Drag Teen (13 page)

I was lost in feeling grateful for having made it all the way there when I realized the music was vamping while Eric Waters repeatedly called my name. I snapped back into reality.

“JT?”

The music stopped.

“Sorry! Sorry!”

“No worries. Like I said, you sashay to the front and land on this green mark, after Milton’s turn. You say your introduction, then sashay back to where you are. Got it?”

I nodded, but as I did so, I realized I had forgotten to come up with an introduction line.

“Great, let’s try it.”

The music started over and Eric called out “Go!” I sashayed up to the green mark, attempting to come up with something in my head, but I had nothing. I hit the mark, the music stopped for my introduction. I stuttered and finally came out with:

“I’m … I’m … I’m …”

I just kept repeating
I’m
as if I were a malfunctioning toy. Finally, Eric called out, “Okay, JT. Just rehearsal. Let’s keep moving. Music!”

The music came back and I sashayed, boiling red with embarrassment, back to my spot—only to discover it wasn’t even my spot.

I was going to have to find my place—and soon.

After we locked down the choreography, we took a ten-minute break and drew numbers for the pageant order. I drew twelve. I was trying my hardest to put on a brave face around these people; if I’d learned one thing from watching more reality television than should be humanly possible, it was that competitors thrived off one another’s fear.

“Hey, you! What’s your number?”

I turned to see the short guy with the deep voice. He was rail thin, with beautiful wavy hair. He stood with both hands on his hips and wore a skintight T-shirt with a picture of a unicorn on it.

“Twelve,” I told him. I held out the piece of paper I’d just drawn, which caused the boy to whistle over to a very handsome and much larger guy on the other side of the stage.

“Red! Get over here! I found twelve. I’m Milton, by the way.”

Red came bumbling over. He was a giant—six foot six at the very least, with bigger muscles than anyone on my school’s football team. However, when he spoke, his voice was higher than anyone on my school’s cheerleader squad. He was like a one-stop pep rally.

“Hi, I’m Charlie,” he said, offering his hand. I shook it at my own risk. “Call me Red, though, because I hate the name Charlie and I look great in red. You’ll see later. Anyway, listen. I’m number thirteen. Any chance you’d switch with me?”

Milton leaned forward. “Red’s been terribly superstitious ever since he stepped on a crack and actually broke his mother’s back. Long story, but it wasn’t pretty.”

I looked down at the thirteen on his paper. “So you want me to have the unlucky number?”

Red scrunched up his face, clearly a little embarrassed to be asking such a blatantly sabotaging favor. But before he could apologize, Tash appeared beside me.

“Yeah,” he clucked. “That’s
exactly
what he’s asking. You superstitious too?”

Tash managed to carry a dark cloud over him at all times. No matter the conversation he entered, you felt the wave of bad attitude cover it immediately.

“Hi. Guys, this is Tash.”

Milton and Red looked at each other apprehensively, crossing their arms.

“Oh. We know,” Milton said.

The two shot Tash a suspicious look while Tash simply rolled his eyes.

“Didn’t realize I’d be seeing you two here.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Tash,” Milton said. For his part, Red seemed to cower in fear behind his tiny friend. “You remember Red, don’t you?”

Tash pursed his lips and nodded.

“I haven’t seen you since, what? Miss Teen Atlantic City?” Milton awkwardly proceeded. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.” Tash’s answer had all the feeling of a dial tone.

“Oh. You two know each other?” I asked, sensing the kind of tension reserved for gang fights.

“We do.” Milton’s once-perky voice had grown icy cold.

“We met doing Miss Teen New Jersey together. I won,” Tash hissed. “By a landslide.”

“And then I beat him in Miss Teen Atlantic City.
Also
by a landslide.” Milton ignored Tash’s eyes burning into the side of his face.

“Wow. I didn’t realize there were so many drag teen pageants.” I was hoping to break the tension, but it didn’t work. Milton clearly had a lot to say about and to Tash, but he kept quiet and polite, with a towering yet fearful Red behind him. The two of them passively turned their backs to Tash and talked only to me.

“So, JT. Are you a glamour queen or a comedy queen?”

“Huh?”

Tash laughed as he pushed me aside to get back into the conversation. “He’s neither; this one doesn’t even have a drag name!”

Red, having had enough, stepped forward, towering over Tash.

“You know what, Tash? Why don’t you go find somebody who isn’t already tired of your mean-girl routine to talk to? We’re all good without it here.”

Tash, fuming, shot back, “It’s not a routine. I
am
a mean girl.” Then he stormed off as Milton subtly mouthed his thanks to Red.

“Be careful of that one, gurl,” Milton said as soon as Tash was out of sight.

“Why?” I asked.

Milton and Red looked at each other with the weight of an enormous secret behind their eyes.

“She’s bad news,” Red said nervously, looking over to Milton for permission to continue. Milton nodded to go ahead. “She didn’t used to be. A while ago, she and Milton were super close.”

“The closest,” Milton interjected. “Until. Well …” He looked to Red to continue.

“Until Milton won Miss Teen Atlantic City. That’s when Tash turned against him. See, Tash had never lost before.”

“Like, ever!” Milton interjected again.

“And she makes a good queen, too.”

“Really good!” Milton couldn’t stop chiming in. “So good that she doesn’t even have a last name, she just goes by
Natasha
, like she’s Madonna or Meryl or something.”

“So now she does whatever it takes to keep anyone from getting in between her and the crown. And I mean anything.” There was a trace of something sinister in Red’s voice. “She’s not even here for the scholarship—Tash doesn’t want to go to college. Her ten-year plan is to win
Drag Race
and join
The View
as its first drag co-host. And honestly? I bet she could.”

“But what do you mean? When you say she’ll do
anything
, what does that include?”

Milton and Red looked at each other with fear in their eyes, like people in a scary movie telling somebody what happened that terribly fated night. They even checked over their shoulders to make sure no one was listening in.

“I heard she poisoned Snow Cone Joan in the Buffalo pageant with some expired cottage cheese at the continental breakfast so she’d be too sick to compete,” Red whispered.

“And I heard that she convinced the judges that Trixie Treat was actually twenty-two to get her disqualified, and you don’t even want to know what she allegedly did to Nicole Just-Kidding-Man,” Milton murmured.

“She. Stole. Her. Wig.” Red shuddered as he said this.

I gasped. I didn’t even want to tell these two that I had not only made an enemy out of Tash but that we were currently sleeping under the same roof.

“Anyways,” Red chirped. “Glamour queen or comedy queen? You
must
understand the difference. Milton? Explain to our new friend.”

Milton straightened his shoulders and stepped forward like someone with perfect grades in a spelling bee.

“A glamour queen is a queen whose tastes are for decadence, beauty, and class. A glamour queen puts her elegant look above all else. Your classic pageant queen. Red is a glamour queen.” Red smiled. “A comedy queen, while still glamorous—because after all, gurl, this is still drag—is a queen who uses humor to sell her glamour and style. A comedy queen might not have the prettiest gown, but she’ll always leave you laughing.”

“Milton is a comedy queen,” Red added.

I stood there processing all this new information, a little overwhelmed. Milton and Red could tell.

“Hey, don’t panic,” Red said. “Drag isn’t just about labels like that—you can be whatever you want. Sorry. You new at this or something?”

I wasn’t sure whether to admit to these two that this was only my second time, but for some reason I trusted them. Besides, even if I couldn’t be a glamour queen or comedy queen, at the very least I could be an honest queen.

“This is my second time.”

“Ever?” Milton asked in shock.

“Uh-huh.” I could feel my cheeks getting redder, which was weird, since I was talking to someone named Red. “Please don’t tell anybody. I know most everyone here is a pro at this but, well, I love doing it and I desperately need the scholarship and I don’t want people to think I’m disrespectful to the drag world by just doing it again for a scholarship because that’s not the only reason, it’s just a big one. I really
want
to be great at this because it brings me a lot of joy, like the most joy I’ve ever felt doing something. And I hope by doing it I can figure out how to be who I’m supposed to be. I want to love myself, and when I’m in drag I think I actually might.”

Milton and Red smiled at me. I could see something dancing around in both their eyes.

“Gurl, you just found your introduction.”

They both hugged me, and in our embrace, I saw Tash watching from the wings, hating every second of it.

NATHAN LEARY ARRIVED AFTER LUNCH. He was one of those actors who had been around since I could remember. He was never a big movie star, but he was always the type of actor who popped up in everything from sitcoms to historical dramas about obscure but irrationally funny Founding Fathers. Meanwhile, Broadway was his main home. He was probably around seventy years old, so he had stories on just about every important celebrity there’d ever been in the past fifty years; if he hadn’t starred with them on some TV movie or Broadway show, he’d probably played their sassy assistant in a major (or not so major) movie … or at least he’d have a story that claimed so. He’d been openly gay since long before being openly gay made you cool, and I thought he was forgotten for that sometimes. Sometimes it felt like the celebrities who were out before out was cool were not considered as cool as those celebrities who’d only recently come out after being prodded to do so. People always loved something new and shiny, I guessed. Nathan Leary, however, was the real deal.

He was there to give us the talk about what the judges would look for in our “Why I Drag” speeches. A natural performer, it seemed he was taking this opportunity to workshop a full one-man show for this room of eager gay queen-teens. Who could blame him?

“
Why I drag.
Think about that statement for a second, boys. Think about it.” Leary projected to the back of the theater even when he wasn’t in a theater. “Why do I drag?”

He looked around the roomful of guys my age who had also, undoubtedly, grown up with his performance as a beloved drag queen in the cult hit movie
Has Anybody Seen Mrs. Mapplethorpe?

“That’s what we want—we want you to dig deep inside yourself and tell us
why.
We don’t want some stock pageant answer—that’s not what this is about. This is about
you
. What’s in your heart. Do all of you understand that?”

The room let out a moderately enthusiastic yes as Leary launched into a long story about the first time he’d worked with a long-dead Broadway legend named Mary Martin and how that taught him to speak only from the heart, and to never eat mayonnaise right before curtain. Which said a bit more about Mary Martin than I cared to know. The truth was, I sorta knew “why I drag,” but I wasn’t so sure I’d be able to explain all that eloquently onstage.

“Now, speaking of my time working with Mary Martin—Daryl wants me to remind you that after this, you’ll each do a walk-through of your talent segment. If anyone needs an accompanist, we ask that you sign up here.”

Nathan passed around a clipboard as everyone applauded his speech. I’m not sure any of us were particularly moved by what he’d said—but he was a judge, and judges, we knew, love their applause as much as the next person. Especially when they’re actors.

Now was my time to freak out about the talent portion of the competition. I’d decided to sing—because my only other option was a demonstration on how to most effectively pump gas. But Tash’s condescension at the notion of singing—and Lady Rooster’s triumph without singing a note—made me wonder if I wasn’t making a big, big mistake.

Only a handful of contestants had signed up for an accompanist, which meant that most people were planning to lip-synch. And a few people were using the accompanist for background music in various physical talent bits, like Red, or number four, Miss Hedini, this guy with the biggest Afro I’d ever seen, who was doing a highly elaborate magic routine where he chopped a go-go boy in half. I’d never even seen a go-go boy, let alone one cut in half. Along with me, the only other two people singing were number eighteen and nineteen, who had defied pageant history by getting the judges to agree to allow them to perform a duet (“Defying Gravity” from
Wicked
, with number nineteen literally lifting into the air at the end using a small trampoline hidden underneath a floor-length witch’s costume).

Then there was me, unlucky number thirteen.

“Hi. Linda Lambert. But you can call me Linda.” She shook my hand as she stood up from the piano. She had a super-friendly face and supportive smile, and spoke with the prettiest British accent I’d ever heard that wasn’t from Helen Mirren in a moderately boring movie. “You’re number thirteen? What am I playing?”

“Yeah. I’m JT. It’s really nice to meet you. I’m a big Broadway nerd, and I went to see the tour of your show twice when it came to Tampa, so it’s crazy that you’re going to be the one playing for me. I’m going to sing.”

“You’re so sweet! Also, I’m glad somebody’s actually singing.” She lowered her voice. It was so exciting to be sharing a secret with a Tony Award winner! “Just between you and me, I think it’s a real waste of talent that we’ve got this roomful of teenage divas and they’re all lip-synching to somebody else’s voice. Know what I mean?”

I told her I did, but that I’d deny it if she repeated I’d said so. She got a big kick out of that.

“Got your sheet music?”

I opened up my backpack and reached inside for the “Part of Your World” pages. As I did, I noticed the autographed sheet music from Tina Travis and her “People Care” song. I paused, my hand staying still inside the bag. I knew “Part of Your World” by heart. (I mean, who doesn’t?) But I had an idea and my gut was saying to go for it. My experience with Tina Travis was one of the coolest things that had ever happened to me, and singing the song itself actually meant something to me now, as opposed to “Part of Your World,” which meant something to me when I was six and still thought it was relatable to yearn to have legs.

“You okay? Something got your hand in there?” Linda asked with a bemused grin as I stood there with my hand bizarrely stuck inside my bag.

“Sorry! I just …” I knew I had to decide, and finally I just thought
screw it
and pulled out Tina’s music and handed it to Linda.

“Tina Travis? Wow. I haven’t seen her name in a long time.” Linda laughed. “Where did you even get this?”

I didn’t want to seem like some snobby kid who knew famous people, mainly because I wasn’t some snobby kid who knew famous people—I’d just happened to have one help me with a flat tire a few days ago.

“Oh, just found it at a yard sale. My mom always played her songs when I was growing up.”

Linda smiled as she placed the music on the piano. “That’s lovely. Shall we?”

She began playing and I began sweating. Everyone in the room was waiting. I couldn’t believe I was about to do what I was about to do, but I had no choice. It was too late now to go back, so I went forward. She kept playing, supportively chiming in every once in a while to tell me to slow it down or speed it up. At one point I heard someone across the room audibly wonder, “What the hell is this song anyway?” and I felt proud—proud of myself and proud of my friend Tina Travis, a great icon who’d been lost by time.

By the midsection of the song, everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing to stare at me. I couldn’t tell if this was a good thing or bad thing, but I didn’t let myself freak out. I kept picturing Tina’s face in my head, telling me I could do it, and somehow that worked.

As the song ended and the room was quiet for a brief second, Linda looked up at me and mouthed “Awesome” while a handful of people in the room clapped politely. I couldn’t believe it, but I had just performed in front of a roomful of strangers and I didn’t even feel like crawling into a cave and dying. In fact, I was feeling readier and more capable of doing this pageant than ever before. Maybe I was out of my mind, but I really could feel it—I was close enough to being Miss Drag Teen USA to almost reach out and touch it. I’d never felt confident about anything in my life, and suddenly, there it was, this strange and foreign feeling of confidence. I didn’t even know what to do with it. That’s when I realized I’d found the second thing on my to-do list: I
did
have a talent, I just had to ignore my own bullshit long enough to do it. I pulled out the list and, with a pencil lying on the piano, crossed out number two.

Two down, two more to go.