by Jeffery Self
“Tash?”
He looked up from his seat, where he was furiously attempting to glue the heel back to the bottom of his shoe, with no luck.
“What do you want?” he spat.
He was clearly in no mood to chat. So, the usual.
“Did you break your shoe?” I asked.
“What does it look like? Stupid, cheap things can’t handle even one day of rehearsal.”
I stood there quietly for a moment as he kept trying to fix it, getting progressively more frustrated by the second.
“I have extra shoes. Do you want to borrow them?”
He froze, staring down at the shoe for a minute or two, then looked up at me. “Why would you do that?”
I shrugged. “Because you need a shoe.”
“But why would you do that? Nobody here even likes me.”
He had a solid point there.
“Why do you think that is?” I asked.
“Because I’m a bitch.”
Again, a solid point.
“And why is that?”
“Why is what?” he asked, throwing the broken shoe down to the ground and standing up to face me, eye to eye.
“Why are you a bitch?”
He looked shocked by the question.
I pressed on. “I’ve been nothing but nice to you since I met you, and you’ve been nothing but a bully. At first I thought, okay, maybe it’s just me, but it’s not. You’re a bitch to everybody for no reason, and it’s like, why? What’s your problem?”
He nervously chewed his bottom lip, smudging his pink lipstick. After a while, he finally spoke, softer than ever before.
“The first time I ever dressed up in drag, I felt amazing. Right? I felt like a superstar—and I was. I dominated the night. I went to this party, right? And everybody wanted a photo with me because I looked really damn fine, and somebody posted a photo on Facebook. I didn’t mind, because it racked up so many likes. Then when I came home, my dad comes into my bedroom, and he has the picture opened up on his phone. He shoves it in my face and starts yelling, saying what the hell is wrong with you, calling me a freak, telling me I’m disgusting. And right there, before I could even defend myself, he asked if I was gay, and I said yeah, and he got so mad I thought he was going to kill me. But he just took his fist and punched me, really really hard, across my face. Then he left my room, and I could hear my mom crying, telling him to apologize, and I could hear him calling me these awful words. I got a Lean Cuisine out of the freezer and held it on my face and I cried. And then, when it got really late, my mom came into my room and told me I had to leave. She couldn’t stop crying, but she was just as scared of Dad as I was. So I left. I never saw them again. All because of some stupid wig I wanted to wear.” He shook his head with a bemused and heartbroken laugh. “Holy hell. Does it get any more clichéd than that?”
He focused his damp eyelids down at the broken shoe and, after a moment, kicked it angrily across the room.
“That night I made up my mind. I decided screw it … I’ll be a superstar, and nobody will stand in my way, ever. I’ll never let somebody pretend to care about me ever again because at the end of the day, they’re just another something between me and superstardom. And I’ve never forgotten it.”
It was quiet for a while, except for the sounds of hair dryers and iPod speakers playing pop music around the room.
“Half hour till curtain,” the stage manager announced on the sound system.
I handed Tash a pair of shoes. He didn’t look up as he took them; he just stayed staring down at the ground.
“Not everybody is pretending, Tash. Some of us actually mean it.”
He looked up at me, just a little bit, not all the way, and I could see that his mascara was creating long black squiggly lines as it ran down his cheeks, like the doodles in an algebra notebook. He mouthed the words “Thank you”—moved enough to acknowledge me, but not secure enough to let anyone else hear it.
“Hey, papi!” a contestant named Angel’s Beth called out amid a cacophony of ooohs and whistles. I looked up to discover that the object of these catcalls was none other than Seth. He looked beautiful, as usual, but especially so now, in a plaid skinny tie and gray suit jacket that was just the slightest bit too small for him. His hair was slicked back like some handsome movie star from the old movies I’d watched with Nana. As soon as he saw me, his face lit up.
“Wow,” he said. “JT, you look amazing.”
He handed me a big bouquet of flowers wrapped in plastic. He’d forgotten to peel off the price tag, so I saw they’d cost him twenty-six bucks.
“Seth, you didn’t have to do that.”
He pulled me toward him, his breath minty as always.
“Shhhhh,” he said. “This is the story of a boy about to win his own future. And in that story, the boy who loves him brings him flowers.” He paused, looking a little nervous. “Am I allowed to kiss you, or is that going to screw up your makeup?”
I leaned forward and gently placed my lips on his in response. I could feel his lips turn up into a smile beneath my own.
“How do you feel?” he quietly asked, without moving his lips away from mine.
“Excited—well, excited and scared.”
He pulled away from me, looking me up and down, taking in my whole outfit. I was in the red bouffant, some costume jewelry, and the aqua beaded gown—which was a little small, but if I didn’t breathe too heavily, it was almost comfortable.
“You look beautiful. Really. All you need to do is go out there and show them the guy I fell in love with. Deal?”
“I haven’t written my speech. Every time I’ve started to, something has happened. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Seth rolled his eyes. “Have you learned anything in the past few days?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, then. All you need to do is go up there and tell everyone what you’ve learned. That’s it.”
“But it’s a speech! Everyone has theirs memorized and funny.”
“I’m not going to put my hand over your mouth because, again, I don’t want to screw up your makeup. But listen to me. You go out there and tell us why you drag, from your heart. I know that heart, JT. And if you’ll just allow everyone to see it, you’re going to shine. Okay?”
I half nodded, half adjusted my wig.
“No. Say okay.”
I whispered “Okay” as the stage manager called five minutes until showtime.
“Also, I got you this.” He handed me an envelope. “Open it.”
Inside was a piece of paper on which, in Seth’s perfect handwriting, was a list of at least fifty random words and sentences.
“It’s every possible secret I’ve never told you. Every skeleton in my closet.”
I don’t actually like to work out. I always have to double check how to spell February. I don’t know the difference between Jessica Alba and Jessica Biel, I read from the list. Seth blushed.
“Yeah. Some secrets are juicier than others.”
We laughed the kind of laugh people share when they’re moved by the same thing, by each other. I felt silly for having been upset with Seth’s secrets to begin with. We all have crap we bury; some of us have better shovels than others.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I never should have freaked out about all that. I’ve been really selfish.”
Seth smiled. “You have been. Maybe we both have. But I’m glad. It’s about damn time you did something selfish for once. I’m proud of you.”
He pulled me into his arms one more time, then took one step back, snapping a photo.
“I better get out there. Heather’s meeting me in the lobby. Apparently she’s spent the day sleeping off last night. But I’ll see you on the other side. Just shine, JT. Shine like you do for me every single day.”
He walked away, through the other contestants. One queen whispered loud enough for the entire room to hear, “Screw the scholarship—they ought to give him as the prize!”
<
br /> My heart fluttered.
“Final call to places, final call!”
THERE WAS A LOUD MURMUR from the audience as they took their seats on the other side of the big red curtain. All of us, all twenty contestants, were lined up in our staged formation for the opening number. I hadn’t felt like this since waiting to go on for the school talent show. The difference was that here I was waiting to go on with nineteen other guys eager to embark on the same thing as me, and not a single one of them was a stupid football jock making lame jokes about me being gay.
I scanned the group. I saw Pip chanting something to himself. I saw Milton doing elaborate stretches like he was Natalie Portman in Black Swan. I saw Red walking through the choreography and singing the lyrics to himself. And I saw Tash, in the extra set of shoes, standing still, ready to unleash his inner diva.
Everyone looked great, truly not a single dud in the mix—except maybe Katy Hairy, who looked like a pirate lounge singer and was about as balanced as a pirate in a sea-tossed ship.
The work lights went out, the stage now almost entirely black, with the only light coming through a tiny crack in the curtain and a couple blue lights spilling over from the wings. Daryl weaved through us up to the front of the stage, right where the two curtains parted. Before going out, he turned around to face us.
“Folks, I just want to say, before we begin, that I couldn’t be more excited for tonight.” He spoke in a loud whisper. “I think this is one of the best groups of contestants we’ve ever had, and that’s not something I say every year. Okay, yes it is. But this year I actually mean it.”
The more nervous of us laughed.
“I want you to remember to go out there and have fun and be your true selves, okay? Show me everything that’s inside of you. As you all know, John Denton wasn’t just a brilliant playwright and performer, he was the first person who taught me that sometimes it takes stepping into someone else’s shoes—namely, stilettos—to feel comfortable enough to let your true inner goddess shine through. Let’s honor John tonight. Let’s fill this room with our goddess energy and celebrate everything that’s just plain fabulous about ourselves. How about it?”
This time, everyone but Tash cheered. Tash was a statue of poise.
“All right—let’s do this!”
Daryl slipped through the part in the curtain, a spotlight hitting him as he did so, the hot white light seeping through. He launched into a speech welcoming the audience, talking about what the John Denton Foundation did and how the evening would work. He explained that after the opening number, the judges would whittle us down to ten contestants. The audience sounded lively and ready for a great show; it was intoxicating to hear their laughter and applause.
I couldn’t wait for that curtain to part and those lights to hit me. I was ready. I was ready to introduce the world to … crap. It suddenly dawned on me that I still hadn’t come up with a drag name. It hadn’t come to me the way Bambi told me it would. There had been no sign, no act of drag God, no aha moment. Just a lot of things falling apart and me freaking out about every single one of them. I had been so busy discovering myself that I hadn’t had a chance to discover my drag name.
But maybe that was the exact point.
RuPaul, one of the greatest drag queens of all time, simply used her given name in her journey to superstardom. If I had learned one thing in the past few days, it was that drag didn’t have to be pretending to be somebody else. It was about letting your inner diva out, saying “F.U.” to your inhibitions, and allowing yourself to stand up and shine. If anyone had emerged, it was me. And that was exactly who I decided my drag teen would be.
Lady Rooster stood in the wings, awaiting her entrance as the Mistress of Ceremonies. She was quietly berating the sound guy for giving her a microphone with a cord as opposed to one that was cordless. She was furious, doing that whispering version of screaming where you’re not whispering at all but not extracting as much voice as you would if you were actually screaming.
“Do you know who I am?! Would you hand Bette Midler a wired microphone and say, ‘Sorry, it’s the best we could do’? No! You wouldn’t, because she’d throw a cup of hot coffee at you. In fact, go get Lady Rooster a cup of hot coffee to throw at you!”
Just then, Daryl’s voice could be heard asking the audience to give a warm welcome to the host, Lady Rooster. Like a switch had been thrown, she dropped any trace of rage and pushed the sound guy out of her way, making her grand entrance to way more cheering than she probably deserved. The chastised sound man, looking very relieved, shrugged and walked away.
Lady Rooster spent a solid ten minutes getting the audience to applaud every single detail of her costume, down to her earrings and toenail polish (which wasn’t even visible in her close-toed shoes). She was a handful, to say the least, and seemingly not the nicest person around, but her ability to win over an audience was undeniable. The lineup backstage stated she’d do a five-minute opening monologue, but by minute fifteen I could tell it was going to be a long night. She spoke of the infamous four key traits they’d be looking for: glamour, talent, heart, and soul. Then she said her own four key traits were cash, credit, accessories, and something that rhymed with truckability. Finally, she asked the audience to join her in welcoming the contestants of the Sixth Annual Miss Drag Teen Pageant. The curtains parted, the bright pink stage lights blinding my eyes for a second until my vision came back and I could see Linda at the piano, counting us down.
Three, two, one and we were off.
The lyrics of the opening number were all about introducing us as queens. Lots of lyrics about being glamorous, at one point rhyming glamour with hammer and mascara with bad roots will scare ya, in a lyric I could barely understand. Oh, and to get a better sense of the whole thing, just imagine an entire stage of teenage boys in drag singing the lyrics to the song’s chorus, which were: We’re being born / you have been warned / tonight’s the night / we drag it home! (Thirty dollars to anyone who can explain what that even means.)
I was pleasantly surprised at just how well I was doing on the choreography, attempting to remember to smile while doing so, as the choreographer had continuously reminded us by shouting out supportive things like “Who paid to see the damn show? WE DID!” throughout rehearsal.
We formed our vertical line down the center of the stage, each taking our turn to step into the spotlight and up to the microphone to give our introduction. Katy Hairy was first, then Miss Hedini, then Milton, aka Electro Shock.
“I’m Electro Shock and I’m from Buffalo, New York. I can sometimes surprise you, but it’s good for all of us to be a little shocked sometimes.”
The audience clapped as more and more queens had their moment: Rachael Gay, Natasha, Mimi Pick Me, Baby Diva, Texas Alexus, Roxanne Roll. When Pip got up, he held up both fingers in peace signs and announced, passionately, “I’m Eartha Peace and I’m from Woodstock, New York. I believe in the power of love!”
I was three away from the front and getting more nervous with each passing contestant. By the time Lady Footlocker was explaining that she believed that children were our future, I was beginning to sweat. The closer to the spotlight, the hotter it felt. After Red—aka Red Sia—made his introduction, I took my place in front of the microphone.
“I’m JT and I’m from Clearwater, Florida. I may not be the best drag teen, but I love doing it. I want to love myself, and you know what? When I’m in drag, I think I actually might. I’m so excited to be here!”
I could hear Heather cheering from the back like some crazed football fan as I scurried back to my place.
As we finished the introductions and moved in opposite directions across the stage, I could feel one of the false eyelashes peeling off my eyelid. I attempted to keep it on by blinking uncontrollably, but I could feel it slowly peel farther and farther. Pretty soon I knew it was too late. It was a strange feeling too, like a cockroach you didn’t know was hanging out in your eyelid was beginning to crawl out. Only it wasn’t a b
ug at all but your entire eyelash. As the other contestants stomped their heels past me, I had my eyes focused on the ground to see where it had landed. I spotted it a little left of center stage—luckily no one had stepped on it, but it was, without a doubt, only a matter of time before someone did just that.
Within the staging, I wouldn’t be passing that specific spot again for another verse. By then it could very well be too late.
I got to stage right, where my group of ten had to strike a pose, complete with silhouette and jazz hands, and belt the Dr. Seuss–like lyric Wigs on our heads and brains underneath / we’re more than just beauty queens, more than lipstick and teeth. On the downbeat, we all flashed our best pageant smiles and fluttered our eyes at the laughing audience, but mine were shifting back to the sole eyelash, lying there motionless like some tragic fallen soldier.
I looked around, hoping to catch another queen’s eyes, to signal MAYDAY! But no one noticed me. We crossed the stage once more, past the eyelash … but I was in the back row and couldn’t reach it. It was out of sight for a while at a part where I really, really needed to concentrate on my kick step. When I got to the left side of the stage, I looked back … and it was gone!
The music was building, as a strange soundtrack to my own building blood pressure. I scanned other areas of the stage, but with no luck. It was nowhere to be found. It was likely on the bottom of someone’s plus-size stilettos, and I hadn’t brought a spare. I wasn’t going to let it deter me, however. As soon as I get offstage, I thought, I’ll rip off the remaining eyelash and that’ll be my thing: the drag queen without eyelashes. A lump of disappointment formed in my throat as all the contestants stepped into the two choreographed lines across the stage. As I passed Tash, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked behind me, and his eyes signaled down to his palm. There was my lost eyelash. I let out a gasp of relief and grabbed it. Tash winked and took his place in the front row, all of us hitting our marks and striking our designated poses for the final chord of the song, followed immediately by the stage lights blacking out and the audience erupting into applause.