“Really?” he says. “That’s what you want to know?”
I nod. “Yep.”
Tom dips his head back until it touches the water. “When I was little, we used to go visit my grandparents a lot. Not the ones here. These are my father’s parents. I mean my mom’s parents. They lived in Maine, right on the ocean. Their house was big and old and I loved it. I had my own bedroom there, and it had a bookcase in it filled with books my grandfather had read when he was little. There was a series about a boy named Tom Swift. He was an inventor, and he had adventures. The books were called things like Tom Swift and His Giant Robot and Tom Swift in the Race to the Moon. I used to curl up in bed and read them. I wanted to have adventures too. I wanted to explore the ocean in a submarine, and study comets, and go into caves. And I did kind of do those things with my grandfather. He took me fishing, and hiking, and sailing, and he never told me I couldn’t do something because I was a girl. Then he died. When I was eleven. My grandmother gave me all the Tom Swift books. So when I realized what was going on with me, it seemed to fit. I guess it’s silly.”
“It’s not silly,” I tell him. “It’s cool. You wanted to be something, and now you are.”
“Not really,” Tom says. “It’s just a name. And actually, you’re the first person I’ve ever tried it out on. I was too scared to use it back home, where people know me. But I figure here nobody does. And then my grandmother had to go and fuck it up.”
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “Nobody else heard her.”
“Now can I ask you one question?” he says.
“Sure.”
“Did you know?” he asks. “About me. Before my grandmother said that?”
“No. I just thought you were a cute guy.” I realize too late what I’ve just said.
“You think I’m cute?” Tom says.
“That’s two questions,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Not fair!” Tom cries, and smacks the water.
“Rules are rules,” I say, spinning my inner tube away from him.
But now that I’ve said it, I realize that it’s true. I do think Tom Swift is cute. And since the rule about asking only one question doesn’t apply to ones I ask myself, the next logical one is: Do I still think he’s cute now that I know he’s not exactly who I thought he was?
As an almost-seventeen-year-old guy, I’ve thought about sex. A lot. And I’ve had a lot of the one-handed type. But so far I haven’t had any with another actual person. Not that there are a ton of options around here. At least not with guys my age. I’ve thought about maybe trying it out with one of the men who come to the Shangri-La. Believe me, I’ve thought about it a lot. But Lola says he’ll disown me if I do. Lola says that a guy’s first time should be special, and he doesn’t want me hooking up with just anyone. So I haven’t.
But when I think about doing it, it generally involves—how do I put this—something Tom Swift doesn’t have. And what Tom does have is not something I’ve ever thought about. Not that I’m freaked out about girl parts or anything. I’ve just never considered what I would do with them.
Not that I think of Tom as a girl. I don’t. He’s Tom. I get that. I mean, I’m not new. I’ve read books. I know what trans is. And everything isn’t about sex. But a lot of things are, and I can’t help thinking about it. Which makes me feel guilty, like I’ve failed some kind of test for being an enlightened person.
“Hey,” Tom calls out. “What’s this? And that’s not a personal question, so it doesn’t count.”
I look over at him. He’s on his stomach on his tube, peering down into the water with his hands cupped on either side of his head.
“It looks like a pair of boots,” he says. “Stuck on the bottom.”
By accident he’s discovered one of the secrets of Coldwater Creek.
“They are boots,” I tell him. “Wading boots, actually. Fishermen wear them. Those are bronze ones, but they were cast from a pair that belonged to Ezra Browncow.”
“Ezra Browncow,” Tom repeats. “You’re kidding, right?”
I shake my head. “That was his name,” I say. “When he was nineteen he came here fishing for trout. It was his favorite place to be. He hooked one, and was trying to reel it in when the dam opened. He tried to get out of the creek, but his foot got wedged between a couple of rocks. The creek rose, his boots filled up with water, and he drowned. Everybody in town liked him, and they felt terrible, so they took up a collection and used the money to have those bronze boots made as a memorial. His ashes are mixed in with the metal, so basically he’s buried here.”
We’re long past Ezra Browncow’s boots now, but Tom keeps looking down into the water.
“I think that’s the best story I’ve ever heard,” Tom says. “When did it happen?”
“Nineteen eighty-three,” I answer. “October third.”
Tom looks over at me. “You remember the exact date?”
I nod. “I kind of have to,” I explain. “He was my grandfather.”
Five
According to Farrah and Paloma, you have two basic options when choosing a drag name: you can be funny, or you can be fabulous. A funny name is usually a play on words, like calling yourself Anita Mann, Sharon Needles, or Lois Common Denominator. A fabulous name is something that just sounds great.
“Like Paloma,” Paloma says as he applies a glue stick to his eyebrows. “Paloma sounds exotic. People see Paloma and ask themselves, where does Paloma come from? What does Paloma do? Who does Paloma love? I’m a mystery. Like Cher, or Madonna. Or that place with all the stones. The ones the aliens made.”
“Stonehenge?” I suggest.
Paloma points the glue stick at me. “That’s it,” he says. “I am a mystery like Stonehenge.”
“You’re a mystery all right,” Farrah says. “The mystery is how the hell you manage to say things like that without laughing at your damn self.”
I stifle a laugh. Paloma can be touchy about being teased. When he’s not Paloma, he’s Ricky Escovedo. And Ricky Escovedo is not a very good-looking boy. He has bad skin, a wonky nose, and eyes that are a little too far apart. If you were to see him busing tables at the Mexican restaurant he works at during the day, you probably wouldn’t pay any attention to him.
But Paloma is something else. Paloma is beautiful, and fierce, and everyone pays attention to her when she performs. Paloma has a comeback for everything, and she doesn’t let anyone take advantage of her.
There’s an old animated Christmas special about Frosty the Snowman, who is just a plain old snowman until a little girl places a magic top hat on his head and he comes to life. That’s what it’s like when Ricky turns into Paloma. As the makeup goes on, he comes to life, and when he takes it off again at the end of the night, it’s like a flower wilting.
Farrah is different. Even as Brandon Thomas he’s still funny and loud and doesn’t care what anyone thinks. He’s also really handsome. He has a couple of different boyfriends, and isn’t shy about giving his number out to potential new ones either. I’ve actually seen men get into fistfights over him, both as Farrah and as Brandon. He even has another name for himself when these things happen: Mama Dramarama. “Mama Dramarama does not have time for this!” he’ll shriek, laughing as he walks away from whatever trouble he’s the center of.