“Duane,” Marcus wiped his mouth, his movements jerky, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as if he was standing on hot coals. “DT, Machyl has been up to something.” Marcus gripped his hair in his hands, staring at Machyl. “You bastard,” he shot at Machyl. “You conniving bitch—”
Machyl rose to his feet in one elegant movement. “Come again, Bone China?” Then he smirked. “Or don’t. Your balls will get sucked back up inside if you do, you’ve been using those things so much, they’re spent.” Machyl’s eyes fell on me. “But then again, I’m not the one on it.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Giltie Conshens,” he said. “I only had to hang about this hole for five minutes before I found out why your conscience was so guilty. Your mother must have been a bus driver considering how you specialize in throwing your sisters under them.”
Machyl narrowed his eyes and tossed Marcus a withering glance. “Was that supposed to be a read, Bone China? Now I know why it said dyslexia on all those grade school report cards your daddy showed me after I fucked him last night.”
I saw Marcus’ eyes widen. “If you read, Giltie, you read the literary equivalent of rubbish. It’s been rotting your brain, ironically leading to the cognitive decline that was surely responsible for that slew of sick that just came out of your mouth and splattered all over the floor. Excuse me, I need to call the cleaner to take care of this mess.”
Machyl’s mouth pursed into a tight O and he dipped his torso in a jackknife bend and snap, coming back up with an invisible broom in his hand which he used to sweep the floor before flinging it at Marcus with both hands in a mime so realistic that I actually flinched. “Oh queen. Methinks,” Machyl smirked. “the lady does protest too much. I just cleaned the floor to save any other queens slipping in the sweat that’s pouring off your skinny ass. Going toe to toe with a mistress of the literary craft isn’t for everyone. Basic drags get nervous and stink the place up. You might want to take a shower. Oh, and take that with you when you go.” Machyl jerked his chin in my direction.
Marcus caught the mimed broom and broke it over his knee, threw away the pieces. “You’ll be reading braille when this is over,” he hissed. “If you don’t poke your own eyes out with those talons or rot them out from a mascara infection. I’ve seen your beauty routine or lack thereof. Sleeping with a full face will make even black crack, sister.”
Machyl gasped, not theatrically, but in real-life offense, and Marcus froze.
Then Duane Tyrone echoed the gasp and made a disapproving noise in his throat and silence descended.
Marcus stood there with his face going purple.
Duane Tyrone stood up and slashed the air with his hands. “Girls!” He bellowed.
“Er—” Marcus looked shame-faced. “Was that a step too far?”
Machyl arranged himself on the other side of DT’s couch like a cheetah laying down for a nap.
To my shock, Marcus actually went and sat down on the other couch, on the side closest to Machyl, leaving space for me. I wanted to grab him and tell him not to back down, but it was too late. I felt a spasm of disgust at his sudden weakness, but crept over and sat next to him, not too far away, within touching distance.
“Sorry,” Marcus said to Machyl. “I overstepped.”
Machyl raised his chin superciliously and looked away, voguing his hand around his head in a delicate dismissal.
I glanced at Marcus, who was sitting there silent and red-faced, and felt sick in the aura of his shame.
In another part of the club, the doorbell rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Duane Tyrone heaved a sigh and started to heave his body off the couch, but Machyl jumped up and loped out of the room instead.
DT sat there on the couch very still and I felt as if I was going to have a panic attack when his eyes came to rest on me.
“Tata,” DT boomed.
“Y-yes, Miss Ellegrandé?” I quavered, hating my voice and myself.
He raised a hand to indicate the dressing room behind me. “Your damn station. I come in every day to this mess. You should be ashamed of yourself, child.”
I wanted to disappear into the couch cushions. “Y-yes, ma’am,” I whispered.
“Get in there and clean it up,” DT snapped.
I leapt to my feet. “Yes, ma’am,” I breathed, and started to slowly back away from him, around the couch.
“Wait,” Marcus put out a hand and caught mine. He stood up. “I think the dignified thing to do,” Marcus said, “is to make our good-byes and then leave.”
“Yes, yes, baby, there’s no reason for dragging it out is there?” Machyl catwalked back into the room with Brooklyn in tow, his hands flipping over each other in a complicated arms control.
Duane Tyrone looked at Marcus. “The meeting is about to start, Bone China.”
Marcus tightened his grip on my hand. “We won’t be attending the meeting.”
“You and La Tata need to answer for your fraternization,” DT said in the same solid, plodding voice.
“We’re going to opt out of that,” Marcus said. “We’ll clean up Anthony’s workstation and then we’ll be on our way.”
Machyl dropped to the ground as if he was going to start going through a floorwork routine. Everyone stopped talking to look at him as he contorted his body, walking his legs around his core and arching into a backward bridge before coming upright again and crossing his arms, long galaxy nails tapping against his forearm, and looking around at all of us.
Brooklyn was standing stock still in front of the door as if terrified of what he had just walked into.
“There ain’t no opt out of Miss Ellegrandé’s rules,” DT said, his monotone unchanged. “This is the House of Ellegrandé. And there will be no opt out of the goddamn house meeting either, Miss Bone China, so just sit your narrow ass back down before I beat it down.”
I closed my eyes and just held on to Marcus’ hand.
“I’ve learned a lot from the ballroom scene and I’ll be taking that back to London with me,” Marcus said. He took a deep breath, let go of my hand, and crossed the space between the two couches. He extended his hand to Duane Tyrone. “It’s been an honor to be part of New York drag history.”
DT looked at Marcus’ hand, then at Marcus, then at his hand again, then Marcus’ face, which he continued to stare at until I saw Marcus’ shoulders slump a little in defeat.
As he turned back around, I saw the muscle in his jaw twitch and tighten, and I felt shame hit me in the stomach like a dull punch, that I was the one associated with the loser who Ellegrandé had just dissed and dismissed while Machyl watched from the sidelines.
But then I felt a burst of anger inside me, a firework in defense of Marcus. And that anger spread and grew through me until it was fire in my veins. I couldn’t walk out the door into the street and leave the House of Ellegrandé behind forever without the justice that Marcus had promised me.
“That’s all you have to say?” I said, my voice sounding strange in the silence. Marcus glanced at me and came back to my side. “Marcus has worked hard and done everything you asked. He subs for everyone. A lot of the regulars really like Bone China and I think she’s brought in a lot of new customers, too. After everything she’s done, you won’t even shake Marcus’ hand?” I raised my eyes brazenly to Duane Tyrone’s, my chest heaving as if I had just run a mile.
DT regarded me as if I were a surprising kind of insect he had never seen before which had just landed on his arm. “You’d know what the regulars like,” DT commented impassively.
I flinched. “You shouldn’t be surprised that I’m leaving,” I said boldly, forging on as if I had just found a can of gasoline and was pouring it all over a field of paper flowers. “And—” I continued, well aware that I was now lighting a match and tossing it into the field, “You know, we aren't the only ones who don’t like the way things are done around here.”
DT stared back at me impassively during my little speech, and when I finish
ed I had to look away from the persistence of his unflinching gaze.
“Just go on then,” Machyl piped up. When I turned to look at him, he was holding the green room door open.
I turned to look at Marcus uncertainly. Duane Tyrone was still just sitting there, saying and doing nothing. Marcus looked at me, took my hand and indicated I should proceed. I started to feel lightheaded as I walked toward Machyl and the door. I tensed instinctively as I neared him, thinking he would suddenly ram it toward me as I tried to go through.
But I passed through the door without anything happening except his baleful round eyes following me like I was magnetized. When I got through, I walked through the dressing room with Marcus.
Was I supposed to clean up my workstation before I left? I felt a hysterical terror rise up in me as I neared the workstation and couldn’t figure out what I should do: ask Marcus, keep walking, ask DT—
But Marcus solved the problem for me when I felt him steering me toward the workstation and we both quietly started cleaning up the make up. Humiliation crept along the back of my neck, prickling and making my face hot enough to fry an egg.
I capped the lipstick, closed the eyeshadow cases and stacked the strobing and contouring palettes and started piling the dirty brushes with the eye and lip liner pencils and two kinds of mascara. Marcus uncrumpled the smudged make up wipes and used them to clean the counter surface.
While we were doing this, Machyl and Brooklyn filtered slowly into the dressing room and stood there watching. Machyl straddled a chair in front of the the opposite counter and leaned his forearms on its back.
Marcus spit on a relatively clean cotton ball and used it to scrub at some dried lipstick traces on the counter. I opened the drawer where I usually swept everything in a disorganized mess at the end of an evening, looking for a case where I could stash all this stuff. There was nothing in the drawer but a lot more make up, most of it stuff I hadn’t used in months because it had dried out or I had gotten bored with it.
Duane Tyrone lumbered into the dressing room and I couldn’t help but notice that he was limping slightly. His back must be playing up again.
“Okay,” Marcus muttered, gathering all of the wipes and cotton balls and tossing them in the trash can underneath the counter while I stuffed the make up into my bag and slung it over my shoulder once more.
I noticed that Marcus was red-faced and realized he must be even more embarrassed than I was, because he was the one dating the house bitch who had to be sent to clean up her station like a third grade kid being kept in at recess to finish math homework.
Marcus looked at me, nodded, and took my hand again. We both turned and started walking toward the door which led into the pine-scented corridor, then to the alley outside.
I was leaving the House of Ellegrandé.
Wait.
What about my justice? What about Marcus taking Duane Tyrone to task about everything that he had done to me? I felt a stab of resentment toward him for the way he had curled up on the couch, all the fight gone out of him, when Machyl shut him up as easily as if he had plunged a gag into his mouth.
Even when I tried to make my voice heard, Machyl had silenced me by telling Marcus and I to leave.
No.
I wouldn’t be silenced. I wouldn’t walk out of here forever without at least telling Duane Tyrone and Machyl how much they had hurt my feelings, how bad they had made me feel, and how things could have been different if they had just been a little bit nicer to me. If they had just given me a chance, as Marcus himself agreed that they hadn’t.
I stopped walking, let go of Marcus’ hand and turned around to face DT and Machyl.
“Like I was saying,” I began, my voice sounding uncertain and quavery, but growing stronger as I continued. “I’m not happy with the way things are done around here.”
My words fell as flat as a half-raw pancake tumbling out of the frying pan and splatting on the floor. Eight eyes stared at me. My entire body seized up and tried to shrivel in upon itself until I disappeared.
I remembered on Saturday morning, there had been a panel of judges who had watched me as if I was competing in a drag queen beauty pageant. My mother, Duane Tyrone, Machyl, Marcus and Damaris, sitting there and judging me, pointing out each thing that was bad and wrong, deciding how much I was worth. And every time they judged me, they made me feel like I didn’t deserve to be alive.
And I looked down at my hands to find that I still had the can of gasoline, half-full by the slosh and weight of it, and I held it up and shook it, threatening them. None of them reacted. Not one eyebrow quirked among ten eyebrows.
And it rose in me. The void. I slung the gasoline can through the air, and it flew in a golden stream and sprayed out over them, and I did it again and again as they all stood up with expressions of disgust, trying to brush the oily liquid off as it soaked into their clothes and hair, and some shouted at me in rage and some backed away.
I set the gasoline can down on the ground calmly. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the box of matches. Opened it. Took one wooden matchstick out. And when I saw the fear on their faces, the void took me over.
I opened my mouth to speak Duane Tyrone’s name. I met his eyes. I was ready.
“Duane?”
Four heads turned as one toward the other dressing room door, the one that gave onto the hallway that led to the street door and up to the apartment above.
I recognized the voice immediately. I would recognize that voice if it called me softly from the other side of the universe.
It was Damaris.
Duane Tyrone got up and started shuffling toward the door. Machyl leapt up and opened it for him, offering his arm for DT to lean on and they disappeared into the hallway beyond.
Brooklyn sat down on the counter, his fingers twisted together anxiously, not looking at either of us. Marcus and I looked at each other.
“Did you know Damaris didn’t come home last night?” Marcus whispered at me.
I stared back at him.
He jerked his head toward the door. “Come on,” he whispered. “I want to see how this plays out.”
All of the clarity in my mind a few moments ago had been suffused with a swirling cloud of fog.
The gasoline-dripping figures in my mind scowled at me, cursed me and crowded into the bathrooms to wash off the stinking substance, raided my wardrobe to replace their ruined clothes, and stretched and ripped all of my outfits since none of them could fit, except my mother, who walked off in the blouse I had worn to the date in Gay Town.
Marcus was already at the door where everyone else had gone. Brooklyn, looking alarmed at being left alone, got up and followed.
I looked at the other door, the one which offered another escape route through the alley, then back to the one which Marcus had just gone through.
Damaris.
My feet were walking toward her already. I thought I would never see her again when she walked out the door yesterday. How could I have thought, for one moment, that I would walk away from her? No. I was a small planet in her orbit, irresistibly drawn to her by the most powerful force in the universe.
Brooklyn was just ahead of me. As I approached, I saw that DT was standing at the bottom of the stairs with Machyl flanking the other side. Marcus was leaning against the corner of the hall next to the coat hooks, his arms crossed.
The street door was wide open and to my surprise, I met familiar eyes through it. It was Tommy. As I got closer to Marcus, the changing angle revealed Teagan standing next to Tommy, but they weren’t alone. There were other women with them, forming a gaggle on the sidewalk outside the door. I noticed that one of the women, a tall Latinx, was holding the door open.
I stood next to Marcus, closer to the door so I had a better view but not too close to Machyl.
Footsteps came down the stairs and the shoes I had bought Damaris yesterday came into view, then the leggings, the silk bomber tied around her hips, the smooth skin of her trim waist, the spo
rts bra top with the central zipper, high neck and printed panels.
“I came back to get my laptop,” she said to Duane Tyrone, the device tucked under her arm and the charger coiled up in her hand.
DT fainted, collapsing onto Damaris’ legs, which broke his fall but knocked her back onto the stairs. Machyl and Brooklyn rushed forward to pull DT back and prop him against the wall. Machyl fanned him with his hands, tutting and rolling his eyes.
Damaris crouched on the stairs next to DT, touching his shoulder and head gently until his eyes fluttered open.
Duane Tyrone let out a long, low sound like an injured cow and placed Damaris’ hand against his chest, over his heart.
I watched Damaris’ lips purse and saw her let out a little sigh. Her eyes darted out the open front door. I moved slightly so I could look where she was looking, trying to be as subtle as possible. The women were still there, just standing and waiting.
“I,” DT huffed, his eyes half-closed as if he were too tired to open them completely. “Ellegrandé of House Ellegrandé, will now announce the queens who will be auditioning this year for the Vivesse Fashion and Beauty Parade on behalf of House of Ellegrandé.”
“Duane…” Damaris said softly.
“Miss Damaris Rae,” DT lowed, “and Miss Giltie Conshens.”
“Duh,” Marcus muttered under his breath from his corner, so quietly that I didn’t think anyone else could have heard. I glanced at him. He was glowering at the carrying-on taking place on the stairs.
I looked up and saw Brooklyn, who was leaning on the stair wall with his arms crossed. He had heard Marcus’ mutter.
“I don’t give a flying fuck about reality TV,” Marcus leaned over to mutter into my ear. I nodded quickly, uncomfortable that he was talking during this serious moment.
“Did you have something to say to us, Miss Bone China?” Machyl snapped, turning his head from where he was now crouching next to Duane Tyrone on the stairs.
Marcus glanced at Machyl and pursed his lips tight as if sealing them together. “No,” he said.
“Why are y’all still here anyway?” Machyl’s eyes flashed at us.
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