Drag Queen Beauty Pageant

by Malachite Splinters

  Machyl sighed, smoothed his napkin on the tablecloth. He shook his head.

  “You really haven’t thought this through, have you Tata?” He took a long drink of water, tipping his head back as he drained the glass.

  When he finished, he dabbed his lips with the napkin and leaned his hand on his chin and looked at me.

  Then he pulled out his phone, tapped on the screen a few times, then read, “Machyl: I’m sick. Something I ate. Can’t perform tonight.” He glanced at me.

  I stuck out my chin, pugnacious, but my heart sank as he read out the text.

  Shit.

  Machyl continued, “That was sent at six twenty-two this evening, princess. What were you doing at six twenty-two?”

  I stuck my hands under my thighs to stop them from twisting around each other as they had been doing for the past five minutes.

  I buttoned my mouth shut and decided not to answer any more of Machyl’s oh-so-rhetorical questions.

  He ran a hand over his buzz fade, glanced at me with a glint in his eye. “Now who has read this message, I wonder?”

  He stuck one mini horse head nebula over his lips and regarded the ceiling, two tiny dimples appearing at the corner of each lip marking his smirk, which would be cheeky if it wasn’t so evil. He looked at his screen and opened his eyes wide.

  “Seen by: Duane Tyrone Johnson, six twenty-two, Brooklyn Luo Chen Wei, six twenty-two, Damaris Rae, six twenty-three,” he leaned toward me. “Marcus. Fong. Six twenty-six.” He waited a moment, then said. “You’re not on the list. No read notification from Anthony Alcantara.”

  Of course not. At six twenty-six this afternoon, I was in Marcus Fong’s arms at the breakfast bar in my kitchen.

  I blinked. “That’s wrong,” I lied. “I read that message.”

  Machyl stared at me.

  I was shocked I had just lied. I hadn’t expected to lie. I expected to crumble onto the floor and beg him for forgiveness.

  “It must not be working right,” I said. “You probably need to update or something.”

  “What were you doing at the time?” Machyl deadpanned. “Waxing your balls?”

  “I was lying on the floor of my bathroom,” I said. “Having just puked my guts up.”

  I still couldn’t believe I was lying like this. I’d never been so bold. I could see Machyl’s lips pursing and he shifted in his seat, crossing and re-crossing his legs.

  “How did you know where I live?” I demanded.

  Machyl gave me a fake smile.

  “I called one of those psychic hotlines. They told me a snake lives next to Central Park in a twinset and pearls and needs to be taken down in the world.”

  A chill spread over me at his cold words. He had just as good as admitted that he was targeting me.

  “Why did you tell Marcus I liked him?”

  Whatever Machyl was expecting me to say, it wasn’t that. I saw the shock travel across his face like the light from the bonfire of an empire.

  Machyl was keeping his cards so close to his chest, not even letting on a hint that he was in contact with Marcus—dangling it over me, this entire evening.

  Well, if Machyl was going to treat it like gold and guard it like a dragon, the only way to stymie his plans was to do the opposite myself.

  “Tell Marcus what?” Machyl finally said in a sweet, innocent voice.

  “You told Marcus,” I said again. “That I like him.”

  “Oh,” Machyl knitted his eyebrows in concern. “Are you saying you don’t like Marcus, princess?”

  Machyl had spread a bold-faced lie that I liked Marcus and he had literally manipulated reality until it came true.

  I was part of Machyl’s invented reality now. I felt like a cartoon character who has just spilled a can of something all over the floor where he’s standing and is now reading the label: Acme Instant Abyss.

  I crossed my arms and stuck out my chin. “Of course I like Marcus. We’re friends,” I said pointedly.

  That’s what you do with your friends? I had asked Marcus when we were discussing Damaris.

  Er… yes, actually. Marcus had replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “You like Marcus?” Machyl raised his eyebrows at me and contorted his face into a mask of surprise. “Oh my lord,” Machyl picked up his phone. “I can’t believe it. I need to go run and tell everybody.”

  I forced my mouth into a smirk. He wanted me to accuse him of telling everyone—he was throwing what he’d done back in my face like he could double the injury that way.

  “Marcus is my drag sister,” I smiled fakely. “Of course we’re friends.”

  Machyl turned his eyes on me and batted his lashes. “What kind of friends is that, princess?”

  The kind where Marcus wanted to get me naked and wrap me around him like a tender slice of raw fish on sushi rice.

  That kind of friends.

  I squared my jaw. “Don’t call me princess,” I said. “Only Marcus gets to call me that.”

  Machyl had a mouthful of food and just looked at me with wide eyes and rolled his head around while he chewed, a theatrical stare-down he might have used at a ball when facing a fierce queen from House of Revêtte across the catwalk.

  It was sad that this kind of in-fighting had to happen. We were supposed to save that for the showdowns between houses, and it was supposed to be a game, a piece of theatre, a stage fight with no more real chance to wound than a wooden sword, leaving no injury more serious than a fake blood capsule burst between the teeth and dribbled down the chin.

  That wasn’t even a good example, because the Read-A-Thons were verbal battles only. No-one was actually going to put on a physical fight, no matter how pretend.

  There was a world of boys and men fighting tooth and nail and fist out there if any of us wanted to join it. Opting out of that, at least for a short time, was kind of the reason any of us were here.

  At least, that was what I had always thought.

  Machyl swallowed, still staring at me, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a spotless napkin, and then picked up one of his hands and vogued it in front of his face and around his head in seamless easy movements like a wave on the ocean.

  Machyl’s grace seemed wrong, because it couldn’t be fair for someone so ugly inside to bring so much beauty into the world in the way he moved.

  I sat there and looked back at him calmly. Marcus’ words echoed in my mind.

  He just knows things, knows what people are thinking.

  No, Machyl didn’t know what I was thinking. Machyl didn’t know me at all. He didn’t know a thing about me.

  Machyl had never made an effort to talk to me since the day I arrived at House of Ellegrandé. He’d been too busy looking down his nose at me and making snide comments about my street clothes.

  He’d written me off as a hanger-on, a wannabe, a poseur, ever since day one. So as a result he didn’t know anything about the real me, who I was inside.

  He had no idea what went on inside my head, and so he would never have any real power over me. Until he knew the contents of my heart, he was powerless.

  And Machyl Mostroso Lyons would never know my heart. Not if I lived for a thousand years. Not over my cold, dead body in six inch heels.

  Machyl looked at me for a moment, then looked over his shoulder. Another server, a man, was passing.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Can I order a glass of chardonnay please?” He took his wallet out of his pocket. “Sorry, I haven’t seen our server in a while,” he explained.

  That wasn’t true. I had seen her walk past a few moments before.

  But this server obliged, taking Machyl’s ID and looking at it before handing it back. He looked at me. “Something for you, sir?”

  I opened my mouth to reply. I could do with a glass of wine, to be honest.

  “He’s underage,” Machyl said to the server with a condescending smile which he then turned on me when the server left.

  I scowled at him.
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  “You’d never do that to Damaris,” I pointed out, then immediately regretted the childish outburst.

  “Oh, but sweetie…” Machyl interlocked his fingers together on the table and looked at me. “Damaris is so mature. I mean, I know she's only a year older than you but really, you’d think it was more.”

  I scrunched my mouth up in annoyance. Telling me I was immature and a baby was one of Machyl’s favorite tacks to take when he felt like targeting me. Just because I first landed at House of Ellegrandé a few months shy of my nineteenth birthday.

  “Speaking of Damaris,” Machyl said, at which point our server, the girl, came back with the wine. “Thank you,” he said as she dashed away again. She looked busy. He turned back to me. “You’re blushing,” he said.

  “I don’t blush!” I protested, feeling my cheek.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh but you do. With that fair skin I can see your emotions written all over your face.” He traced his finger in the air as if to indicate my face.

  Is that true? I felt my face actually going hot and resisted the urge to take out a mirror and look.

  “I applied blusher,” I retorted. “I’m surprised you can’t see make up when it’s in front of you.”

  He regarded me disdainfully. “I’m surprised I’m looking for make up on your face, queen. Did you come last in the class sweepstakes? Tacky is not the new black, no matter what you think.”

  I laughed. “I have more class in the last two hairs on my left eyebrow than your whole family, Giltie Conshens.”

  This was good. He was starting to go into Read Mode. This was a good way to distract him so I could finally wrap up this interminable dinner and go home. He would twist himself like a pretzel coming up with insults and wear himself out like a toddler after playtime.

  I was starting to get tired. My eyes were itching and I wanted to take my contact lenses out. They were oversized and made my eyes look enormous but they were not comfortable to wear for long periods of time. I was just about done here anyway.

  Machyl had gone to a lot of trouble for not much result. He’d spent the whole night trying to blackmail me into admitting that Marcus and I had hooked up, but I had refused to fall for his ploy.

  Not only that but he’d had to fake sick to do it. Not only must Duane Tyrone be furious, but now that I knew, I could use that information against him if I chose.

  I couldn’t go to DT myself—DT would be sure to take Machyl’s side—but if I told Damaris and she told him? Machyl would be in trouble for sure.

  Machyl was a piece of work, all right. The worst part of it was how pointless it all was. He really was the definition of a shit-stirrer. There was no grand goal or overarching motivation for his actions.

  He just liked to toss a hand grenade among the pigeons—why? For his own amusement? Was this the only thing that gave him a kick in his pathetic little life?

  He liked to think of himself as a puppet master, that’s what it was. He loved the taste of power.

  I imagined he thought of it as pop rocks, sizzling and fizzing and almost painful to hold in the mouth, but sweet and it stung the tongue and made your mouth water, made you drool and want more.

  Machyl was not a puppet master, not even those little finger puppets for reading bedtime stories to tiny tots, the ones that were basically a tube of fabric with a face.

  I could see right through Machyl, and what I found there, quite frankly, was rather sad.

  “I was talking about Damaris,” Machyl said abruptly, putting down his wine glass.

  What? I felt a quiver of nervousness in my stomach.

  “What does she have to do with this?” I asked, laughing nervously.

  “You had a fight,” Machyl said.

  Fuck.

  “It—it wasn’t really a fight,” I said. “Just a misunderstanding. It’s—it’s all fine.”

  “She didn’t come out of her room today, slick.” Machyl’s eyes met mine over his glass of wine. “She’s still there, far as I know,” Machyl said, still looking straight at me. “Care to explain why?”

  My eyes took in the pale yellow liquid next to his cocoa skin, the condensation running down the glass and over his galaxy nails in dark blue and purple and bright yellow.

  “What?” I said, stunned, all thoughts of strategy flying out of my head. Was he blaming me for this?

  “I d-don’t—what do you mean—” I babbled, trying to sound as if I didn’t know what he was taking about. “She’s not performing tonight? But—who’s performing, then?”

  Machyl stared at me. “It would be you if you could even pull cabbage like a one-star drag, but you can’t even do that.”

  It felt like a blow to the solar plexus, and for a few moments I couldn’t even breathe. My throat tightened. I was dangerously close to tears.

  “Why aren’t you there?” I cried.

  Machyl leaned forward over the table and spoke in a low urgent voice.

  “Duane Tyrone knows where I am. He supported me one hundred percent when I said I was going to do this. I wasn’t going to wait another minute to find out what the fuck you did to Damaris that has her back in that room again. Now talk.”

  I stared at him, my chest heaving. “You’ve been—you’ve been playing with me all this time?”

  “You want to talk about playing?” Machyl had his empty water glass in his hand and for a moment I thought he was going to smash it on the floor.

  He didn’t, he put it down on the table, stood up, leaned over the table on both hands and got right into my face.

  “You want to play games with a girl who was suicidal a month ago? Is that the kind of game you like to play?”

  His spit landed on my face not once, but twice, and even when he sat down, I didn’t dare wipe it off. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer and I had broken out in a sweat.

  “She—what?” I said.

  “Or is it something else,” Machyl said, crossing one leg over another with a smooth, graceful movement. “Is it another game you’re trying to play with Damaris Rae?”

  My heart was still pounding, but it was starting to hurt as it beat now. I had a bad feeling about what he was going to say. A very bad feeling. I shook my head, shook it furiously, but Machyl had me locked into his eyes and I couldn’t look away.

  “You look so sweet and pretty,” Machyl said. “With your big artificial blue eyes and your long hair and all your cute things you do. But you’re a snake in the grass, Anthony Alcantara.”

  I felt tears prick my eyes and prayed to heaven that I wasn’t going to cry. I felt all my bravado, all my boldness, melting away like temporary hair color running down the drain.

  He’s right. I am bad.

  “I’ve seen you,” Machyl said. “I’ve seen you looking at her.”

  I cringed and hoped it didn’t show on the outside. I wanted to shrivel away into myself, blow away like a tumbleweed on the breeze. Away to unknown regions where no-one would recognize me as the tumbleweed who used to be Anthony Alcantara.

  “You can’t deny it, can you?” Machyl said softly. “I’ve seen you watching her perform. You’ve never missed one of her shows, have you? I’ve seen the way you stand there, ignoring customers to watch her. With your eyes fixed on her just like they are on me right now. I’ve seen you in the wings, holding her props for her or her cape for that moonlight number. You can’t take your eyes off her.”

  Machyl leaned forward over the table again.

  “And I’ve seen you looking at her in the dressing room when we’re all getting ready. When she’s half dressed, I’ve seen you sneaking glances at her. I’ve seen the way your eyes linger.”

  “You’ll look down at your make up,” Machyl imitated this, looking down at the tablecloth, at the cold platter of food between us, and miming holding a brush in one hand, dusting it into a container of powder in the other.

  “Then into the mirror,” he said, raising the imaginary brush and running it across his cheek, “at her,” his eyes dar
ted to the side, he froze, staring, blinked.

  “Then down at your make up again,” he put down the powder brush and picked up a mascara wand and tilted his head to the side in the invisible mirror between us, opening his eyes wide as he applied the invisible mascara.

  “Comb your wig,” he brushed long hair over his shoulders. “Do a little tszuj,” he adjusted imaginary cleavage, then screwed up his eyes as he tweaked his left nipple.

  “Then back to her.” His eyes went to the faraway spot again. “You can’t deny it, can you? Can you, Anthony? Sweet little innocent Anthony?”

  Machyl sat there looking at me, tapping his fingernails on the tablecloth in a rhythmic sequence, pinkie to ring to middle to index, then reversing it index to middle to ring to pinkie.

  I was so out of my depth, I was like a scuba diver who’d misread the gauge and, thinking he was alright, had swum and swum downward only to realize he was so deep down in the depths of the sea, it was black and the light was just a faint glow far above.

  And he wasn’t alone. Something was down there with him in the deep teal colored water.

  You know how on those old maps there are huge patches of ocean just labelled Here be monsters?

  I realized I was shaking my head in denial, still unable to speak. But how could I deny it? I hung my head.

  Once you had dived so deep, you couldn’t just come up to the surface. Rising out of the depths would cause gases to form bubbles in your body, in your organs and as they expanded, they could kill you.

  The bends would get any diver before he could escape the monsters lurking down there waiting for him.

  That was what those creatures were counting on.

  “I love her,” I said quietly. I looked down at my hands spread on the napkin in front of me.

  They really had nothing to do now. Nothing to cling to.

  What was left anyway?

  I looked up at Machyl and as I met his eyes, I felt a tear slip down my cheek.

  He blinked, and his mouth twisted.

  “You think that’s love?” He said. “What you want from her, that’s not love. Why do you think she doesn’t date, Anthony?”

  I felt another tear follow the first. I couldn’t even curse my lifelong tendency to cry at the drop of a hat. “She—she—” I threw caution to the wind. “She was with Marcus—”