Freak Show

by James St. James

  I wish I knew.

  From what I can piece together, my mother just didn’t want me anymore. Threw me out like an old shoe. Said she couldn’t take it another day. Said she was at the end of her rope.

  Whatever THAT’S all about. Drama much?

  She sat me down and started crying, and said it was Dad’s turn to deal with me. Time for him to STEP UP, goddamn it. She washes her hands of the whole situation.

  Again, I can’t imagine what situation she was going on about, but it must have been real to her, though, because two days later I was here in Lauderdale.

  That was a month ago, and I’ve seen my dad exactly twice since moving in. Big house, different lives, you know. So much for stepping up to the paternal plate. It’s just as well. He’s a growly old goat, and he scares the crap out of me.

  So there you are—la la la.

  I spend the hot, glassy afternoons alone, exploring the house and gardens, looking for fresh places to hide, and cooking up new looks to rock the fashion world.

  III

  GETTING DRESSED FOR THE BIG DAY

  Although my sexuality is still largely theoretical at this point, I hope that I don’t actually LOOK gay—you know, all pursed and twittery with big, bulgy, “gay” eyes. It’s a new school after all. I need to test the waters first before I break out the tiaras and leg warmers. I’ve given this a lot of thought, as you can imagine.

  OKAY, HERE IT IS. MY OUTFIT:

  Don’t worry.

  It’s totally masculine.

  Swarthy, even.

  Nobody will suspect a thing.

  I’m going with a whole retro-new wave/Vivienne Westwood/pirate look. Fab, right? What’s straighter than a pirate? Ruffled lace shirt, unbuttoned down to THERE. High-waisted blue pants, practically sprayed on. Nothing gay about that, right? Only rednecks and Eurotrash dare to wear pants that tight and vulgar.

  A thrift store military jacket in Prussian blue, a crimson sash, some rags tied in my hair. . . .

  Then what? Pearls?

  Eye patch?

  Cap’n Crunch hat?

  Trusty sword?

  Gold teeth?

  No, no, no. It’s all too much. Well, maybe one gold tooth. So, I guess you’d say I was doing more of a “post-pirate” look. I’m a pirate who’s getting out of the life. But slowly, you know. I’m lubbin’ the land but missing my parrot. Yarg.

  MY FACE: I’m going for that “no-makeup look” that straight boys do. The idea, see, is to look “rested” instead of painted. I KNOW. What’s the purpose? But this is not an Adam Ant-Johnny Depp pirate. This is a farmer-friendly pirate.

  So, no purple blush and just the remnants of mascara. And that’s it. Okay, and maybe just a whisper of Soiled Oatmeal eye shadow (NOBODY WILL EVEN NOTICE) and possibly a little glop of gloss. Not even a glop. More like a glip (Wet ’N Wild Sheer Puppy Snot).

  DONE! PERFECT!

  I want the look to say: I’m not gay; I just flew in from Williamsburg. Where I had sex with girls! Many of them! The kind with boobs! So please don’t punch me!

  That’s what I’m going for, anyway.

  IV

  A NONFAN’S REACTION

  “No, no, no, you did not,” Flossie muttered when she saw me. “What is wrong with you, boy?”

  “Flossie,” I said as nicely as I could, “I think I know a little bit more about fashion than you. This is vintage Westwood. It cost a pretty penny on eBay. Any teenager, in any state, will immediately recognize how cool this is.”

  “If you say so. Mmm-mmm.”

  “Are you going to drive or play Fashion Police?”

  V

  AND WE’RE OFF

  Apparently this superprestigious, ultraexclusive school is forty-five minutes away! and located in the middle of a SWAMP! Huh? What? They didn’t mention THAT in the bloody brochures. Who would build a school in a swamp? And why hasn’t anyone mentioned this little fact to me until now? It’s just another sign that this is all wrong. Everywhere I turn, there are little pop-up omens warning me to stop, drop, and get the hell back in my cupboard. High up on this list of bad signs is THAT IT’S BUILT ON A SWAMP. You know a school is suspect if it HAS ITS OWN ALLIGATOR-WRESTLING TEAM. Really, how top drawer can it be? Also, I’m going out on a limb here, but any school that has to issue QUICKSAND WHISTLES? NO GOOD. It’s just these little ominous signs. Like, you know there might be trouble when the school mascot is AN ESCAPED CONVICT. See, it’s a SWAMP. And when chemistry class consists of a COUPLE OF KIDS KEEPING AN EYE ON THE STILL, well, that’s no good, either. What kind of place are they sending me to, anyway? Who’s idea was this?

  “I get it. The Everglades is a swamp. Are you finished yet, Carrot-top?” Flossie said. “We’re almost there.”

  Oh, dear lord.

  It was worse than I thought.

  As we pulled up, I actually witnessed a Swamp Thing leap from the slime, snatch a student off the sidewalk, and carry her, kicking and screaming, into the bog.

  Tough school.

  “See,” said Flossie, “it’s perfectly fine. Go on. I’ll see you at three.”

  Yes, yes. Just another country club school. Could be anywhere. Except for the mutant mosquitoes carrying off jackrabbits. And I still say: Any school that crowns a MALARIA QUEEN just feels wrong.

  Sigh.

  And so it begins.

  One foot in front of the other.

  VI

  WELCOME TO THE TERROR DOME

  1414 Sparkleberry Lane (I couldn’t make that up).

  And there’s the sign: DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER ACADEMY—HOME OF THE FIGHTING MANATEES.

  It appears I’m in the right place.

  So.

  Here we go.

  First day of school.

  At a NEW SCHOOL.

  Starting as a senior.

  Christ on a cracker, I am screwed.

  One step. Two steps.

  Three steps. Four.

  I made it all the way to the edge of the well-tended lawn before I lost my nerve. I hid behind a tree and watched as the spectacle unfolded. What I saw was horrible and hypnotic. Worse than I ever imagined. There. In the pristine courtyard. A seething, surging, wreathing, writhing army of upper-crusties . . .

  Crème de la Caucasians . . .

  Nothing but nothing but Stepford teens in full preen. In your choice of blond or blonder.

  Welcome to the WASP nest. . . .

  Yes, it was Preppies on Parade: Hi, Muffy! Hi, Buffy! Hey, Binky! Hey, Biff! There’s Moose McLettersweater! And his best girl, Abby Add-a-pearl!

  Look at them all—impossibly confident, impossibly beautiful, flawless to a fault! All of them perfectly dressed in crisp tennis whites and jaunty golf-wear. They’re so beautiful. Look at their perfect skin, their perfect smiles. No zits. No body fat. No split ends or less-than-pert noses. I love them. I hate them. They terrify me. Can I please be one of them?

  Are they real? Do they actually walk in slow motion? And are they really always in soft focus? Does the sun actually reflect starbursts in their hair?

  Obsenely rich and frighteningly good-looking. Truly a case of God giving with both hands.

  But where were all the nonblonds? The non-Nazi types? They can’t ALL be Children of the Corn!

  Where were the brooding malcontents? How come nobody was wearing black? Where were the stoners and the Goths? Where were the wiggers and the sluts? The K-Feds and the Brit-Brits?

  Where were all the saggers, the mopheads, the club kids, fashion fags, robo-trannies, go-go goths, Hello Kiddies, sk8r boys, pixie chicks, hood rats, boho babes, betty bots, electroclashers, giant monster fag hags, Paris-ites, and angry/lesbian/ovo-lacto-vegans? Where is the great and terrible cross-section of teen culture that makes school such wicked good fun?

  Well, there must be some sort of special theme today. It must be MALIBU STACY DAY or BRING A PROTESTANT TO CLASS DAY.

  Or maybe I was mistaken. Maybe the sun was playing tricks with my eyes. I mean, they can’t ALL be leggy blond su
perteens.

  I probably JUST MISSED all the culturally diverse kids. Yeah, that’s it. It’s probably 90 percent Blapanese or Inuit, and they’re all on the other side of the building, celebrating Cinco de September third, or something. In full tribal feathers. And maybe a lot of these students are from those superexclusive, PRIVATE countries where you have to be a member to know where it even is. And those types don’t look foreign, so you’d never know.

  Anyway.

  I’m sure this place is just fine.

  I don’t need to panic.

  (Smile.) (Whistle.) (Carry on.)

  VII

  PRELUDE TO A SLAUGHTER

  Oh! Hey! That’s interesting! Is that a—? And that! Look! And what’s that over there?

  I can’t get over it! My new school! Why, it’s a WHOLE NEW SCHOOL! How exciting!

  Just think! New friends! New experiences!

  Anything is possible. The world is my oyster.

  I’ll have to join all the after-school clubs here, of course. Get my fingers in lots of pies. That’s how you really meet people. Oh, I hope they have a wig club! And a Jackie O club! And maybe a Salute to Sondheim club! Oh, you gotta have one of those. I should check out the local Gay-Straight Alliance over lunch. I’m sure they’ll be a great help to me while I get my gay legs here. You know, back in Darien, I was Mistress of the Robes at my school’s GSA. Good times, good times.

  I should look into maybe getting a trendspotting column in the school newspaper. Or maybe an etiquette column! Everybody loves etiquette! Oh! Oh! And maybe they’ll let me set up a What Not to Wear booth in the lunchroom! Oh my God! I’ve got it! What about Moulin Rouge Mondays and Studio 54 Fridays? Can you imagine? SQUEAL! I’ll be a hero.

  Now, as for the general decor.

  Well, no, no, no. This will not do at all. There’s nothing here but poster board and crepe paper. Those are not tools for interior design. So it’s a total teardown. Yes, yes. First of all, I’ll need to form a committee and get a budget. Then I’ll need a theme. Something exotic but familiar. Chichi but homey. I see fabric draped about, lots of giant throw pillows, purple velvet walls. Sort of a turn-of-the-century-opium den feel . . .

  And these gloomy gray lockers—GONE. We’ll paint them pink. Yes, pink! Make them loud. Make them gaudy. Pink I tell you! Pink! Like Donatella Versace’s uterus!

  And we’ll put DJs and go-go dancers in the bathroom!

  And a Kabbalah corner, for spiritual guidance.

  And a crepe bar, everybody loves making crepes!

  So.

  It’s a challenge. Yes. A fixer-upper.

  It looks as if I have a purpose. I love having a purpose.

  It’s up to me to bring a little gay glamour to Eisenhower High. Really “nelly” up the joint.

  Room 213 . . . 214 . . . 215 should be next . . .

  Well, there it is. There’s my class.

  There’s the door.

  Biology with Mr. Reamer. Right there.

  I just need to adjust my sash . . .

  Fluff my ruffles. . . .

  I should have brought the eye patch . . .

  Given them a REAL pirate show. Too late now.

  Oh! Oh! Here we go! I can’t believe it! It’s almost showtime now!

  Remember: Project big!

  And enjoy myself.

  Pretend it’s a party for me . . .

  READY FOR MY GRAND ENTRANCE . . .

  DEEP BREATH.

  3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

  AND . . .

  VIII

  AND . . .

  I threw open the door with a bang and swept into the biology room with a flourish and a bow.

  Big smile.

  Hold for effect.

  AND . . . ACTION!

  “Ah, biology,” I cried, and threw my hands in the air. “The science of LIFE! Up from the primordial goo and all that! Here we stand, on the threshold of such great knowledge. Don’t you feel it? Isn’t it TOO exciting? Couldn’t you just SQUEAL? Aude saper, my friends. That’s Latin: ‘Dare to be wise’!”

  And every head snapped to attention.

  Every mouth opened in a perfect O of disbelief.

  A captive audience! YAY!

  I paused for dramatic effect, then lowered my voice to a quiver.

  “Our first day together. I will remember this moment for as long as I live. The sweet, sweet smell of swamp roses, the haunting cry of the swamp loons, the way the swamp light hits all of your faces . . . Truly we are the CHILDREN OF THE SWAMP. Brought together by this magical place. Taking our first steps of this journey together . . . Decoding the very secrets of life, side by side . . . Here’s to a memorable year! And sharing it together! HEAR! HEAR!”

  AND . . . SCENE!

  Then . . . nothing.

  Not a smile. Not a nod.

  Just glassy, uncomprehending stares.

  What to do? What to do?

  Well, keep pushing on, of course.

  More! More!

  Some audiences are just harder than others. Win them over with the old meet and greet. Work the room. Sparkle, Billy, sparkle! This is your moment to shine! Yes, yes, that’s it. NOW GO!

  I pushed my way into the hub of it, grabbing random hands, introducing myself, making small talk.

  “I’m Billy Bloom! How perfectly marvelous to meet you all! How do you do, darling. Divine blouse, yes yes. Pardon me. Oh, hello, how are you? Lovely weather we’re having. Hello, hello. Another year, can you believe it? So nice to meet you. Oh, MY DEAR, who does your hair? Well, it’s just the most, to say the least. Kiss, kiss.”

  And on.

  Like so.

  Why, you would have thought I was backstage opening night at Liza’s the way I shrieked and screamed and cried and carried on. I mingled like a maniac. I triple air-kissed complete strangers. I gushed over perfectly hideous outfits. I was a rocket. A cyclone. A force of nature. Next to me, Tara Reid was a grumpy wallflower. I was on fire!

  And yet.

  Nothing.

  Just the same blank stares. I mean, what? Do I have a pubic hair in my teeth? A string of snot swinging from my nose? What is it with these preppie pod-people? Have they never seen a woman of style and distinction before? Do they have a problem with pirates in this neck of the Everglades? Where’s that Southern hospitality when you need it?

  I was a bit rattled, I don’t mind saying. Completely thrown off my game.

  But still I pushed on.

  To no one in particular: “What a lovely school. I’m so glad to be here. . . .” But it rang false, and my words trailed off.

  And still the same roaring silence.

  Still the same gaping, unresponsive faces.

  AS IF TIME HAD STOPPED.

  Not knowing what else to say, I made some windy “yes, yes” and “well, well” noises—and dabbed my forehead with a handkerchief. Tough crowd. And I was losing ground.

  Okay, okay. Stay calm. Think clearly. Strategize. It was time to pull back. Yes, yes. Retreat and refocus. Zero in on just one person. “With Caesar goes Rome,” and all that. I needed an ally. An “in.”

  Who would be my first friend? I quickly surveyed the cat clique of cheerleaders, alpha debs, Bible belles, and Southern beauty queens. Eeeesh. I wouldn’t share my lip gloss with any ONE of them. Then I moved on to the sea of chisel-chinned quarterbacks, WASPy golden boys, Aberzombies, and rumpled teenage fogies. Cute, yes. But not the usual kind of people on my friendship recruiting list. Too well scrubbed. Too Young Republican. What would we talk about? Who’s wearing whose promise ring? Not my style. But this was no time for pickiness. My very survival was at stake.

  Now, if I were a hungry lioness and this were a class of wildebeests, I would separate the weakest from the crowd and wear him down. And that would be . . .

  That one.

  That tragic boy—over there, him!—he has been red-tagged for further inspection. Hmm . . . Oh my. Yes. He’s a pig of a boy, all right, and a runty one at that. I will devour him.

 
; I mean just look at him: ugly as a boil, face like a frying pan. His face is flat! FLAT! A level surface! And that’s exactly why parents shouldn’t let children play with anvils! Why, you could pound horseshoes on that face! You could fold shirts on that face! Clearly, he doesn’t belong here. He’s not one of them. He is the only ugly person I’ve seen so far. I bet he buys his clothes at the grocery store. Does he smell like he looks? And obviously he gets his hair cut by drunken epileptics. And would you look at those teeth! I’ve only ever seen teeth like that on hillbillies and demons. And demons wouldn’t be caught dead in those shoes.

  So. He’s absolutely perfect. He’ll be my first friend.

  I walked boldly over and shook his hand.

  “How do you do? I’m Billy Bloom. You can call me Bill or Billy or Bloom or Bloomie. You can call me Silly Billy for all I care. Just call me. Ba-dum-dum.” He actually flinched when I spoke, like I caused him physical pain, like I had shoved an oyster fork up his ass instead of introducing myself. I really had an effect on this boy. There was genuine terror in his piggy blue eyes.

  So I just started rambling with absolutely no idea what I was talking about. I just wanted to keep the conversation going. Not give him a chance to bolt. I just opened my mouth and hoped words came out.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking of changing my name,” I began, when, in reality, it had never crossed my mind. But I was off and running, and who knows where I was headed. “I mean, Billy Bloom is a good name, and all, but I didn’t choose it. It was thrust upon me. And I think I want something with a little more ZING to it—something with PIZZAZZ. It needs to be something that will look good up in lights, of course, but also at book signings, on giant cardboard checks, purloined love letters, death warrants, clemency papers; but most importantly, it has to look good on the Jeopardy! screens, because NOBODY has a good signature on Jeopardy! Anyway, I’ve narrowed it down to two. . . .” (When I hadn’t. But that wouldn’t stop me now.) “I’m torn between either Pagan La Rue or Pippin Polyglop—which do you think?”