“STOP! YOU DID NOT!”
“Oh yes, I did, MARY JANE. And he was all . . .”
“OH MY GOD! I’M DYING!”
“Don’t die, MARY JANE. But see, he totally seemed like . . .”
“GET OUT! GET! OUT!”
And so on.
When I got to our big kiss, well, I thought my new friend MARY JANE MCAFFERTY was having a stroke, I honestly did. That’s when her face got all twisted and twitchy, and she got this freaky Joker-from-Batman smile that was too big to really be a smile—I thought it must be some involuntary muscle reaction that occurs when your brain explodes.
I literally thought my gossip was so juicy, it killed her.
But then she bolted upright and screamed: “YOU MADE OUT WITH FLIP KELLY?”
“In front of God and two hundred slack-jawed witnesses aboard the good ship Jungle Queen!”
She choked on an imaginary bite of food. “YOU MEAN . . . THERE ARE PICTURES?”
Oh. Hm. I hadn’t even thought of that. But yes. “Yes, I suppose there are.”
She was already scribbling madly in her to-do book.
I LIKE THE WAY THIS DAME THINKS!
We then spent a while chatting about this and that, and getting reacquainted and caught up on all the latest gossip, until I felt confident enough to tell her why I asked her to come.
I laid it all out for her.
I filled her in about my new alter ego, Superfreak, and my new calling in life, and how I thought I needed to somehow use my drag to challenge the system (She nodded vigorously at this.); and that I needed to go back to the Eisenhower Academy one more time, but for ME this time, and give it a clear, concentrated effort, you know; and that I felt like I needed to conquer those rich swamp rats once and for all (She pumped a power-to-the-people fist in the air.); that I was going to earn their respect and their acceptance, or die trying; and, along the way, drag them into the twenty-first century, right? and teach them that being gay does not mean that God hates me or if I sneeze, they’re going to get AIDS; or that just because they all have penises DOES NOT MEAN I want to lure each and every one of them into the broom closet. (Here she jumped up and hugged me. “YOU GO, SISTA SOULJAH!” she screamed.)
Emboldened, I went so far as to show her my Superfreak costume, and explained the meaning and power behind the rags.
She was suitably awestruck. “Those are SOME HOLY RAGS, then, huh?” she whispered.
Then I mumbled that “maybe, if you wanted, you could be my sidekick.”
She accepted on the spot.
“OH MY GOD!” she squealed. “I’ve only been waiting MY WHOLE LIFE for someone to ask me that! OF COURSE! OF COURSE! What’s my name? What’s my shtick? What do I wear? I’m not so good with the tying old rags together, though. I’m going to need something preassembled.”
I pulled out the bedraggled circus outfit with a timid “ta-dah!” “But picture it clean, of course, and totally glammed out with new spangles, new sequins, and all new feathers. It will be rejeweled and reglittered and reborn, better than before! We’ll do it together! I’ll show you how! And we’ll get you a really fab wig and a mask, and you can be WIG GIRL!”
“Do you really think I could pull it off?”
“SURE! That’s the thing about superheroes and secret identities: They’re SUPPOSED to be opposites so nobody will ever suspect . . . You are the meek-and-mild whisper chick by day, and the bold, audacious FEATHERED FIST OF JUSTICE by night! It’s a classic paradigm! You can’t lose!”
“Let’s do it!” she said. “Let’s change the world!”
WHEEEEEEEE!
XIII
MY SUPERHERO ACADEMY
Mary Jane McAfferty, from the get-go, proved to be a very proactive sidekick.
With her everything was all “Chop-chop!”
“Hup! Hup!”
“Down to business!”
“Dawn of a new day,” and all!
WHOOEEE. YES, SIR. With her on board I was on the fast track to begin getting things done. Things were really moving right along.
We spent almost all of our spare time together—early mornings, weekends, secret late-night rendezvous—whenever we could squeeze in a meeting, there was always just so much to do!
But now, instead of describing each of our courses and activities in mind-numbing detail, I thought that we might just have a quick, Rocky-style montage of the high points, set to inspiring music:
LA-DA-DA! DA-DA-DA! (That’s the music.)
There we are doing Tai Chi on the beach at sunrise . . . and running and jumping hurdles in high heels. . . . That’s Mary Jane, practicing dramatic entrances and advanced cape swirling. . . .
On the split screen, there’s Mary Jane reading Machiavelli and The Art of War by Sun Tzu while I’m watching Cruel Intentions and studying old episodes of Pinky and the Brain.
DA-DA-DUM-DEE-DUM! LA-DA-DEE!
Here, Mary Jane has turned an unused room in the southern wing into our war room. As you can see, there are chalkboards and poster boards and overhead projections of diagrams and secret game plans, as well as perky strategy slogans to keep us inspired and on track.
“BE BOLD!” she has written in large orange and pink letters.
“COURT ATTENTION AT ALL COSTS!” she instructs on another board.
“TRANSFORM YOUR WAR INTO A CRUSADE!” she advises.
“KEEP YOUR MESSAGE SIMPLE,” she warns.
“ELEVATE YOURSELF ABOVE THE BATTLEFIELD,” she extols.
And so on.
LA-DA-DA-DEEEEE!! DUM-DA-DA-DA-DEEEE!
Oh, here I am, building a better superhero outfit . . . because let’s face it: The “tatter-monster look” was okay for quick public appearances and photo ops. But it wasn’t built for the general day-to-day things we do, like swinging from rooftops, scaling walls, and chasing villains through sewer systems. And no matter how it’s tied together, it has a tendency to unravel at the most inconvenient times—just as you’re bursting into villains’ lairs, for instance, or standing in line at Arby’s.
And I know I said all that crap about wearing those rags as a symbol of my oppression, BLAH BLAH BLAH, but . . . um . . . ew—they’re RAGS! You didn’t think I was really serious?
So here I am: altering the Batgirl costume. I’ve glued a red wig ON TOP of the masked headpiece, as sort of a hair hat—SO CHIC!—and changed the insignia to a silhouette of a GIANT BOUFFANT wig. . . . Oh! Oh! And I’ve shortened the cape! Now it only falls about halfway down my back, which is THE hot new length in crime-fighting capes this season. It’s true! Shorter than a poncho, longer than a capelet. Yes, that’s how EVERYONE’S wearing them.
Oh, and there’s Mary Jane, still diligently working on her Wig Girl outfit . . . bless her heart; there are a LOT of spangles that need resewing on that thing before it’s ready for its debut.
BUM-BUM-DUM-DUM-TA-DUM!
And there you have it! Superhero boot camp! The two of us diligently preparing for my triumphant return!
But as wonderful and energizing as Mary Jane is, we don’t always share the same vision. In fact, sometimes we are on completely different pages of completely different books.
For instance: One of our top priorities is making sure that I’m not attacked again, if and when I return to classes. We were each supposed to brainstorm ideas and bring our lists to the table for discussion.
These were HER IDEAS:• Self-defense class? Brazilian jujitsu? Kickboxing?
• Secret Bully-cams hidden in each classroom?
• Carry pepper spray?
• Alert the school board of potential threats?
• Hire a bodyguard from one of the students on the wrestling team?
And these were MY IDEAS:• Tiara that doubles as boomerang.
• Bullet-deflecting bracelets (Chanel).
• Hypno compact! No. Wait. Maybe a hypno belt buckle! Yes! And then knockout powder in my compact! YES!
Then one day, quite out of the blue, Mary Jane said something incredibly o
dd. We were discussing various strategies for outmaneuvering the enemy when she said: “‘Lay low, sing small’—that’s the motto of the shadow people, you know, and it works for them.”
THE WHO?
THE WHAT?
“Oh, Billy.” She leans in conspiratorially. “I’ve wanted to tell you about them forever. I mean, FOREVER! But I was bound by oath to keep their secret until they told me it was okay to let you in. . . .”
SHADOW PEOPLE?
Yes, apparently there is a secret population of shadow students who survive on the fringes of the academy. According to Mary Jane, they live under the radar and out of the spotlight. They are ghost kids, taking the long way to classes; scurrying noiselessly along forgotten paths, behind the overgrown hedges, down dark, unused corridors.
“A secret underground society of closet rebels and misfits?” I asked incredulously. “You mean like Beneath the Planet of the Apes? Do they look like us? Or are they all C.H.U.D.-like? Do they have great, glowing goggle eyes to see in tunnels? Have I ever seen one? Would I know one if I did?”
“Oh, you are SO FUNNY!” She laughed. “Relax. They’re just regular students, like you and me. You see them everywhere. You just don’t LOOK at them, because they know how to blend in. The trick, you see, is to be not attractive enough to attract attention, but attractive enough so as not to stand out in a sea of physical perfection. You have to be a strict seven and a half. . . .”
It was a lot to wrap my head around.
Imagine! All this time! Drama students! Geeks! Nerds! An actual lesbian! And one or two possibly bisexual boys! It was outrageous! Remarkable! A complete and utter shock! According to Mary Jane, there were even a couple of them in my biology class!!
“Get OUT! Who?”
“Payton Manners and Louis-Don Pettigrew.”
I had absolutely no idea who they were.
“SEE? That’s how good they are! I’ll try and set up a meet ’n’ greet for you with a couple of them. They’re very anxious to throw their support behind you and offer whatever technical expertise you might need to help you sock it to the “preppyarchy.” Oh, and just so you know: Their help would be STRICTLY BEHIND THE SCENES. Whatever you do, DON’T ACKNOWLEDGE ONE if you see them on campus. They’ve worked very hard to pass unnoticed. One swooning air-kiss from you, and all their anonymity goes down the crapper. Capeesh?”
“Wow. I don’t know whether to be honored or insulted. But it’s not an issue either way, because I’m ALL ABOUT the cloak-and-dagger scene. I LIVE for that stuff!”
“Well, I’ll arrange for something interesting, then.”
XIV
So far, our main focus has been the development of a vague blackmailing scheme, wherein we would target the various students who constituted threats: gathering the goods on, say, Baba’s incontinence, Bib’s boy-band past, and Dottie’s cutting for Christ.
I didn’t like it.
“Don’t think of it as blackmail,” she’d say. “Think of it as an insurance policy.”
And: “Even Batman resorted to vigilantism.”
I thought it seemed like bad karma. I know what shame feels like; I didn’t want to inflict it on others. It seemed counterproductive and un-Superfreakish. I didn’t want to inspire hate. And besides, Batman is SO NOT a role model for us! Way too grumpy and gloomy.
But NOW!
Well, this just changes EVERYTHING, doesn’t it?
I mean, the existence of an underground network of support suddenly opened up a whole new world of opportunities. . . .
Knowing I had the support of others got me to thinking. . . .
HMMMM . . .
Just maybe . . .
I looked at the calendar . . . then went online to check out a few things. . . .
I took my still vague, still unformed idea to Mary Jane. “Wow,” she said, and whistled, when I laid it out for her. “That would really be something. But is it feasible?”
I showed her my preliminary research, and she took it from there. Within twenty-four hours she had devised a fully workable plan of action.
So it was Mary Jane who took my embryo of an idea and gave it form and substance and made it into a real possibility.
It was Mary Jane, for instance, who realized how big it could really be, and how far we could take it.
And most important of all, it was Mary Jane who contacted Clancy Duckett.
Clancy Duckett?
The Channel 7 Action News anchor?
I never would have had the nerve!
I never would have thought my little announcement was newsworthy!
But Mary Jane had once done an interview with “the Voice of the Southland” for the Eisenhower Dispatch and had kept her phone number and e-mail address for just such a reason.
And Clancy’s response, God bless her, was one of immediate support.
XV
A LITTLE BACKGROUND
“Fancy” Clancy Duckett is anything but.
It’s one of those jokes, like calling a fat guy “Slim,” or a tall guy “Tiny” (oh, ha-ha).
So let’s get it straight: There ain’t nothin’ fancy about her.
She’s an “earthy” gal.
A real Peppermint Patty.
(And a dyke, to boot.)
NOT A PRETTY WOMAN, you understand. We’re clear on that?
After a lifetime of playing golf in the brutal Florida sun, Clancy Duckett looks like a coconut. Yes, yes, look: the skin on her face is hard, hairy, and brown. CRACKLE CRACKLE. Put a spiky wig on a coconut, prop it up at the news desk, and see if viewers can tell the difference. And, bless her heart, she’s WAAAAY past the point where a little hydrating serum or RevitaLift could help, so don’t suggest it. And even IF she wore makeup, which she doesn’t, ever, not even on the air, but even if she LOST HER DAMN MIND one day and allowed a makeup woman to “paint her up” I suspect it would be like nailing Jell-O to a tree. It would not stick. No. No. No. It’s too late. Of course, she wouldn’t even notice. She doesn’t know M•A•C from crack, or NARS from Mars. HELLO! SNAP!
So no, no, no . . .
“None of that glop for me,” she booms. “If the viewers don’t like my face the way God made it, well then, lump ’em! When the image becomes more important than the message, that’s the day I’ll retire to my poodle farm in Peru!”
And nobody wants THAT.
And fashionwise? Let’s just say she’s not going to set any red carpets on fire. No, no. She dresses with all the panache of Jim Belushi.
But Clancy Duckett didn’t need any of that. She had a charisma that transcended the phony trappings of other newscasters. She told the truth, see. She was a straight shooter, and for that she stood out in a sea of bubbleheaded bleach bunnies.
As the leader of the Action 7 news team, she was the venerable voice of South Florida, a respected community leader whose nightly commentaries shaped public opinion, changed attitudes, influenced politicians, and swayed elections. That she was also an out-loud lesbian, out proud for twenty-seven years and a great supporter of the local GLBT community, and was accepted by just about everyone. She had been a part of South Floridian’s lives for so long, and had so completely earned the public’s trust and respect, that even the most conservative viewer was willing to tolerate her alternative lifestyle.
To say she was a good ally would be an understatement.
So when Mary Jane told me she had taken a personal interest in my story, and was planning on filming my announcement LIVE, well, I just about DIED.
XVI
We met for coffee an hour before school.
“You’re Bloom, then?” she asked when I walked into the Denny’s.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Clancy Duckett, Channel Seven,” and she shook my hand, giving me two firm pumps and a business card. “You’ve taken on quite a challenge. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you. And thank you for covering it.”
“Okay, Bloom, before we get into the preinterview, there’s a little pa
perwork here. Standard rights and agreement—name, image, story. No union, right? Good. Sign there, there, and there, date there and there, and initial this. And then this. And then this, this, this, and this. Yep. Yep. Okay, and I need to ask a few questions before we begin. Purely technical. Bloom is spelled B-L-U-M-E or B-L-O-O-M?”
“Double O,” I answered.
“And how do you want to be identified?”
I must have looked blank, or taken too long, because she added, “Under your name? You know: Gay? Bisexual? Transgender?”
“Oh . . . um . . . Well. Hmm . . .” I thought for a minute more, frowned, then brightened. “Hey! I’ve always been partial to ‘preen queen.’ Yes, yes, that’s good! That pretty much sums me up!”
She shook her head. “We should stick to established terms. Maybe something like ‘Gender-bender’? ‘Transvestite’?”
“What about ‘TRANSVISIONARY’?”
“Okay. Too vague. Could be a moving company. What about ‘gender illusionist’?”
“‘Gender obscurist?’” I countered. “Or ‘GENDER OBLIVIA-TOR! ’ ” I shouted, maybe a little too wild-eyed.
“Wooo. Wrong direction, Billy. Network. Keep it friendly. What about the standard ‘drag queen’?”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. “‘Twinkle queen?’ ‘Tinsel queen?’ No. No. Nothing old-school. More forward. Oh, hey! What about ‘GLITTEROID!’ That’s hot! Oh my God! That could actually take off!”
Freak Show Page 17