Five . . . four . . . three . . .
Leaping, flying . . .
Two . . .
And as he slid into . . .
One . . .
The crowd went NUTS!
HE WAS SAFE!
The ball was in the zone, or behind the line, or past the marker, or he had slid into home plate, OR WHATEVER!
Apparently, he did it! He made it! He SAVED THE GAME!
And lo, there were great WHOOPS of joy, and savage WOOT WOOTs, and thrilling ULULATIONS that rang through the night air.
The dam burst. The crowd surged from the bleachers onto the field, past Flip, poor Flip, hobbled and humbled, alone and in need of emergency care—they ran onto the field and lifted Bib up and carried him on their shoulders.
Once again God had seen fit to bestow upon our school another miracle.
And now?
Now?
Bib was up. Flip was flat.
Sure, sure.
So, tell me: For a sissy-faggot who wasn’t paying attention, how’d I do? Do I have a career in sportscasting?
XLI
And I watched all of this from the stands. Bib’s victory wasn’t mine to celebrate. No matter how joyous his mood, I deeply doubted that he would want me holding his butt in the air.
Besides . . . I have a dance to get ready for! And a victory of my own, hopefully, very soon!
I stood up, stomped twice to get my feet circulating again, and wondered if I should go offer my services to Flip. But then I saw an ambulance had arrived, and that the paramedics were already checking him out. And . . . hmmm . . . they appeared to be frowning at his foot. Which can’t be good. So, no. Leave it alone.
I took a final glance at Bib, happily held aloft, receiving the glory he’s certainly due, fending off the groupies, and suddenly finding himself the object of much interest to the dozen or so college football scouts who had come to check out Flip but decided that he was, in fact, the better catch.
Oh, poor Flip.
Poor little lamb . . .
Those scouts! This game! It meant EVERYTHING to him!
It was his WHOLE WORLD! The Twenty-Year Plan!
Why, he just lost EVERYTHING tonight! His WHOLE HOUSE OF CARDS came tumbling down on him!
I felt his horror.
I was gripped with sympathy panic.
His whole future had been unceremoniously ripped from him. . . .
WHAT WOULD HE DO?
WHERE WOULD HE GO?
WHAT WOULD BECOME OF HIM NOW?
I wanted to run over there. Help him through this. But no.
No.
He probably wants some time alone to process everything. He doesn’t need me around right now. Poor little thing . . .
I looked over at him.
Then looked again.
What was that?
That look?
There?
That strange look on his face?
Was that . . . ? Was he . . . ?
HAPPY?
What? What?
Why, that’s CRAZY TALK.
Why would he be . . . ?
But THERE IT WAS!
LOOK! LOOK!
A slight smile played upon his lips—yes!—even as he was lifted onto the stretcher. . . .
That was the look of happiness. Yes!
But why would he be happy? Had he lost his mind? Flipped his lid?
Or was it something else . . . ?
Look at him. That expression. There was something else. . . .
Something mixed in with that happiness. . . .
A slumping satisfaction, a loosening of tension . . .
RELIEF!
He was RELIEVED!
But why would he . . . ?
WHY, YES! OF COURSE! He was relieved because THE PRESSURE WAS OFF! HE CAN BE WHATEVER HE WANTS TO BE!
Then it all came pouring down on me.
Wait, Billy . . .
If that was true . . .
Think . . .
Think hard . . .
If he felt that way . . .
You think that he . . . ?
NAH.
He couldn’t have . . .
He WOULDN’T HAVE . . .
Did he lose the ball on purpose?
Did Flip take a fall to free himself from that all-devouring future of his?
He looked over at me from across the field, and I looked wonderingly back at him. Before the doors of the ambulance closed, our eyes locked. He smiled. We connected. And I knew—yes, I just KNEW—that’s exactly what had happened.
XLII
I arrived at the dance on a pale pink cloud of gossamer dreams and enchanted moonlight.
And my, but the gymnasium looked LOVELY! Just LOVELY!
I took a moment to soak up the decorations—the balloons and streamers and bubbles and disco balls—and thought, DOESN’T IT ALL JUST SEEM MAGICAL?
As I floated across the gymnasium floor I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and had to remind myself to breathe, I WAS THAT GORGEOUS! Why, you’ve never seen such a vision of perfect beauty! I was the very essence of froth and fizz—YES!
I wore a sparkly, petal pink ball gown made of spun sugar and fairy’s breath, simply too divine. My hair was artfully arranged in a fire fall of blazing red curls—and on top rested a crown of diamonds that reached to the moon! That’s right! THE MOON!
I was a shimmering mirage, a glittering fancy. . . .
Glinda the Good Witch can EAT MY DUST!
I swept grandly into the middle of the room so as to make a proper first impression.
The press had been awaiting my arrival, and they were not disappointed. I delivered all the tinsel and glamour they’d come to expect. I struck a regal pose, and the gymnasium erupted in a sea of flashes.
There was Clancy! “Oh, hello!”
And Medea! “How do you do?”
All the other local and statewide media. “Hey there! Hi there! Thanks for your support!”
The students all smiled and waved, and wished me luck.
I spoke warmly with fellow candidate Alma Doty, who wore a pretty olive green gown and nervously wished the night were over already.
I spied Lynnette and her royal posse of douche bag duchesses in the back corner, where they spent most of the night hissing and clawing and making everybody uncomfortable.
But for me the evening passed in a heavenly haze of “Good luck’s” and “Go Billy’s.”
As the great moment grew closer, the crowd began to buzz with excitement.
At ten minutes to midnight, the four nominees were both brought onstage amidst a great swooshing of gowns.
Principal Onnigan walked to the microphone holding the name of the winning candidate in his hand.
A hush fell over the crowd.
“GO, BILLY!” someone shouted from the shadows, and a warm ripple of applause went through the crowd, setting off a fresh strobe of camera flashes. I smiled sweetly, while Lynnette’s sweet, sweet smile momentarily flipped upside down.
“People, please,” the principal shushed. “We’ll all know in just a few minutes who the winner is, but first let me congratulate BLAH BLAH BLAH . . . the varsity football team . . . BLAH BLAH BLAH . . . Coach Carter for his unbelievable dedication BLAH BLAH BLAH . . . the decorating committee who did such a fantastic job . . . BLAH BLAH BLAH . . .
OH MY GOD, WILL HE EVER SHUT UP? . . . the chaperones . . . AND ON AND ON AND ON . . . the floor wax company . . .
WILL YOU JUST GET ON WITH IT?
“. . . and what will surely go down in the academy’s history as the most . . . colorful . . . homecoming race ever. . . . But now, the votes have been tabulated and you have all made your feelings abundantly clear. . . .”
I bounced up and down with anticipation.
“The winner is . . .”
I gave a big, fake I’m-so-worried smile and held my crossed fingers in the air.
“. . . LYNNETTE FRANZ!”
And I squealed, and started my royal run to
ward the microphone to . . .
Um . . . HUH?
“HERE SHE IS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: LYNNETTE FRANZ, YOUR NEW HOMECOMING QUEEN!”
Lynnette gave me a solid push as she breezed past me, grabbing her tiara with a “Harrumph!” and nudging the principal out of her spotlight and away from her microphone.
The crowd, the hateful, fickle crowd, who just moments ago were MY friends, were on MY side, now applauded wildly for HER as confetti and balloons rained down from the ceiling.
And the press, who had seemed so pro-Billy, now all surged toward Lynnette, and gushed excitedly, and congratulated her on her win as they snapped pictures and got their quotes.
WELL, this was a surprise.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to play out!
No, not at all.
“OHTHANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!” Lynnette gushed, and suddenly the stage was infested with her royal court, shrieking and weeping and jiggling for joy.
I stayed glued to my spot, mouth hanging open wide, like a halibut. A big, twinkling halibut.
“What are you still doing onstage, Freak Show?” Tiff Tarbell hissed, and stomped on my foot with her heel. “You lost. It’s over. Get down. Go away.”
Oh.
Right. Sure. Of course.
Get down. Go away.
You bet. Sure thing.
I was shocked. Confused.
XLIII
I shuffled offstage, unnoticed, and slipped out the back door just as Lynnette began yammering on about what a clear message her victory sent.
I walked for a while in the pale moonlight—the loser fairy queen—and shimmered sadly, all by myself.
La la la.
SNIFF!
Right about now, I thought, Lynnette was probably dancing her first dance with her new king—and they were the happiest couple there, of course, of course.
The press was probably packing up. Movin’ on! Story over! And with it goes my fifteen minutes of fame. Can you believe, after all that, not one of them even asked for my reaction? Not one picture was taken. I was yesterday’s news. Literally. Even Clancy had deserted me in the end.
I was once again, quite suddenly, nobody.
I was, once again, out in the cold.
“SIC TRANSIT GLORIA! GLORY FADES!” I shout.
And: “THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE.”
Funny how quickly it can all turn. One minute you’re IT! The name on everybody’s lips! You’re a big to-do!
Then the next, it’s “Billy WHO?”
Fame is a fickle bitch, that’s for sure. You see it all the time. Doesn’t matter who you are or how great your talent. The famous and the infamous. The great and the merely adequate. Bigger stars than you. And then?
Dust in the wind.
“Billy WHO?”
And for what? What’s it get you?
So you make a big noise. Scramble to the top of the heap. You get your fifteen glorious minutes; you’re a big wheel at the cracker factory. People worship you.
Vanity! Vanity! All is Vanity!
Where does it get you?
Sic transit gloria, my friend.
Look at me now: I feel completely destroyed—chewed up, digested, and then vomited back up again.
I don’t know if I can just go back to the old Billy. I don’t remember how to act in that world anymore. I’ve seen too many things, you understand. Like Icarus, I’ve flown too close to the sun. At seventeen I’ve seen it all. I’ve been there, done that. Climbed the highest peaks. Scaled the loftiest heights. I’m like Eva Perón. (At least, the Madonna version.) I’ve seen the best and worst of humanity. I can’t just start all over again, back at square one again!
I wandered farther from campus, deeper into the swamp.
XLIV
Now, I’m as plucky as the next girl . . .
And I WILL survive . . .
I know we all must cross the desert of our days, BLAH BLAH BLAH . . .
And “let each man skin his own skunk” and all . . .
YEAH YEAH YEAH . . .
And I TRY not to complain . . .
But sometimes . . .
Sometimes . . .
(SHAKES FIST AT GOD!)
(CRIES TO THE WIND!)
(FALLS TO KNEES IN ABJECT DESPAIR!)
Sometimes, I swear to God, it’s like herding kittens—you know what I mean? I just can’t keep it together. I can’t hold on to it. The joy keeps slipping away.
And how DID Lynnette end up winning, anyway? Her float was just awful. Her speech sucked out loud. Half the student body hated her. The other half was scared to death of her.
And everybody SEEMED to be on my side.
I drove a shoe, for Christ’s sake!
I wore a cape!
So what’s up with her big win?
I guess no matter how much they came around, and how much everybody ended up liking me, it was still too much for them to vote for a drag queen to represent their school. It was just too big of a leap.
I see that.
Well, of course they weren’t ready for it!
It was a miracle that I’d gotten as far as I did! How could I have ever even imagined I had a chance?
Lynnette SHOULD have been queen. She really did represent them.
I stopped for a moment to smell the night-blooming swamp roses before spinning across a field of sighs.
As for me, it was never about actually BEING the queen.
It was about winning them over. Showing I was WORTHY of being their queen.
And I did.
I got my support. My point was made. I won their respect. The sea of Scarlet Fs and the crowd’s response during the parade were real. I don’t need a crown to be QUEEN OF THEIR HEARTS! And you know what? I might not have won, but I broke down some barriers and blazed a trail for the NEXT drag queen that comes along, so that she can go farther and climb higher. . . .
And jumpin’ Jesus—Lynnette has been on the campaign trail since seventh grade. She wanted it so bad. So . . .
(BIG SIGH.)
She’ll probably make a good queen.
Yes, yes, the voters probably sensed that it meant more to Lynnette, and voted with their gut instincts.
I’m just going to vote for Lynnette, they all thought. It’s the right thing to do.
And I’m cool with that.
Really.
I sat down to rest for a moment on a stump at the edge of a dark, wooded area.
And all of this would be just fine and dandy, and I could happily concede defeat in a well-fought battle and be completely dignified in my defeat, and then we could all have a big 7th Heaven ending, if only . . .
If only . . .
If only Sissy and Violet hadn’t snarled at me the way they did, and Lynnette hadn’t snatched the crown with such an irritated snarl like she did, and Tiff hadn’t stomped on my foot the way she did, and Clancy hadn’t so completely abandoned me the way she did. They all just twisted the knife, didn’t they, like a goddamn corkscrew.
Why do they all STILL have to be so nasty? Even in victory? They’re just incapable of change, aren’t they?
It just shows you, you NEVER know. . . .
It’s like I said before—one minute, you think you’ve got it all figured out, and things are going great, then in an instant everything can turn. . . .
Crackle, crackle.
What was that?
Is anybody there?
Anyway. As I was saying, things can just turn on a dime.
Rustle, rustle.
Crackle, rustle.
There, again! I totally heard something.
Was there something in the bushes?
Crackle, crackle.
Shuffle, shuffle.
Louder. Closer.
Hello?
Someone there?
I pushed aside some brush and leaned in to take a look.
Nothing but the moon. . . .
No, wait!
That’s not the . . .
There was a loud WHOOS
H! and THUD! as something FLEW OUT OF THE SHRUBS and tackled me, and quickly pushed me to the ground, and then this something, or someone, clocked me on the head—With what? A rock?—before dragging me into the dark underbrush.
It all happened so fast, in the beat of a black heart. . . .
It seems the blow to my head knocked all thoughts out my ear.
My head was still cloudy.
My vision was wavy.
I couldn’t tell what was happening.
Everything was muddled, like I was buried in pudding.
Was it a bear?
A mountain lion?
Oh my God—a GATOR ATTACK?
What was on top of me!
What? What?
And then it was ANOTHER few minutes before my eyes adjusted to the dark and I could see the face of my attacker. . . .
CREEPIN’ JESUS!
WHAT THE HELL!
Bernie Balch! Yes! Drunk as a lemur! Straddling my chest, and pinning my arms above my head. Muttering darkly in my ear. His rancid, whiskey breath making me gag. Practically lying on top of me, trapping me completely.
Well, it was the very LAST thing I expected.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I screamed. “GET OFF ME!”
That’s when he BIT ME. Yes, BIT MY NECK, which I thought was an odd method of keeping me in line. In fact, everything about this was weirdly off-kilter. From the way he had me pinned, and the way he was breathing so heavily on me. Then there was the way he was looking at me. Well, I was confused, as well as scared. VERY WEIRD.
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