“Yes,” I say. “No, well, yes, formally.”
He opens his Caboodle to reveal stacks of makeup palettes and piles of lip liners and lipsticks. “My kit is your kit.”
“Thanks,” I say, my face nearly turning into the heart-eyes emoji at the sight of his stash.
I continue to do my makeup, but now that I have company, I hesitate with every stroke. My new friend is doing everything he can not to stare at me, but we can’t really avoid each other, and it turns out that painting your face with an audience is actually awful.
As I’m reaching for my lip liner, he passes me a sleek metallic tube. “Try this one.” He motions to my bag, where my brand-new wig from Party Zone is still in the wrapper. “It’ll complement the hair. And you might want to let that girl air out.”
I fumble for the wig and pull it out of the bag, but it might as well be a ball of static.
“Do you mind?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I hand over my dumpster fire of a wig. I ran out after school to get one once I realized I only had the one from my video at home.
“I’m Nick, by the way.”
“Waylon.”
He reaches under the table and comes up with a wig stand. “Or first name: Peppa; middle name: Roni; last name: Way.”
“You’re Peppa Roni!” There was something about him I thought was familiar. “But last name: Way?”
“My drag mother. Surely, you’ve seen Lee up there.”
“Ohhhhh,” I say. “I just thought... you’re...”
“Older,” he says with a smile. “Lee used to deliver pizza for me when he was still pulling weekend bartending shifts here.”
“So Lee is Lee... that’s their drag name and their real name?”
He nods as he attacks my wig with a pick comb and hairspray. “Lee is Lee. In or out of drag. So you go to school in Odessa or something? A college kid?”
I shake my head. “Clover City born and bred.” It takeseverything in me to not ask him a zillion questions, from best tucking practices to where I can buy shoes to fit my ginormous feet.
“A true West Texas queen.”
“We’ll see. I’m two weeks from high school graduation and have zero plans other than possibly going to community college. Not exactly glamorous.” I uncap the lip liner Nick shared with me. It’s a bright, fiery orange.
“Well, if you ever feel like making pizzas, I’ve employed my fair share of up-and-coming queens.” He sets out a lipstick for me to try. “Pair it with that.”
I begin to follow the line of my lips and he laughs, but not in a mean way.
“No, no,” he says. “Draw the lips—what’s your drag name?”
“Pumpkin Patch,” I tell him.
“Now, that’s a good one. Draw Pumpkin’s lips. Not Waylon’s. Overline those babies. They won’t be perfect, but one day you’ll find the right shape. You gotta get it wrong before you can get it right.”
I do as he says, and he’s right. They are definitely not perfect, but once I fill them in with the lipstick, which is more red than orange, they sort of look good. If I squint.
My phone buzzes. Clementine!
Hannah: Nothing yet.
I hit Clem’s name in my phonebook, but my call goes straight to voice mail. I normally never leave voice mails, but tonight calls for a voice mail. “Clem, I, uh, wanted to see where you are.” And then quietly, so that hopefullyNick can’t hear me over the music, “I’m really nervous. It would mean a lot to have you here. But also, please be careful. Call me.”
“Here,” says Nick after rooting through his bag. “Take this. It’s always good to have a prop. There’s nothing worse than not knowing what to do with your hands.”
