“We’re gonna kick their orange asses!” Hudson says, taking center stage. “So, I know, you probably think it’s just a relay race, just some stupid points for a stupid game. And I get that. But guess what? We’re going to rock at it anyway. Why? Because we rock! We, queer people, are amazing. And I know out in the real world, it’s people telling you to be like this or be like that, and it’s bullying and it’s people calling you names and keeping you down. People saying we’ll never win because of who we are. But here is where we gather our strength. Here is where we work on being everything they say we’re not. Here is where we prove to ourselves how much we rock so that out there we can prove it to them and beat them in whatever contests and competitions they throw at us! How we can be anything we want! How we are special!” he says, and he locks eyes with me for a moment, his gaze so intense, it feels like he’s talking just to me. I can be anything I want. I can do anything I want. “And yeah, maybe today that means running with an egg in a spoon and not dropping it, but so what? Succeeding here is just preparing to succeed out there, even if it is at something silly like a relay race. So let’s get out there and show them all what we can do!”
Everyone cheers. Me included. I don’t know if it’s that I’m better around him, or just that he can make me realize it, but it’s like all my anxieties—being the only queer kid in school, having no close friends outside of camp, my parents being supportive but also treating me like an alien, always watching everything I say, or making sure no one pays attention to me—all of that is thrown off like a drag queen’s reveal, and suddenly, here I am, some new amazing superhero: Queer Randy. And all I want to do when that happens is kiss him. Because no one else has ever made me feel like that.
Ashleigh and George make me feel loved. So do my parents, and Mark and Crystal. But Hudson gives me something I don’t really get from anywhere else. He makes me feel special. Like who I am here—where I don’t close my hands on the bus when some jocks pass by so they don’t see the nail polish, and have a comeback for anything anyone says to me—can be who I am out there, too.
And I know Hudson isn’t talking to me specifically, but it feels like he is. And I think he would, if it were just me in the audience. I think he believes in me, and that makes me feel like I have a thousand stars—a galaxy—inside me, glowing brightly.
“So get in line, and let’s run some eggs!” Hudson shouts, and I jump up and cheer and run to be first in line during the relay.
FOUR
The dancing in the cabin eventually changes into putting on our swimsuits for the camp-wide free swim. I’m proud of the swim trunks I found. They’re black with white trim, a little tight. I take them out and Ashleigh does a double take.
“Look,” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I’m not saying I approve of this crazy plan, but if you’re going to do it, you should do it right.”
“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong with my swimsuit?”
“Trunks,” Ashleigh says. “Your trunks. And your shoes.”
“I love these shoes.”
“That should be your first clue right there,” she says. “You’re doing like … campy straight. The plaid that matches the shoes? The swim trunks that look like something Sean Connery would have worn in an old Bond film? It’s like you’re playing straight in a show.”
“You can take the queer out of the theater,” George says, coming up to us, “but not the theater out of the queer.” George is in a white Speedo with a rainbow over the butt. Without his shirt on, I can see that the hint of hair I saw before is a full-on forest over his chest and belly.
“So how do I fix it?” I ask. “I have these in black and red and blue. That’s it.”
“They should be okay,” Ashleigh says. “But let’s see the rest of the wardrobe.”
I lead them to the cubby I have for my clothes, where everything has been neatly folded and arranged by color.
“See,” Ashleigh says. “This could work. You just need to put it together differently. Less thought out.”
“Are we going to have a fashion show?” George says. Everyone else who’s been getting ready in the cabin pauses and looks over, wide-eyed.
“Fashion show?” asks Montgomery, a thin redhead a year older than us who, when telling stories of his school year in LA, has already described himself as “that bitch” four times.
“Don’t tease,” says Paz, also a year older than us, with a shaved head and dark skin.
“Fashion show!” chant the other campers. “Fashion show!”
Ashleigh grins, and she and George start rifling through my clothes, throwing things at me.
“Montage!” Montgomery shouts, and for the next twenty minutes I’m modeling different outfits for them, to calls of “Ooh, honey, butch!” and “She almost passes!” Even Mark, who seems annoyed by all of this, eventually gets into it—although it also feels like he’s mocking me as he puts on “How Lovely to Be a Woman.” But maybe that’s just because it’s from the show. Even with the counterintuitive soundtrack, though, I’m loving it, modeling each of the outfits with all the masculinity I’ve been practicing over the year—legs apart as I walk, hips forward, nods with my chin. I even flash my abs and show off the guns I’ve managed to build up. Some of the boys stare at me a bit differently after that—like I’m someone new. Which, I guess is the whole point.
When the little fashion show is over, I have a different selection of outfits. They’ re … no fun, frankly. I get it—they’re kind of sexy in a threw-it-on-that-morning sort of way. But nothing matches, nothing is neat, everything just feels haphazard. If there’s a style here, I don’t see it, or at least, it’s not for me. Still, everyone assures me that they’ll get the job done. And what are clothes, really, next to love?
“Well, now that that’s over, let’s get to the pool,” Mark says. “Come on. No one left behind.”
I change into the black swimsuit and grab my towel and follow everyone else down the stairs to the bottom level of the camp. This is where the camp feels huge. I don’t know exactly how big it is, but it’s got to be a few miles in each direction. You can’t see the river—the far end—from the steps, though I guess you can see the dining hall from the drama cabin, which are at the two other farthest ends of the oval that encompasses camp. The pool is right by the stairs, though, and is already filled with campers shrieking and splashing. The water looks great, but as we get close, Ashleigh grabs George’s and my arms. I look over at her. She’s staring at the lifeguard. I look, too. Then I see who it is.
“Janice,” Ashleigh says in a whisper.
“Darling, it’s fine,” George says.
Almost all the staff at Camp Outland is queer—except the lifeguards and kitchen staff. They need to be certified by the state, and it’s hard enough finding local queer staff (at least, this is how Mark explained it a few years back), so Joan uses a company that brings people in. Joan keeps an eye on all of them, of course. “She can spot a homophobe from a hundred yards,” Mark says. “Why do you think she looks so tired all the time?”