Small-town gay life doesn’t have to be a drag. It can be great in some ways, and it helps that I’ve not done anything like try to star in the school’s production ofOklahoma!Clem and I have been lucky, especially with our parents, but I’ve heard whispers about other kids in town. Everything from getting kicked out of their homes to being sent to Bible Bootcamp. (A real place with actual Yelp reviews, by the way.Five stars! Would send my once-homosexual kid back again!) Clem and I might have made it through life so far without any major bumps or bruises, but I know that we’re both just one unfortunate moment away from someone seeing us do something like hold hands with someone or even a moment of us “acting gay” before one of us is in actual danger.
As the commercials begin after last week’s episode, I stand up. “Okay, last call for bathroom breaks! This finale is live with zero commercials. Look alive, people!”
Clementine races to the bathroom.
“I’ll take my chances,” says Hannah.
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 ofFiercest 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. Shedoesn’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 andbarely 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.
