I situate myself in Mom’s knitting armchair and can’t help but squeal with excitement.
Hannah laughs. “Have you ever even been to a real drag show?” she asks.
I flap a hand in her direction. “Um, out here? Yeah, right.” I know that drag queens come from all types of places, but sometimes it feels impossible to imagine here.
She clicks her tongue. “You’d be surprised.”
I start to ask her what she means, but the theme music begins to play as Carmelo Santiago in full drag takes the stage of the live recording in some huge theater all the way out in Hollywood. “Hello, and welcome to the sixteenth season finale of Fiercest of Them All. I’m your host, Carmelo Santiago, and tonight’s the night we crown our queen. Isn’t that right, ladies?”
The lush, red curtain behind Carmelo lifts to display every single one of the eliminated queens from this season, each one of them decked out in their best signature drag. There’s a wide array, including Marjorie Simpson, who specializes in fandom drag, Betty Deadly, who’s known for her spooky goth look, Sheyoncé, who’s an infamous Beyoncé impersonator from Vegas, and Angela Dolittle, known for being crowned Miss Southern Belle from New Orleans.
For the next fifty-five minutes, I watch as Carmelo interviews the eliminated queens, takes audience questions, and announces lesser titles like Miss Congeniality. The top three queens—Cinderhella, Ruby Slippers, and Mimi Mee—each lip-synch to a song of their choosing, and it’s quickly clear that Ruby and Mimi are the top contenders.
The two queens hold hands as Cinderhella is eliminated, and I find myself reaching for Clem’s hand. She doesn’t flinch when I squeeze.
“Mimi, Mimi, Mimi, Mimi,” I chant under my breath.
“America, your newest reigning queen is . . .” Carmelo pauses dramatically, everyone in the audience and at home hanging on her every word. “The incomparable, the beautiful Ruby Slippers!”
“Turn it off!” I snap. It’s the same thing Dad does when the Texas Rangers lose a game. “Turn off the damn television.” Watching your fave lose is one thing. Watching their opponent win is actual torture. I don’t need to see Ruby’s tearful acceptance. I don’t need to hear about how they were just a gay boy in Chicago, searching for acceptance. We’re all searching, Ruby!
Clementine fumbles as she hunts for the remote. The music on the television crescendos as Ruby is crowned and Hannah marches right over to the TV and unplugs it from the wall.
I cross my arms over my chest. “There was a button on the side.”
“Whatever. It’s off.” She goes back over to the couch to take Clem’s hand. “Walk me home?”
Clem looks to me and I nod. I’d rather be alone anyway.
Hannah’s normally furrowed brow softens. “Sorry about Mimi, Waylon.”
My truck rumbles along the dark road at the edge of town, the sky above milky with clouds. After Clementine left with Hannah, Mom texted to say she’d be working late and not to wait up, so it was just me on a Friday night and barely ten o’clock. Suddenly being alone didn’t sound so great.
After I park on the side of the gas station, I walk in and the door chimes as I enter. Lucas glances up from the couple of guys he’s ringing up. “Fountain drinks are half off,” he calls.
“Thanks,” I barely respond.
I circle around the back aisles, eyeing the display of gummy worms as he thumbs through the cigarettes, looking for the exact package the guys at the counter are requesting.
“No, man,” says one of them. “The green carton.”
Lucas looks up again, watching me in the security mirror, and I can’t help but smile.
I nod to the back-room door and he gives me a quick head tilt as confirmation.
In the back room, I maneuver through boxes of stock and hop up onto the desk, trying to fix myself in the perfect, most seductive yet natural pose I can manage. Oh, who me? Yes. I always sit perfectly perched with half an ass cheek in the air. Maybe that’s not hot, though. I square myself on the desk and hold my hands in my lap. Yeah, no. Back to perching.
Lucas steps through the doorway with a big goofy grin on his face as he pushes his floppy blond hair back. He’s got this huge forehead that seems to tell you everything he’s thinking at all times. Every worry and relief is always written right there for me to see. “I was hoping you could make it tonight.”
He moves through the boxes in three easy strides and cups my face in his hands, pulling me to him gently but with force. Our lips collide, and I can still taste the spearmint gum he chewed in the hopes that I would come by and the waxy lip balm he keeps in the little tin under the cash register alongside the keys to the Camry he bought off his older sister when she upgraded to a minivan.
Lucas, Lucas, Lucas, Lucas. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we’d known each other better in high school before he graduated last year. It’s this impossible, fantasy-like alternate reality. We could have been this unlikely pair turned high school sweethearts. Maybe we’d even be popular—a novelty! Girls would love us, because straight chicks adore a gay guy and they really love two. Maybe other guys wouldn’t be threatened by us. Maybe they’d accept us. Lucas seemed to be one of them, after all. We would have each other. We’d be together. In public.
Lucas pulls my shirt over my head and I begin to unbutton his and then immediately stop myself. The stockroom feels private and safe, but in reality, anyone could walk right in.
I don’t really like the whole metaphor of baseball bases and physical intimacy. Mainly because I don’t really care about baseball and also, has anyone in the history of teenagers ever agreed on what bases are what? I guess in the world of gay teenage boys, I’d have to say first base is making out or heavy petting (a term I’ve only ever heard Grammy use), second base is mouth or hands below the belt, and, well, third base is . . . below-the-belt action. By that barometer, Lucas and I have made it to second base, but the idea of doing anything more than making out when a customer or Lucas’s dad, who owns the gas station, could easily wander back here freaks me out no matter how many times he tells me it’s okay.
“Ruby Slippers won,” I breathe into his lips.
“I don’t care about boys in dresses right now,” he says. “I care about you out of this shirt.” He nibbles at my earlobe softly.
My hands are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt before I can remind myself of all the reasons this is a bad idea.
I hate hiding. Everyone in this town knows I’m gay—for better or worse—and there’s something supremely unfair about the fact that I have to hide this when I still have to deal with a handful of dumb pricks hurling homophobic insults in my direction and Bible thumpers who want to pray my gay away. If I’m going to have to put up with all of that, shouldn’t I at least have this? And shouldn’t it be for everyone to see?
After we fool around for a bit and no one barges in on us, Lucas settles in next to me on the desk as we watch the TV wired to the security cameras out front.
“How’s class been?” I ask.
“Almost over, but I’m thinking I’m gonna sign up for summer classes too. The sooner I finish my basics at Clover City Community College, the faster I can transfer, ya know? Who knows? Maybe you’ll see me in Austin one day.”