“I want you to know that I’m happy for you. I wish nothing but the best for you both,” I sing.
A few people cheer with recognition. This is the one and only Alanis Morissette song I know, which I was exposed to on our way home from a choir competition in ninth grade when Ms. Jennings played us her personal playlist on the way home. I immediately went home and listened to the song on repeat while I sang/screamed along, feeling all the anger of a woman scorned. Unlike the song, I’d never been left for another woman, but something about the painand anger made me feel validated and invigorated.
Clem holds her lit phone up, and a few people, including Tucker, follow suit as we reach the buildup for the chorus.
“And I’m here to remind you of the mess that you left when you went away.”
I guess I’m not the only one who feels this song so deeply, because the whole living room is singing along. More phones pop into the air. Some people from the backyard fill in.
Suddenly, I’m untying my robe and whirling it around me as I pace back and forth on the coffee table.
“You better work!” shouts Kyle.
It doesn’t matter that I’m in old sweatpants and a T-shirt and Kyle’s mom’s robe. I’m in drag. Because drag is more than makeup and gowns and bodysuits and tucking and sequins and wigs. Drag is about what you exude. Drag is a choice. And in this moment, in front of almost the entire senior class, my choice is to fully embrace Pumpkin. Embracing Pumpkin doesn’t mean leaving Waylon behind, because there’s no Pumpkin without Waylon.
The entire house is screaming along with me. There are no spotlights, because this song is a solo that belongs to each and every one of us.
The end of the song is coming and I have a choice to make. A choice that rides on a gamble and a little bit of faith.
“You, you, you oughta know!” I sing into the microphone just before I make my best attempt at a death drop, my body slamming down with one leg shooting out andthe other awkwardly bent to the side, and sweet Jesus, I should probably stretch before I do that again. It’s not perfect or pretty, but I let my body hit the coffee table with enough force that after a brief second, the wooden legs collapse beneath me.
Panic stops my heart. This is every fat kid’s worst nightmare. I didn’t just break a chair. I broke a damn coffee table. But I knew what I was doing when I went for that death drop. In fact, I’d bet that almost anyone’s death drop would kill this coffee table. And even if that’s not true, I don’t care, because that might have just been the most monumental moment of my life. Sometimes you just have to break a damn coffee table.
I close my eyes and clutch the microphone to my chest. I’m not ready to see anyone else’s reactions yet. I still want this moment to be only mine.
“Pump-kin, Pump-kin, Pump-kin!” It starts out slow and quiet, but by the time I open my eyes, tons of faces—many familiar and others not—are looking back down at me. And they’re chanting. They’re chanting for me.
“Pump-kin, Pump-kin, Pump-kin!”
I sit up as though their cheers are resuscitating me. As though they’re giving me life.
Tucker reaches out his hand for me and helps me to my feet.
The crowd quiets, and I hold my arms out as I take a deep curtsy, causing them to erupt in cheers all over again.
Twenty-Six
The next morning when I wake up, I find a garment bag hanging over my door.
As I’m still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, Mom knocks and peeps her head inside. “I thought you could use something for Saturday.”
“Oh.” I sit up in bed and slide on my bear-claw slippers, every muscle in my body groaning. “Thanks.” I check under the sheets for any potential morning embarrassment. Last night I dreamed that Tucker picked me up for prom in the pumpkin carriage from Cinderella.
She takes a sip of her coffee, standing there in the doorway in a fuzzy robe with her hair swirled into a bun. “You hadn’t said anything about it, and I figured I should pick something up before it was too late. You know Regina at Levine’s is always letting me know when they get your size in, so she was able to get me something ordered. We can bring it in to get it tailored or Grammy could always do it, too.”
I rub my knuckles into my eyes and stand. “That was thoughtful.” I’m trying my best not to sound disappointed.I don’t know what I expected to wear to prom. I unzip the garment bag down the center to find a black tuxedo with a white tux shirt and pants on a separate hanger. It’s nice. But plain.
“Grammy has all those bow ties of Grampy’s. I thought you could go over there and see what you could find.”
I pull the jacket out to try it on.
“I even thought about getting you a top hat, but if we’re lucky you’ll be wearing a crown.”
“Lord willing and the creek don’t rise,” I tell her, quoting one of Grammy’s favorite old-timey Southernisms.
She laughs while I check myself out. The jacket fits, but it’s boxy and is definitely the kind of thing specifically constructed to hide a body instead of display it.
“Is it a rental?” I ask.
