Chapter One
May
“Alexaaaa, turn off the music!”
It is entirely too early for these messy queens and their shit today.
“Not my fault! Yell at Patti, dammit!” Alexa grumbles from somewhere on the other side of the room.
“Who the hell picked your name, anyway? Alexa Turnoff…it’s not even a good name…” I mumble, blindly groping around for the sound system remote. After a few wild slaps and several curse words, my hand finally connects with it. Sweet silence.
I groan and blink one eye open, immediately regretting it. The light slanting through the busted blinds of the green room lands squarely on my face like a glitter-covered sledgehammer. My head throbs in time with the disco bass line that’s probably still echoing through the walls. I sit up slowly, feeling every single one of my forty-two years in the creak of my spine. I am a goddamn elder at this point and entirely too old to be passing out in wigs and heels on a chaise lounge like I’m still twenty and invincible.
Craning my neck to see who else survived the Great Drag Ball of 2025, I scan the disaster zone. My bestie, Patti O’Furniture, is draped across the other chaise like a Victorian widow mid-faint, rhinestone stiletto still clinging to one foot,corset half-unlaced, one false eyelash dangling somewhere near her earlobe. Alexa Turnoff is curled beneath the makeup station in a sequin blanket, snoring softly, still clutching an empty prosecco bottle like it’s her firstborn. There’s a boa in the sink. Someone used the club’s emergency contour palette to draw a giant penis on the mirror. Again.
This, my loves, is the aftermath of what we call a successful party.
“Swear on my good wig,” Patti groans, voice muffled. “If one more person puts edible glitter in tequila Jello shots, I’m burning this place down.”
“You say that every year,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut to keep the headache from growing teeth.
“Because every year I wake up tasting disco balls and regret.”
“Not the worst balls you could wake up tasting,” mumbles a voice from a heap of gowns in the corner. Dee Pression peeks one kohl-lined eye out, recoils with a hiss at the sunlight, then retreats again beneath the pile of tulle.
Welcome to January 1st at Sleigh Queen. The year isn’t even twelve hours old, and I’m already reconsidering every decision that’s led me to this moment. I roll to my feet with a grunt and immediately wish I hadn’t. I’m still in full drag, minus pads and tucking, thank every deity. My back pops like a string of firecrackers as I straighten and catch my reflection in the mirror. I look like a Miss Clairol ad from 1987 got into a knife fight with a Bedazzler and lost. I may look and feel tragic, but someone has to start the cleanup.
As quickly as my protesting joints allow, which is to say not quickly at all, I trudge up to my apartment above the club to tug off my wig, untape, unstick, and throw on one of my most comfortable caftans, turbans, and house shoes.
Dragging my aching body back down to the main floor a half hour later, I’m greeted by the aftermath of the annual Sleighbell Springs Drag Ball. Confetti has fused to every surface like tacky wallpaper, the disco moose has been dressed in a tutu, and what had better not be my custom cherry-redI Love Lucywig, and every liquor bottle behind the bar has googly eyes.
“Oh no,” I whisper to no one in particular. “You girls were unsupervised last night.”
The espresso machine gurgles behind the bar. Probably Tucker’s doing. Bless drag kings and their bartender foresight, programming it before ducking out post-party last night. Tucker and I may have gone rounds over the expense of such a fancy machine behind the bar, but right now, I have never been more grateful to be the loser in an argument with a five-foot nothing drag king with an attitude problem. I pour myself a double shot, skip the sugar, and knock it back like holy water. Scalding. Bitter. Lifesaving.
Sleigh Queen isn’t just a bar. It’s my baby. My kingdom. My tinsel-draped, pride-flag-covered, queer, glitter-drenched oasis. Fifteen years ago, my uncle Rudy left me this place, a dive bar called Rudolph’s Red-Nosed Inn, and told me to do something good with it. So I slapped on a corset, called some friends, and that’s when little Mason Beckett became the indomitable May North in this quiet little holiday-obsessed town in Northern Vermont. Now we’re the only drag club in a hundred-mile radius, and a lifeline for every queer kid north of Montpelier.
And clearly also the source of a lot of hangovers.
I start the slow process of cleanup after last night, scraping dried frosting off the barstools (god I hope that’s frosting), removing someone’s wig from the speaker stack, and throwing away at least three pairs of tights that look like they lost a fight with a cheese grater. I’m halfway through organizinga pile of broken feather fans when I hear snickering from one of the booths.
“Who’s blowing up your phone this early?” I call.
Our resident dance queen, Dixie Normous, lifts her head from behind the farthest booth in the corner. “Group chat. Anna’s eyelash is glued to the back of her thigh.”
“At least it’s not glued to someone else’s thigh this year,” I shoot back.
“Progress,” she mutters.
Eventually, one by one, the others shuffle out to help, which mostly means loudly complaining while drinking coffee and throwing streamers at each other. I’m sweeping the stage when Patti makes her entrance in sunglasses, a silk robe, and a Bloody Mary that’s more garnish than drink, which she must have snuck upstairs to my apartment to make.
“Morning, my sleazy snowflakes,” she singsongs.
“Afternoon,” Dee corrects, emerging from the dressing room in a hoodie, fishnets, and God knows what else. “We passed noon an hour ago.”
“Time is a social construct, darling,” Patti says. “Like gender. Or brunch.”
“Speaking of,” Dixie calls from the bar, “are we still doing resolution mimosas or what?”
