She flinches. “Leave for where?”
“For drag brunch.” I make a beeline for Big Blue, digging through my innumerable options. “No dress code for this, right?”
Silence. When I turn to Renee, she’s fiddling with her rings, brow creased.
“I don’t think it’s right to go without Gin and Chrissy,” she says.
“What else are we supposed to do? Sit around?”
Renee lifts a shoulder. “We could pack.”
“According to the itinerary, we have a late checkout. And were you not just complaining that we came all this way only to sit by the pool?”
Renee’s mouth closes and opens, a Venus flytrap hoping to catch a valid argument, but there isn’t one. I’m dressed and ready before Renee has decided between a strappy pair of wedges and sensible white sneakers.
“Go with the wedges,” I advise. “It’s a drag show.”
She frowns toward my feet. “You’re wearing sneakers.”
“Well, yeah. Because look at me. And look at you.”
“What about me?”
A tiny fire blazes down the backs of my ears as I fumble for an answer that’s not completely humiliating. “You’re…well, you’reyou,” I manage. “I mean, look at you. That’s not what normal people look like.”
Renee’s mouth twists into a smile, but her brow stays furrowed, not quite sure what to make of that…or me. “Thanks,” she says cautiously. “I think.”
We arrive at the restaurant at ten on the dot, as does every other bachelorette party in town. I recognize the wig-wearing group from Lagoon 42—mostly by the singular bridesmaid who remains committed to the bright-blue bob—and the women in the matching bandage dresses are back with a brand-new coordinated group look: pajamas. Based on their demeanor, I’d guess it was less of a choice and more of a desperate hungover decision. When a queen in a ’50s-diner-girl dress escorts us to our seats, Renee still seems a half-step off, nervously checking her phone for updates from the bride. But when the lights dim and a queen waddles out in a semirealistic palm tree costume, I watch the sparkle ignite behind Renee’s eyes. Every performance further confirms we made the right call by not missing this. A black queen with a knee-length wig dances on tables, stilettos stepping between cocktails and plates of scrambled eggs. A queen by the name of Maybe Gaga performs “Born This Way” with original choreography, and Bloody Mary and Mimi Mosa show down in a comedy battle for America’s Next Top Cocktail, snatching up dollar bills from the crowd to determine a winner. My favorite performer by far, though, remains the palm tree. She stands statue still in the center of the restaurant until the grand finale, a Mariah Careygroup number that ends with the palm tree setting off a glitter bomb.
“You were right,” Renee admits when the show ends. She brushes glitter into a neat pile in the lap of her dress. “That was excellent. I’m glad we came to that.”
I gasp through my nose. “Say that again. The part about me being right.”
She considers me for a moment, then scoops up the glitter from her lap and drizzles it into my hair. It falls into my eyelashes, and I pin her with a joyless stare.
“I hate you,” I say flatly.
Renee grins. “I don’t think you do, actually.”
The restaurant has to reset for the next sold-out brunch in an hour, and since we haven’t heard from Gin or Chrissy, Renee and I wander toward a diner down the street. We leave a trail of glitter on the sidewalk behind us; I’ll be washing tiny sparkly flecks out of my hair for at least a week.
“We’re like gay Hansel and Gretel,” I joke, motioning to the sparkles breadcrumbed behind us, which sparks a heated discussion about the assumed sexual orientation of fairy-tale characters. Renee and I butt heads on the Big Bad Wolf and Cinderella’s stepsisters, all of whom I insist are gay, but Renee wholeheartedly disagrees.
“What about Jack?” I throw out. “You have to agree that Jack is gay.”
“Jack?”
“Of beanstalk fame.”
Renee scrunches her nose, considering. “A straight man wouldn’t trade a cow for magic beans, would he?”
“Or risk his life for a harp,” I add.
“But the giants are straight,” she decides. “I’m fairly sure they’re married, and giants in general have a conservative energy to them.”
I kick a pebble across the sidewalk, and it bounces off the platform of Renee’s wedges. “You’re a lot goofier than I thought you could be.”
“I’m not being goofy,” she deadpans. “I’m having an intellectual conversation about the assumed sexuality of storybook characters.”
