Martin McLean, Middle School Queen

by Alyssa Zaczek

  “No one would laugh at you,” Tío Billy said firmly. “Not if they ever want to be invited back to Hoosier Mama, I can tell you that much.”

  “And that’s just if you make it to the next round,” Mom said. “Maybe you won’t, and then you won’t have to worry about it!”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I cried, trying to pull my head through my sweater vest without covering the clothes in makeup. “I want to make it to the next round!”

  “Okay, león,” Tío Billy said, his firm voice cutting through my rising hysteria. “I want you to remember something. You, Martin McLean, are not defined by what those kids think of you, just like Lottie isn’t defined by her makeup.” He reached back to place a reassuring hand on my knee. “Whatever you decide, your fierceness is going to shine through. You know why? Because there’s more of you in Lottie than the other way around.”

  I couldn’t respond; my lungs felt like they were on fire from repressing a sob. I wanted so badly to cry, and I was clenching my jaw so hard that it hurt.

  “Take a second to think about it. We’ll support you, no matter what,” he said, passing back the remaining contents of my backpack: a comb, a little mirror, and a pack of makeup wipes.

  You don’t get it, Tío Billy, I wanted to say. Don’t you know how middle schoolers are? All it would take is for one person to declare me a freak, and the rest would follow. Looking raggedy in Round Two would be nothing compared to spending the rest of my school years as a social pariah. If I showed up to Mathletes looking like Lottie, my life would be over. My life, and Lottie’s too. As much as I loved performing as Lottie, how could I ever be brave enough to take the stage again in the face of all that ridicule? If my classmates found out about Lottie, I could lose her forever.

  I took a deep breath . . . and wiped the makeup off my face.

  13

  I arrived at Baker’s Lake Academy smack dab in the middle of the Patented Pickle Plan.

  Once Mom slammed on her brakes in the parking lot, I leapt out of the car and rushed into the auditorium. As I pushed open the heavy double doors, Pickle’s voice rang out from the center of the room.

  “Help, help! Is there a doctor on board?” he cried. He was waving his hands around, gesturing wildly to Violet, who was slumped back in her wheelchair. “Anybody, help!”

  A small crowd began to form around Pickle and Violet. I ran down the aisle and pushed my way through to them.

  “Tone. It. Down!” Violet hissed at Pickle, her head turned away from the crowd.

  “Give her some room, people!” Pickle yelled, waving his arms around as though he were landing a plane. “Let her breathe!”

  “Pickle!” I whispered, making a “cut it out” motion with my hand across my neck. He caught my eye and grinned.

  Mr. Berg, the Baker’s Lake Academy coach, came jogging down the aisle in his sweater vest with two school nurses at his side, Carmen following close behind. Pickle began to howl.

  “Someone, help her! She’s just a child!”

  “Here!” Carmen cried. “I got Mr. Berg! Let us through!”

  The crowd parted, and the nurses swept over to Violet. As they checked her pulse, Mr. Berg mopped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “What happened?” he asked Pickle. Carmen sidled up next to me and poked me in the side, tilting her head toward the action with a giggle. I shook my head in disbelief.

  “Oh, woe betide me, sir!” Pickle said, wringing his hands. I swear I saw Mr. Berg roll his eyes. “One second she was telling me how incredibly handsome I am—”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes.

  “—and the next, she was hyperventilating! I tried to calm her down, but she fainted! My good looks were too much for her, sir, but I swear I did everything I could to help.”

  Violet stirred next to us, groaning and looking around groggily. She caught my eye for the briefest moment and almost smiled despite the act.

  “Wh-where am I?” she asked, faking total disorientation.

  “You’re at Baker’s Lake Academy,” I said helpfully. Mr. Berg turned to look at me, startled.

  “Oh, Martin,” he said, “you’re here.” He looked at my face strangely, then shook his head. “You should get backstage. Mr. Peterson has been looking for you.”

  “What happened?” Violet asked weakly.

  “It seems you may have fainted,” Mr. Berg said gently. “We’re going to take you to the nurse’s office, okay?”

  Violet nodded and began to navigate herself up the aisle—there was no point in stalling any longer since I was there. Pickle leapt in front of them and started running ahead, swinging his arms wildly.

  “Make way! Make way, people! We’ve got a sick girl coming through!” With a rush of zeal, he kicked open the auditorium doors to let Violet through.

  Then he turned his head to us and winked.

  “Incredible,” I murmured. “That worked?”

  “You have to go!” Carmen exclaimed, wheeling me toward the back of the auditorium. “We’ve only bought you a few minutes.”

  “I know,” I said, stopping just shy of the backstage entrance. “Carmen, thank you. And thank Pickle and Violet for me too.”

  “Thank us after you’re the first ever drag show/Mathletes double champion!” she said. “Now hurry!”

  And with that, I ducked backstage. As my eyes adjusted to the relative darkness I saw the team huddled around Mr. Peterson, their bodies etched with worry. I cleared my throat. Mr. Peterson whirled around, then looked as though he might crumple with relief.

  “Martin!” he exclaimed. “Thank goodness.”

  “Where have you been?” Poppy demanded.

  “We were super worried,” Chris said. Then he cocked his head at me, his brow furrowing. “Are you okay?”

  “Hi,” I said. “I-I’m really sorry I’m late. I . . . had to be somewhere.”

  “Where, the freak show?” Nelson cackled from the back of the group. “You look like a Party City barfed all over you, McLean!”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, suddenly filled with dread.

  “You’re covered in glitter!” Nelson wheezed through his laughter.

  I raised my hand to my face. Hot pink glitter came off on my fingers. Oh, no.

  “It’s—it’s nothing!” I stammered, rubbing my face as hard as I could. A thousand little flecks of sparkle fell onto my hand. The car was too dark, I realized with a sickening twist in my gut. I didn’t get all the glitter off. I heard giggles in the group, and my face turned hot.

  “It’s nothing!” Nelson mocked, pointing. “It’s glitter! Pink glitter! What happened to you, McLean? Did you join Cirque du So-Gay?”

  The lies came to mind all at once: Carmen’s glitter pens exploded on me. The Baker’s Lake Academy cheerleading squad passed me in the hall and beat me up. A cyclone hit the glitter aisle at the crafts store, and then it landed on my house!

  For once, I had thought of a million things to say. But they all felt wrong. Instead, I heard Tío Billy’s voice in my head: Your life, león, is one fabulous show. Don’t miss out on it.

  And I knew what I had to do.

  I had lied so much to keep Lottie a secret, but I didn’t want to anymore. No lie would keep Nelson from harassing me. The truth wouldn’t stop him either. But at least if I told the truth, I would be free. No more hiding, no more lying. I could just be.

  I was scared—really scared—that all my teammates would abandon me, that I’d be teased and bullied until eighth grade graduation and beyond. But if I lied, I’d be abandoning Lottie. I’d be abandoning myself. And that would be scarier than anything Nelson could throw at me.

  So I looked him in the eye and said the only thing I could:

  “Actually, I’m a drag queen.”

  Nelson’s mouth hung open as though it had come unhinged. Mariam and Poppy were looking at one another with wide eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Chris.

  “What?” Nelson asked, s
hocked laughter rising in his voice.

  “I’m. A. Drag. Queen.” I said, enunciating every word. “I came from a show. A drag show,” I added, for emphasis. “I’m Lottie León. Though that’s Miss León to you.” I felt a rush of shock and pride. Where did that come from?!

  Nelson didn’t get a chance to reply. At that moment, Mr. Berg came hurrying backstage and approached Mr. Peterson.

  “I’m sorry for the delay. There was an . . . incident,” Mr. Berg said, sighing heavily. “Let’s get this going, shall we?”

  “Dan, wait,” Mr. Peterson said, gesturing toward me. “Can we have a minute, please? I think my captain might like a chance to wash his face.” I nodded emphatically behind him.

  “There’s no time,” Mr. Berg said. “We’re already behind schedule, we have to keep things moving.”

  “Well, then there’s nothing to be done,” Mr. Peterson said grimly as Mr. Berg left to gather his team. “You’re just going to have to go on.” I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat.

  “You’re going to let him compete like that?” asked J.P. “I’m sorry, Mr. P, but that’s bonkers! He looks like a disco ball!”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Nelson concurred, crossing his arms. Mr. Peterson shot him a warning look.

  “I’m ashamed of you all,” he said, and everyone became very still. “I never took you to be the kind of students who would lash out against a teammate just because he looks different. Martin is your captain. Would you really risk losing Regionals and letting your teammates down—letting me down, and your parents, too, no doubt—over a little glitter?”

  Mr. Peterson stared at the group. Everyone was quiet, until Mariam shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “No, of course not.”

  “Yeah,” Konrad agreed after a moment. “Who cares? Your brain still works, doesn’t it, Martin?” I nodded, surprised. “See? What does it matter what he looks like if he can still compete?”

  “Drag is kind of rock and roll, actually!” Poppy exclaimed.

  “He has to compete,” Chris said, looking at me with kind eyes. “He’s our captain.”

  “He wasn’t even supposed to be our captain in the first place!” J.P. burst out, his face contorted in outrage. “It should have been me, or Chris, or both, because we’ve got seniority. Not this cross-dressing freak!”

  “Hey!” Chris said sharply, turning to his brother. “Knock it off! You were never going to be captain. Stop taking it out on Martin!”

  “What, like he isn’t asking for it, showing up looking like that? It’s so weird!” J.P. exclaimed. He waved his arms at me as though my very presence proved his point. “He’s obviously not fit to be captain. I’m with Nelson.”

  Chris flashed J.P. an angry glare. “Jeez, I thought Mom and Dad raised you better than this,” Chris said, “but I guess I’m the only Cregg twin with a heart or a brain.”

  “I—wha—you—hey!” J.P. stuttered. Chris cocked his head toward me.

  “Nobody insults my friends, J.P. Not even my brother. Apologize to Martin,” he said. “Now.”

  J.P. cast a bewildered look at his brother, then at Mr. Peterson, then at Nelson, and finally at me. He bit the inside of his cheek and pouted.

  “I’m sorry, Martin,” he mumbled. “You can compete with us, I guess. Whatever. I don’t care.”

  “How heartfelt,” Chris said sarcastically. He smiled at me gently. “I’m sorry, Martin. We want you to compete with us.”

  Mr. Peterson turned his gaze on Nelson, who kept his arms crossed over his chest in contempt.

  “What say you, Mr. Turlington? Bearing in mind that the majority has already overruled your opinion,” he said, and I swear I caught him stifling a smile. Nelson scowled.

  “Whatever,” he spat. “It’s your funeral.”

  “Your approval is noted,” Mr. Peterson said dryly, then clapped his hands together. “Very well! Martin, take your place at the front of the group. It’s almost time.”

  I stood at the head of the line and waited for the announcer to call our team. Well, if nothing else, no one will forget that you were captain, I thought.

  As we took our places, the moderator, a middle-aged man with stringy gray hair and beady eyes, peered at me from over his tiny glasses. I watched the kids on the Baker’s Lake Academy team whisper, but to my surprise, no tears sprang to my eyes. I was . . . fine. I was better than fine, actually. It wasn’t bothering me! Let them whisper. Let them stare. I’m here to win, not worry about their opinions.

  Chris nudged me from the podium next to mine.

  “Let’s do this,” he whispered, and my heart soared. The moderator was looking offstage to our coaches, but Mr. Peterson frowned and gestured for him to continue.

  “Okay, then. Welcome to this year’s Junior Mathletes Regional Competition. Our competitors today are Meadow Crest Junior High and Baker’s Lake Academy. This will be a contest in three rounds, the first, a sprint round . . .”

  All thoughts of wayward sparkles melted away. I breezed through the sprint and target rounds, and during the team round, even Nelson deferred to me. Which meant that, as we headed into the sudden death round, we were doing better than we ever had before—but we were still tied with Baker’s Lake.

  “We now begin the tiebreaker,” the moderator said into his microphone. “This is a sudden death round. Each team will play one individual. The competitors from each team will be verbally posed a problem. They will have four minutes to either submit an answer or pass. If both competitors pass, we will move on to another question. Likewise, if both competitors submit a correct answer, we will move on to another question. The first individual to submit a correct answer against their competitor’s incorrect answer or pass wins. Do the teams understand?”

  “Yes,” we all replied in unison.

  “Good,” the moderator replied. “The teams have one minute to select your competitor. Time begins now.”

  “It’s up to you, Martin,” Mariam whispered. “You’re the best at these.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, eyeing the competition. Lucas O’Connor, a Baker’s Lake eighth grader, stared right back at me. “They look ready for a fight. Are you sure you want me? Maybe Chris would be better . . .”

  “No way,” Chris said. “You’re great in a final round. You finish the job.”

  “Time is up,” the moderator announced. “Have the teams selected their competitors?”

  “Yes,” Lucas said, stepping up to the Baker’s Lake podium. I swallowed hard and approached our podium.

  “Yes,” I replied. “We have.”

  “Very well, then. We begin the sudden death round,” the moderator said. “The first question: Pump A can drain a swimming pool in four hours. Pump B can drain a swimming pool in six hours. Both pumps started to drain the same pool at 8 a.m. An hour later, Pump B breaks down. Pump B takes one hour to repair, and is started up again. When will the pool be empty?”

  My mind went serenely quiet as I put pencil to paper. The figures lined themselves up like dance steps, tangoing to the tune of my cat-scratch writing. Pump A has been operating for an hour in when Pump B breaks down, meaning it has been working for two hours by the time Pump B is restarted. . . . I looked up at Lucas, who was grimacing. But Pump B also worked for an hour, I realized. And when it starts back up, the two parts will work even better in unison. A rush of victory filled me. I saw the clock ticking away out of the corner of my eye, bright red numbers flickering. I finished my calculations, heart tha-RUMP-ing, and put my pencil down.

  “Time!” The moderator called. “Meadow Crest Junior High, do you have an answer?”

  “Yes,” I replied, my heart filling with anticipation, “10:48 a.m.”

  Tha-RUMP tha-RUMP tha-RUMP.

  “Baker’s Lake Academy, do you have an answer?”

  Tha-RUMP tha-RUMP tha-RUMP.

  “Yes,” Lucas said. “11:12 a.m.”

  11:12 a.m.? I thought. That can’t be right. Can it? No, I checked my work. 11:12
a.m. is too long—Lucas forgot that Pump B had already worked for an hour before it broke down.

  And if he forgot, does that mean—?

  The moderator checked his answer sheet as the room held its breath. He looked back up at Lucas, then at me.

  Tha-RUMP tha-RUMP tha-RUMP.

  Tha-RUMP tha-RUMP tha-RUMP.

  THA-RUMP THA-RUMP THA-RUMP.

  “The correct answer is 10:48 a.m. Meadow Crest Junior High is the winner.”

  The room erupted.

  All at once my team was surrounding me, throwing their arms around me and screaming, jumping up and down and crying.

  “WE WON!” Mariam yelled, “WE FREAKING WON!”

  “Baker’s Lake can suck it!”

  “Poppy!”

  “Sorry, Mr. P!” Poppy hollered, pumping her fist in the air. “BUT WE WON!”

  Behind me, Konrad started singing an uncharacteristically raucous rendition of “We Are the Champions,” his arms flung around J.P. and Nelson.

  “You did it! Martin, you did it!” Chris was in front of me in the throng, his face positively glowing. Behind him, the Baker’s Lake team was stoically watching the chaos, arms crossed over their chests.

  Mr. Peterson made his way to the front and accepted the massive golden trophy from the moderator. He hoisted it over his head, and we all cheered loud enough to make my ears ring. Then Mr. Peterson handed me the trophy with a hearty pat on the back.

  “It’s yours, captain,” he said, and I swore even his elbow patches looked proud. “And so is the microphone. Say a few words?”

  The speech. For the first time since making it to the podium, my throat went tight. I hadn’t prepared a speech, not a single word. The crowd parted, the team all smiles, and Mr. Berg came forward to lower the standing microphone for me. I looked out onto the sea of people, all of whom were looking back at me in all my glittery glory. I cleared my throat.

  “Um,” I began, and the reverberation of my voice against the auditorium walls startled me. From the back of the room, I heard a distinctly Pickle-like voice give a “Woo!”