Freak Show

by James St. James

  “WELL, WELCOME TO HIGH SCHOOL, PEOPLE!

  “We are freaks, because we’re teenagers! We are, by nature, oily, throbbing, mutating, misshapen space aliens. We have zits the size of matzo balls and strange patches of fur sprouting daily. Yes, yes, WE ARE ALL FREAKS! IT’S WHO WE ARE! IT’S WHAT WE DO!

  “Some of you just pull it off better than others.

  “You call me a freak. And it’s true.

  “I’m asking you all to look inside yourselves—look into that secret place—confront your own inner freak. Don’t turn away in shame. Stare it down, really examine it, inside and out, and then maybe you’ll believe me when I say to you again that I am not so different from you.

  “Yes, yes—gay, bulimic, chronic masturbator, beauty queen with smelly feet, debutante strung out on Ex-Lax . . . It’s all the same.

  “Now, I don’t want you all to think that the meaning of homecoming is lost on me. It’s about school tradition and honoring the school’s legacy.

  “I know I haven’t been here long enough to have been a part of your traditions yet, but this is my home now. And they say when you move into a new home, you should start a new tradition.

  “Might I suggest a new tradition of tolerance, of inclusion.

  “You call me a freak, and I accept that. But I say that I am not so different from you. And if we are, each of us, freaks—then can’t we accept what’s different in each other and move on?

  “Accept me.

  “Accept yourself.

  “Accept the Universal Freak Show in us all.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” I said.

  One by one, the shadow students stood and applauded. Others joined in, slowly at first, but quickly, gathering momentum.

  Onstage, Bo-Bo Peterson held his Scarlet F up high, prompting several shadow students in the bleachers to hold up theirs.

  I shot Bib a look and touched my right shoulder with my left hand (his cue).

  And he reluctantly held his F in the air.

  All applause stopped abruptly. Shocked short.

  Yes, Bib held his F high, but his head hung low.

  Everybody looked around and whispered: “What the hell is going on?”

  Is this OPPOSITE DAY? Have we fallen into an anti-universe? Is it snowing in hell, perchance?

  “WHY WOULD BIB . . . ?” “DOESN’T HE REALIZE WHAT THAT . . . ?” “WHAT’S HE THINKING . . . ?”

  Flip shot me a look of complete and utter dismay. OUR FIRST EYE CONTACT SINCE THAT NIGHT!

  I walked to the edge of the stage and bowed deeply to the crowd, like a magician who had just pulled off his greatest trick. I gestured to Bib, still obediently holding his F of support, as if to say: “Behold the power of BILLY BEYONDO!”

  “WELL, IF BIB OBERMAN SUPPORTS HIM!” “I DIDN’T KNOW THAT BIB LIKES HIM NOW. . . .” “CAN’T BE AS BAD AS LYNNETTE CLAIMS. . . .”

  And suddenly, everybody leaped to their feet and began applauding wildly.

  There were hoots and hollers and stomps and whistles.

  “FREAK! FREAK! FREAK!” they chanted.

  So, YEA, BILLY!

  GO, BILLY!

  It was another major victory on my part, and I was SKY-HIGH! YES! OVER THE MOON! SKIPPING THROUGH STAR CLUSTERS! SURFING ON A COMET’S TAIL!

  WATCH ME GO! WHEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

  XXXVI

  ROLLING, ROLLING, ROLLING

  Four days left until the election, and it was a cakewalk to the crown.

  Yes, yes, I was on a winning streak of legendary proportions!

  All my lights were green!

  All my oysters had pearls!

  And every outfit I tried on looked absolutely adorable!

  And it was all thanks to my boy Bib (bless his heart).

  He was the tipping point, see.

  He was the abracadabra that opened the sesame.

  The minute he held up that Scarlet F, a watershed wave of approval crashed down on me. There was an immediate and radical shift in the way people responded to me.

  Such is the power of the alpha male.

  HERE’S LOOKIN’ AT YOU, BIB!

  Since then, I’ve been riding the crest of sudden approval.

  Now, at school, wherever I go, people stop and smile. They are suddenly interested in my campaign and what I have to say. They ask questions, they open dialogues and initiate actual conversations. They actually want to know me! As you can imagine, it’s rather exhilarating. Better than getting donkey-punched in the kidney!

  And the timing couldn’t be better!

  The race is in its final stage now. We are down to the last hours of the last days.

  The speeches have all been made; the signs have all been hung. The buttons and balloons and cupcakes and flyers have all been passed out.

  The fight has already been fought. It’s all over but for the shouting and the floats.

  And what a fight it’s been, eh?

  Let’s quickly review:

  TOTAL NUMBER OF PRINT INTERVIEWS: thirty-seven, including the Miami Herald, the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel, The Shiny Sheet in Palm Beach, The Star (which claimed that Dame Edna was planning to adopt me and mentor me on tour), plus national exposure in all the gay magazines—XY Magazine, HX, Out, The Advocate, and Genre.

  TOTAL NUMBER OF TELEVISED INTERVIEWS: ten formal sit-downs and any number of passing sound-bites (although lord knows if I’ll ever see most of them).

  CELEBRITY ENDORSEMENTS: Clancy Duckett, a lesser Queer Eye, openly gay congressman Bill Mendoza, and a postcard from Dennis Rodman.

  MOST MEMORABLE FAN LETTERS: I received e-mails from another drag queen still in high school, and right here in South Florida! Yes! A fifteen-year-old Cuban pre-op transsexual in Boca Raton who—get this—hasn’t told her parents yet about her hormone injections AND HAS TO TAPE DOWN HER QUICKLY EXPANDING CHEST every morning before breakfast! She wanted advice from other queens going through the same thing. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a clue. I mean, that’s WAY too hard core for me!

  MOST DISTURBING FAN LETTER: The continuing letters and e-mails from my creepiest fan, which are BEYOND pornographic. I just hope he doesn’t REALLY attend Eisenhower, and if he does, that I never meet up with him in a dark and empty hallway.

  And finally, I can’t help but wonder: What about Flip?

  It’s his big night, too, tomorrow night, remember?

  His big chance to shine.

  The night he’s been working toward his whole high school career. The night he’s been dreaming of his whole life.

  Scouts from every major Southern university are coming to see the boy prince in action.

  Was he nervous?

  I wonder . . .

  XXXVII

  Walking, walking.

  The coldest day of the year.

  A cold brown drizzle fell down over the city.

  I was dressed as the Morton Salt girl, marching through the puddles in the garden, thinking of nothing, nothing at all—when all of a sudden, he was there by my side.

  I didn’t recognize him at first; he was all bundled up. Then I saw those gooey green eyes and that great ski-slope nose, and I felt my soul being ripped out of my body.

  Flip fell into step with me, and it seemed he had never left my side.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  We walked a while in silence. There didn’t seem to be anything to say. Seeing him again, here, made my head hurt. The sound of rain and the sound of our footsteps seemed oddly amplified.

  “Flossie said you might be out here.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Well.”

  More silence.

  Then he said, “So, tomorrow is the big election.”

  And I said, “So, tomorrow is the big game.”

  And we both laughed, both said, “Yeah” and “Good luck.”

  “Hey, Flip,” I asked, “you haven’t, by any chance, been sending me anonymous e-mails, have you?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Why?”

  “No reason. No reaso
n.” (Hmmmm . . .)

  And we didn’t say anything else for a while, just walked in step with each other.

  He was the first to break the silence. “You should probably know, I’m taking Sesame Blixon to the dance tomorrow night.”

  “Sesame Blixon!” I groaned. “Oh, Flip!” and I couldn’t help but add: “They’re fake, you know.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  And we laughed uneasily.

  “Is it serious?” I tried to act casual.

  “Nah, she was just all on my jock one night, you know, so I tapped it, just to shut her up. . . .” But then his words trailed off as he realized what he was saying, and to whom.

  I masochistically jumped into a mud puddle, to see if I could possibly be a little more miserable. It was ice-cold, and little lightning bolts of pain shot up through my legs into my heart.

  But no . . .

  Still wasn’t any worse.

  I stood in that puddle for what seemed like an hour and watched the water drip off his face. Funny, I’d never seen him wet before. It made him look sweet and vulnerable, like a sad little dog.

  I thought for a moment how nice it would be to be a raindrop stuck in one of his lashes.

  He stood in a puddle of his own and stared back at me. He looked like he wanted to say something. Like maybe he was drowning, too, and that soon the rain would wash him down the drain, as well, and this might be his last chance to tell me. . . .

  “I miss hanging out with you,” he finally said, instead.

  “Me too.”

  Then: “I’m sorry, Billy,” he said quietly, and I believe he was.

  “Me too,” I said, and I know I was.

  Now, if I were Audrey Hepburn and he were George Peppard, and life were Breakfast at Tiffany’s, this would be the part where he tells me that people really DO belong together, that I belong to HIM, then we’d find our kitty cat in the garbage can and all kiss happily ever after.

  But you know what? Despite the superficial resemblance, I’m not really like Audrey Hepburn at all. And he’s no George Peppard, I’ll tell you THAT.

  There was another extended pause, but I felt like the moment was just about over.

  Maybe he just needed an epilogue. Maybe he just needed to see me one last time to solidify something inside of him. Harden his heart against me. Make sure it was really over.

  Whatever.

  “Well, see ya . . . ,” I said, and turned to go back inside. I didn’t want him to see how heart-smashing it was to see him again.

  He grabbed me. Stopped me. Pulled me back. Held on tight.

  He had things to say. Things that had been building up for a long time.

  “Billy, wait!” he cried. “I’m sorry . . . about everything. . . . I didn’t want to hurt you. I . . . I wasn’t tryin’ to lead you on. I wish things were different. I wish I could tell you . . . what I . . . how I . . . the truth about . . .”

  He let go and looked at the ground. “I’m so miserable,” he choked, followed by an even more surprising statement, and in an even more strangled voice: “I wish I was more like you.”

  It was a stunning thing to hear. And if he’d only said it a few weeks ago, a few months ago, it might have changed everything. That Flip Kelly wished he were more like me! That he admired me!

  But no.

  Too late.

  “You’re just so strong, you know,” he continued. “The strongest person I ever met. You just don’t care. You’re you, you know, and that’s all there is. Jesus, if I had your balls, maybe then I could tell everybody to go to hell. . . . Maybe then, you know, we, you and me . . .”

  Too late, too late, too late.

  “Oh, Flip,” I sighed. “Look, I’m sorry it all came down like it did, too. I wish things were different. I wish YOU were different. But life goes on. The dogs bark, and the caravan passes. I’m in a different place now, too. I feel sorry for you, Flip. You have a long road ahead of you. There’s a lot you need to come to terms with. And that’s YOUR journey, not mine. You’re right: I know who I am. I know what I want. I’ve been through all that already. And I hope someday you find out who you really are, too. But until then, you’re just always going to be trapped under everyone’s expectations. Who knows, though. Maybe someday you’ll find someone or something you want badly enough to finally give it all up for. Maybe that’s what it will take to give you back your life.”

  There. It was over. Finally over.

  Turns out, it was ME who needed the epilogue. ME whose heart needed to solidify. ME who needed an ending.

  I started to walk away. And as I did, the camera pulled back, way back, until I was just a tiny speck walking in the rain. It was dark and cold, and I felt very alone. My eyes were full of rain. I started crying, and somewhere in Outer Slobovia (where my life is the top-rated nighttime soap opera), the audience cried with me.

  I really loved him, you know.

  XXXVIII

  THE PREGAME SHOW

  It’s here!

  It’s finally here!

  The big parade! It’s time for my float!

  WHEEEEEEEEEE!

  And, oh! I DO love a parade!

  Seventy-six trombones, and all that!

  Look around!

  The majorettes in their kicky little tap suits—who DOESN’T want to be one? They are absolute FASHION ICONS, I tell you. The glittery, unsung goddesses of the Astroturf!

  And the baton twirlers! SQUEEEEAL! Such skill! Such fun! And so thrilling!

  Then there are the marching bands! And the flag-wavers! (The color guard?)

  And, oh, the music and the bright stadium lights and the cheers from the people in the bleachers, AND THE CONFETTI! AND THE POM-POMS!

  OH! It’s almost TOO MUCH!

  I could go on. I won’t.

  But now! to actually BE A PART OF IT!

  I’m blessed. Truly blessed.

  Why, I feel just like the pope in the popemobile, but pretty, you know, and about 173 years younger. And not evil.

  So, maybe not.

  Or Jackie Kennedy in her pretty pink suit, waving from the backseat of her convertible, with her husband by her side and . . . oh. Um. Yeah. That didn’t end well.

  I know! Of course! I’m Cinderella in her horse-drawn carriage! Yes, of course! The spitting image! They say the resemblance is amazing! And WAIT until you see my gown! But . . . hmmm . . . come to think of it, the whole carriage thing didn’t end well for Cinderella, either.

  Oh, dear. Do these things EVER work out right?

  NO, NO, DON’T WORRY. I’m not foreshadowing or anything! I really don’t know! I was just asking!

  It’s about to start.

  BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

  DUM-DIDDY-DUM!

  HERE WE GO!

  First comes the marching band, all rip-roaring and rum-pum-pum, you know, then the color guard, with their flags waving, and the majorettes, all majorly being majoretty, et cetera, et cetera, and it’s all JUST GLORIOUS, of course. Rousing and really rah-rah. AND BLAH BLAH BLAH.

  Then:

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the voice of Principal Onnigan. “Welcome to the Dwight D. Eisenhower Academy homecoming game preshow! I know how excited everyone is, so without further ado, I present the parade of floats, made by your homecoming queen candidates. First up, we have candidate number one: Miss Henny Nickerson . . .”

  Henny’s float was on a hay trailer, and pulled by a golf cart.

  On the flatbed of the trailer, Henny had constructed a miniature racetrack—oh, what a surprise—“the Eisenhower Derby,” she called it. The horses were labeled KNOWLEDGE, SPORTSMANSHIP, SOCIAL SKILLS, SCHOOL SPIRIT, MORAL CHARACTER, and FAITH. The finish line was GRADUATION, and the prize was a laurel of HAPPY MEMORIES TO LAST A LIFETIME!

  Her motto was BETTING ON YOUR FUTURE!

  Which made everyone absolutely HURL over the side of the bleachers. Now do you see why nobody likes her?

  “Next up, we have candidate number two, Miss Alma Doty!”


  There was polite applause as Alma rounded the gate.

  Alma, poor dear, had obviously really struggled with her float. And obviously struggled all by herself.

  On her undecorated flatbed she had arranged her entire Beanie Baby collection—all 1,375 of them—into the shape of a heart. And her motto FRIENDSHIP NEVER ENDS was written in Magic Marker on shelf paper and taped to the side.

  Oh, if only she’d consulted me! I would have told her, straight up, yo, that quoting the Spice Girls is so last century! Rival or not, I would have helped her. Nobody should have to endure the chilly reception her float received.

  I don’t know why she just didn’t ask her fellow shadow kids to help out.

  Lynnette’s float was next.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Principal Onnigan announced over the loudspeaker, “our number three float and third contestant for homecoming queen—Miss Lynnette Franz!”

  There was a burst of expectant applause that quickly sputtered to a lukewarm half-clap once her float actually came through the gate and rolled into view.

  Yes, that initial “Ahhh!” was demoted to an “Uhhh” once folks got a good look at it.

  “Oh . . . well . . .”

  “Um . . . wow . . . okay . . .”

  “It’s . . . not terrible. . . .”

  “No, no . . . the colors are really . . . matching. . . .”

  “And SHE looks beautiful!”

  “Oh, yeah!”

  “She’s a pretty girl, no doubt about it. . . .”

  “NO SIREE, no doubt about it. . . . And the float . . . it’s . . . GOT FLOWERS!”

  Let’s see: