “Give it back!” Poppy was crying, grasping at her sketchbook, which was held aloft by Nelson.

  “Aww, give it back!” he mocked, dangling it just out of reach.

  “Enough, Nelson!” Mariam called from where she was perched on top of a desk, applying her lip gloss. “You’re not funny. Like, at all.”

  “It’s not a comedy routine,” J.P. said, looking up from the caricatures of the team he was drawing (badly) on the chalkboard. “It’s a mating ritual.”

  “Hey!” Nelson scowled, lowering his guard just long enough for Poppy to leap up and grab her sketchbook.

  “Ha!” she laughed triumphantly, hugging the sketchbook protectively to her chest. She shot a dirty look at Nelson and retreated to her corner of the room, next to Mariam.

  “We should really be practicing,” Konrad said, wringing his hands.

  “We’re going to be fine,” Chris said, guiding Konrad back to a seated position. “Hey, Martin!” I raised my hand in an awkward wave. “Good timing. Things were just starting to come off the rails over here.” He shot an accusing look at Nelson, who was pouting and repeatedly returning his gaze to Poppy. “Mr. Peterson stepped out for a second,” he explained, “so I guess that means you have the bridge!”

  He chuckled at his own joke, then blinked at me. “You know, the bridge? Like on a ship? Because you’re the captain?”

  “Oh!” I said, finally realizing what he meant. “Oh, right.”

  “Sorry,” he said, suddenly bashful. “It was a bad joke.” Chris blushed, his tanned face glowing from within like a summer sunrise.

  “No, no, it was good!” I said. “I’m just a little slow this morning. A lot on my mind.”

  “You’re not worried, are you?” he asked. “Because the E
astern Greene kids are a total joke. I heard one of them is a ninth grader they held back specifically so they could have a chance this year,” he whispered, leaning in close. “But that’s just a rumor.”

  “That’d be wild,” I said, and he nodded, eyes wide. I realized we were standing super close, and my face got hot. I jumped back. “But, no, I’ve just been really busy lately. It’s nothing.”

  “Okay!” Mr. Peterson glided into the room, resplendent in his pleated khakis and forest green argyle sweater. “Here are the schedules for the day, hot off the press.” He placed a stack of paper on one of the front desks. We all scrambled to grab a copy, eager to see who was competing when, and in what events. Everyone competes in the individual rounds, but the team rounds and countdown rounds require groups of four and three, respectively. Mr. Peterson knows who does best in what rounds, but he prefers to mix us up. He says it helps us train and grow as students and competitors, which is all fine and good—but I still want to win.

  “Looks like it’s you, me, Nelson, and Poppy for team,” Chris said. I scowled. Chris and I work pretty well together and Poppy is brilliant (if a little scatterbrained), but it’s impossible to work with Nelson in any time-efficient manner, and we only get twenty minutes to solve ten very difficult questions.

  “Aw, cute,” Nelson sneered from behind us, “it’ll be like a double date.”

  My stomach dropped to my toenails. I had hoped that Nelson would have dropped this string of insults by now. I opened my mouth to speak, but Poppy beat me to it.

  “As if I’d ever date pond scum like you,” she said, rolling her eyes at Nelson. “Ignore him,” she said to me. “We’re going to kick a . . . I mean, butt.” Mr. Peterson cast her a warning look, and she caught herself from swearing with a rueful smirk.

  “I also have some good news,” Mr. Peterson said, once everyone had perused the schedule. “The date for Regionals has been set.”

  “Ooh!” Mariam clapped her hands together with a grin.

  “I’m glad you’re excited, but we have to qualify first,” Mr. Peterson said with a smile. “If we end up qualifying, the big day will be Saturday, January 27th, 7 p.m.”

  Immediately there was a rushing in my ears, and my whole body went cold. There must be some mistake. It can’t be the 27th. It can’t.

  “W-wait,” I stammered, “are you sure? January 27th?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Peterson answered, perplexed. “Is there a problem?”

  “What? No. No, sorry, no,” I said, shaking my head. Mr. Peterson shrugged and went back to making notes on his copy of the schedule. I sank into a nearby desk. This isn’t happening. What about All-Ages Night? I was so wrapped up in thought, I barely noticed when Chris sat down next to me, his brows knit in worry.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You got super pale.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Just like, whoa, Regionals, right?”

  “Totally,” he agreed. “And it’d be your first one as team captain! That’s kind of major.”

  “Major,” I repeated. “Sorry, I guess I’m not fully awake yet.”

  It was a bad excuse, but it was the best I could do. My mind was reeling. What are the chances that the two most important nights of my whole entire life so far would end up being the same night? And how could I possibly do both if we did end up qualifying for Regionals?

  “Well, you better snap out of it!” Chris said, good-naturedly clapping me on the shoulder. “We can’t win without you, Martin.”

  We can’t win without you, Martin. His voice echoed in my head, as he walked away. There’s no way I could bail on my team—not for Regionals, and definitely not my first Regionals as captain. But unless someone invented a time machine, I didn’t know how I would make it work.

  I was distracted for the entire day. I managed to compete, and I think I did okay, but it was like my body had shown up to the tournament without me. Whatever brain power I didn’t need to solve the math problems posed to our team, I was using to work on a much different problem: How could I do two competitions in one night?

  I definitely didn’t solve that problem at the podium.

  We ended up winning silver medals, but I didn’t feel like I had earned mine. Mr. Peterson, apparently, disagreed.

  “Well done today, Martin,” he said as we headed out of the school. “I was worried about you in that timed target round, but you bounced back. And you and Chris seemed to make a good team; I might have to pair you up more often.”

  “Yeah,” I said, not really listening. “Thanks.”

  When I got out to the parking lot, it was Tío Billy waiting for me, not Mom. I made a quizzical face at him through the window before getting in the backseat.

  “Hey, león!” he said with a big grin. “How’d you do?”

  “Good,” I said. “Second place.”

  “Congrats, man! That’s nothing to sneeze at. Hey, I got you something.”

  “You did?” I asked. “It’s not my birthday.”

  “I know that,” he laughed. “This is a ‘just because’ gift, all right? Check the passenger seat.”

  I reached over the center console and into the seat next to Tío Billy, where there was a department store shopping bag waiting for me. I pulled it into the back and dug into it, throwing tissue paper aside to uncover a glossy white shoebox.

  “Shoes?” I asked. Tío Billy waved at me.

  “Just open it!”

  I pried the lid off the shoebox and peeked inside. A flash of silver caught my eye, and I pulled aside more tissue to reveal a pair of sparkling pumps, covered entirely in glitter. My jaw dropped. They shone like a star I could hold in my hands.

  “Wow,” was all I could say. I turned the shoes over, admiring their graceful arch and slope and their towering heels.

  “They’re your size,” Tío Billy said, and I realized he had been watching me. “I picked them out today. What do you think?”

  “They’re . . . beautiful,” I said. “They look just like the ones Aida Lott wore!”

  “I thought you might like them,” he said, beaming. “Every drag queen needs a great pair of heels. Consider this the first building block in creating Lottie León.”

  I closed my eyes and imagined myself wearing the shoes, shining like moonstones on my feet. One of the many things my favorite performer in the whole world, Celia Cruz, was famous for was her shoes. Now I could be just like her! (Okay, not just like her—Celia’s shoes were beautiful works of art that she eventually had to get custom-made especially for her. Mine came from a department store. But a boy could dream!) I imagined myself walking around the way the queens did, as though I owned the stage and the entire world too.

  And then I imagined myself falling flat on my face, toppling from the tall heights of my heels like a satellite from the upper atmosphere.

  “I don’t know if I can walk in these,” I said, suddenly anxious. I hurriedly started to put the shoes back in their box, but Tío Billy reached back and stilled my hands, already slick with sweat.

  “Hey,” he said gently, “don’t worry. That’s what I’m here for. We’ll have you slaying the runway in no time.”

  I felt my phone vibrate inside my pocket, so I shifted the shoes and box on my lap and fished it out to find a bunch of notifications:

  ReadMe App

  SEPT. 17—6:24 P.M.

  PicknLittle: Martin, my boy!

  LadyOfTheStage: Maaaaaartin, are you done at Mathletes yet?

  PicknLittle: Mrs. Randolph rather rudely assigned homework over the weekend.

  LadyOfTheStage: Who does that in the first week of school?

  PicknLittle: It’s almost the third week, Carmen.

  LadyOfTheStage: I said what I said.

  PicknLittle: Anyway, chemistry is way too close to math for my liking, so I need to know what your answer was for #7.

  LadyOfTheStage: Martin, don’t let him pressure you

  LadyOfTheStage: But also I need your answer for #13

  LadyOfTheStage: In
exchange, I promise to help you with the Shakespeare we have to read for English.

  PicknLittle: Bribery? Shakesplease.

  mathletesmartin: Sorry, guys, I can’t talk right now—I’m in the car with my uncle.

  mathletesmartin: Maybe later?

  PicknLittle: Boo

  PicknLittle: Booooooooo.

  LadyOfTheStage: Ugh, fiiiiiiine. But don’t forget about us!

  Carmen and Pickle’s homework could wait, especially when I had a much bigger problem: two competitions, one night, and zero ideas on how to make it all happen. I carefully tucked the heels away in their glitter-speckled paper, closed the box, and hugged it tight against myself.

  “They’re perfect,” I said. “Thank you, Tío Billy.”

  “De nada,” he said, starting up the car.

  “I sort of have some bad news, though.” I didn’t want to tell him, because telling him would make the whole mess real. But he had to know—so he could help me figure out what to do. “I don’t know if we’re competing yet, but . . . Regionals is the same day as All-Ages Night.”

  “Seriously?” I nodded. Tío Billy groaned, sucking air through his teeth. “Ay, tremendo paquete. Shoot. That’s no good. How do you want to play this?”

  “I don’t know how I could do both,” I admitted, “but if I could . . .” He smiled a little in the rearview mirror.

  “We’ve got some time, right? When will you find out if you qualify?”

  “Late October or early November, probably,” I said.

  “And it’s only September,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

  He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street, the Spanish pop station playing softly in the background. I rested my head against the window and watched the street lights blink past, dancing in my eyes like disco lights.

  I knew it was possible that I could try drag and fail at it miserably. I knew it was possible that I could try it and hate it and never, ever want to look at a pair of heels again.

  But there was a part of me—a part that grew every second—that really believed I could be good at being Lottie León. I might even be great. Wouldn’t it be worth it to try, just to know if I could?