Middle School's a Drag, You Better Werk!

by Greg Howard

  “Okay, Daddy,” Lyla says, baby-smile wattage at one hundred.

  “And don’t worry, son,” he says. “I bet your next idea will be the one. Pap is so proud of you. I am, too.”

  I don’t say anything because I’m afraid my voice will fail me now. I know Pap and Dad are already proud of me. But we all know that Pap won’t be around too much longer. I just want him to see my first big success.

  Pooty yawns very disrespectfully as Dad closes the door behind him. I fake-type some more, hoping Lyla will get the hint and go, too. My eyes are itching and no little sister wants to see her big brother cry. Not even Lyla. But she doesn’t get the hint. She just sits there swinging her legs and stroking Pooty’s back.

  “Don’t you have homework?”

  “Already finished,” she says. “What are you working on?”

  “None of your business,” I say. “You didn’t want to work here anymore, remember?”

  She cocks her head. “I never said I didn’t want to work here. I just wanted a better job than being your dumb assistant.”

  Before I can respond, there’s another knock on the door. Maybe Mom remembered this time.

  “Come in,” I call out. I can’t get anything done today with all these interruptions. I bet Pap Pruitt never had to put up with this.

  The door creaks open behind me, but Lyla doesn’t say anything, so I spin around in my chair. Standing in the doorway is a kid I kind of recognize from school, but I don’t remember his name. I think he’s in the eighth grade and I don’t hang out with any eighth graders. I only recognize him at all because he’s the wrong kind of popular at North Charleston Middle School. And I’ve got enough problems at school without hanging out with kids who are the wrong kind of popular.

  Lyla and I just stare at him, which I know is super-crazy rude and unprofessional, but I can’t help it. He’s wearing sandals, neatly pressed jeans, and a white tank top with YOU BETTER WERK! printed on the front. He’s taller than me and thick all over. Especially in the stomach area. After an awkward silence, the boy finally speaks up.

  “Is this Anything, Incorporated?” he says, glancing around the room with stank face, like my office is the inside of a garbage dumpster. But I can’t even be mad at him for that because—OMG!—he knows the name of my company. How wicked cool is that?

  He glances over at the washer and dryer and then back to me. “I mean the sign on the door says so, but—”

  “Yes!” I say a little too excitedly.

  I snap out of my surprise at having someone who was actually looking for my office who’s not a member of my family and who didn’t think this was a laundromat or a hardware store or anything. I’ve never had a walk-in before.

  I stand, extending my hand to him and clearing my throat. “I’m Michael Pruitt, president, founder, and chief executive officer of Anything, Inc.”

  The boy steps inside from our carport, closing the door behind him. He takes my hand and shakes it. His grip is loose and kind of clammy but he has a bright smile and sparkly eyes framed with—is that glitter?

  “Yeah, I know,” he says, letting go of my hand, still looking around my office, but without the stank face now. “We go to the same school.”

  “Mikey doesn’t have any friends at school,” Lyla says, looking down at Pooty, scratching his head. “They all think he’s a weirdo loser and that all his business ideas are lame because none of them have ever worked.”

  And OMG!

  I glare at her, my face heating from the inside out. Why did I ever trust her with sensitive company secrets? The boy looks like he doesn’t know how to respond to that. Who would?

  I clear my throat, plastering on my fake smile again. “Of course I have friends, Lyla. You remember Trey and Dinesh. We’ve been friends since first grade.”

  Lyla smirks and shakes her head. “Nope. Never heard of them.”

  I grit my teeth through the fake smile. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Lyla? Somewhere that’s not here. Like your room? Or China?”

  The boy coughs into his elbow. Pooty poots. I wave the air around with my hand like I’m trying to swat a fly so my walk-in doesn’t smell it.

  “I bought a candy bar at your general store one time,” he says, like he didn’t notice Murder Kitty’s gas attack. “I thought that store was a pretty cool idea. It was in a good location and had plenty of candy bars and other snacks that kids like. I got the chocolate one with peanut butter and nuts.”

  Pride curls my whole face into a grin. “That was one of my bestsellers. Could hardly keep them in stock.”

  “You sold three,” Lyla pipes up matter-of-factly. “I was in charge of inventory, remember?” She looks over at the boy and sighs, like being a pain in the butt is so exhausting for her. “The Anything General Store got blown away by a baby tornado three days after the grand opening.”

  I swear to God.

  The boy gives me a sympathetic look. “Oh. Sorry. I wondered why it was gone so fast. I came back the next week for another candy bar.”

  My face flushes hot again. “My dad built the store out of big sheets of cardboard, so, you know—lesson learned.”

  Dad did a great job on the store. He built it in the front yard close to the foot traffic of the sidewalk. He said that’s called location, location, location. The store had a wooden frame of two-by-fours, a flip-up sales counter/window, and a real door in back. Well, a real cardboard door. But the store was no match for a baby tornado. Lost all my inventory, too. Our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Brown, thought her bunny rabbit, Hedwig, started pooping magic pellets. I didn’t have the heart to tell her they were just Skittles.

  The boy nods and smiles at me like he understands. I think it’s kind of nice of him.

  I point at Lyla, trying to be professional. “This is my former associate, Lyla Pruitt, and her gassy and very unfriendly cat, Pooty. They were just leaving.”

  “Hey,” the boy says, waving at Lyla with a big, wide smile.

  She stands, but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even smile back. Instead, she hefts Pooty up to her chest, giving my walk-in that creepy-kid stare of hers as she takes her sweet time leaving. It’s extremely unprofessional.

  Michael Pruitt Business Tip #348: Human-demon dolls make terrible receptionists.

  I learned that one the hard way.

  3

  THE GAZILLION-DOLLAR IDEA

  I gesture to the metal folding chair by my desk. “Have a seat, Mister . . . Mister . . .”

  But the kid doesn’t take the what-the-heck-is-your-name hint. He sits, crossing his legs knee over knee like my parents do.

  “I’m not a mister,” he says, resting his hands on his knees. “I’m Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem.”

  He tilts his head a little, like he’s waiting for a reaction from me. I just stare at him, repeating the words in my head to make sure I heard him right. I ease back into my chair. I can’t believe parents would give their kid that kind of name.

  “Um, okay,” I finally get out. “That’s some name.”

  I’m not sure what I meant to say, but I don’t think that was it. I wasn’t trying to be rude, though.

  “It’s my stage name,” he says with a pointed look like I might have offended him. “My boy name is Julian.”

  He raises one eyebrow at me. Why? I don’t know. Maybe he’s waiting for me to offend him again. I’m not sure how to respond. I’ve never heard a dude call his own name a boy name before. So I grab a pen and a new legal pad from the stack on my desk. Buying myself a few more seconds, I slowly write at the top of the sheet before I forget:

  Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem

  I still need another second to get my thoughts together, so under that I write:

  Boy name = Julian

  And then:

  ????

 
Pap Pruitt always says a good businessperson is one who asks questions and listens more than they talk, which takes a lot of pressure off me right now. I relax in my chair and cross my legs knee over knee like Coco-Julian. Resting the legal pad on my lap, I hold the tip of the pen to my chin because that seems like the professional thing to do.

  “How can I help you, Co . . . er . . . um . . . Julian?” I say.

  “You can call me Coco or Julian. Either works.”

  We stare at each other in silence. I still can’t figure out why he’s here. Maybe he’s interested in learning how to play croquet. Or maybe he wants to work for me. He couldn’t be any worse than Lyla. But she was cheap. Like free-cheap. But Pap always says, You get what you pay for. And, boy, was he right about that.

  Coco-or-Julian clears his throat. “I want to be a professional drag queen. You know, like on RuPaul’s Drag Race. And I want you to be my agent.”

  He says it with an impressive crap-load of confidence. I nod and write on the legal pad:

  drag queen?

  Roo Paul?

  agent?

  “You’re, like, the only businessperson I know,” Coco-or- Julian says. “And the name of your company is Anything, Incorporated. So I figure that means you do anything, right?”

  Finally another kid who gets it. I nod some more because that seems like the professional thing to do. “That’s the idea,” I say with a shrug so it doesn’t sound too much like I’m bragging. “I have lots of different business ideas I want to try. I don’t like to be locked into just one thing. I thought the name Anything, Inc., would pretty much cover it all.”

  Coco-or-Julian smiles. “Well, I need an agent to help me get to the next level. You know, someone who will make things happen for me and get me some gigs.”

  More nodding. Another raised eyebrow. “The next level. I see.”

  I write on my pad:

  next level

  And then:

  gigs?

  “So you want to hire me to be your agent.” I make sure it sounds like a statement and not a question. Pap says you have to show confidence in business meetings, even if you don’t know what the heck you’re talking about.

  Coco-or-Julian nods. Good sign.

  “To help you become a successful drag queen.” Another statement. Not a question. “Like Mr. Paul.”

  “RuPaul,” he says, nodding. He shimmies up in the chair, sitting even straighter now. “My mom says I have a lot of talent.”

  I touch the end of the pen to my chin again and squint my eyes for a few seconds. Like I’m trying to decide if this is all worth my time or not.

  I scribble on the pad:

  talent

  “I don’t have any money to pay you with,” Coco-or-Julian adds. “But I think talent agents make money when their client makes money, right?”

  I rack my brain for anything I know about talent agents, which is basically nothing. I need to google that.

  “Commission,” I say in a whisper, and write the word down on my notepad.

  It’s the only thing that comes to mind. I think agents get part of the money their clients make. Like a piece of the pie. That’s called commission. I write down:

  Michael Pruitt, Talent Agent

  I like the sound of it. It would look good on a business card, too. And now that I think about it, it doesn’t have to stop with Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem. I could get other kid clients. More clients, more commissions, more success. And—OMG—I just remembered. The North Charleston Middle School end-of-the-year talent show is coming up in a few weeks. They’re always trying to get kids to sign up for it because hardly anyone ever does. So this year, the Arts Boosters donated a cash prize of one hundred dollars for the winner. The more clients I have, the better chance I’ll have at one of them winning. I’ll bet my talent-agent commission would be, like, half of the prize money. Pap Pruitt would be real proud of me if I started a super-crazy-successful talent agency.

  Coco-or-Julian shifts in his chair and uncrosses his legs. “I haven’t gotten any gigs yet.”

  I’ll have to google gigs later, too, but I keep nodding like I know exactly what Coco-or-Julian is talking about.

  “But I’m sure I will soon,” he says. “Miss Coco Caliente has lots of pizzazz.”

  He snaps while making a big half-moon motion over his head. The sudden movement startles me. I jump in my seat, nearly tipping over backward. Wow. Pizzazz is a powerful thing.

  “Pizzazz,” I repeat in another whisper, and I write the word down.

  Everyone is impressed by people in show business. If I were a successful talent agent, I’ll bet every kid at North Charleston Middle School would be falling all over themselves, trying to get discovered—by me. Especially if I make Coco Caliente a superstar. This could be my gazillion-dollar idea. How hard can it be anyway? Like Pap Pruitt says, All you need is a dream and a prayer.

  I rip off the sheet of paper with my notes and write on a new page:

  ANYTHING TALENT AND PIZZAZZ AGENCY

  A division of Anything, Inc.

  OFFICIAL CONTRACT (legally binding)

  Details and Terms: TBD

  Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, CEO, and Talent Agent

  I draw a line under my name. Then I write:

  Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem—Client

  I draw a line under that.

  “I’ll do it.” After signing my name, I hand Coco-or-Julian the pad and pen. I point to the line under his name. “Sign there. It’s just your standard agency contract.”

  Coco-or-Julian stares down at the page and his eyes widen. “A contract? Don’t you want to see me perform first?”

  Oh, right. Rookie mistake.

  Michael Pruitt Business Tip #349: Always audition talent before giving them an official talent-agency contract.

  I clear my throat. “I’ll make an exception this one time because I can see you have a lot of pizzazz. And that snap . . . that snap is something else. We’ll set up a post-contract-signing audition,” I say confidently. Like that’s a real thing.

  Coco-or-Julian twists his face at me. “Are you sure that’s how it’s done?”

  “I like to do things a little differently around here,” I say, forcing my voice slightly deeper than usual for some reason. It doesn’t work so well. It cracks. “You’ll get used to it. It’s show business!”

  I clap my hands once real loud in front of his face, trying to match the pizzazz of his half-moon snap. He jumps in his seat a little like I scared him, so I guess it worked. Pizzazz must be contagious.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Just excited to get started.”

  Coco-or-Julian looks down and points at the contract. “What does TBD mean?”

  I give him my most professional fake smile. “To be determined.” I learned that from Pap Pruitt, too. “You know, like all the details and stuff. How much I get paid and all that. It’s not important right now.”

  He smiles tightly like he wants to trust me. Finally he scribbles his stage name on the line. It’s kind of a messy signature, but I guess he’s more used to signing autographs than official contracts.

  “Michael.” Mom’s voice blares through the intercom and Coco-or-Julian jumps in his seat again. He eyes the boxy intercom on my desk like it’s an alien egg about to hatch. “Dinner. Now.”

  How embarrassing. And unprofessional. At least she called me Michael. I hit the Talk button. “I’m wrapping up a meeting, Mom. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I stand, which makes Coco-or-Julian stand as well.

  “I think we should shake on it even though we already signed an official legal contract,” I say, holding out my hand. He takes it. His grip is a little more firm this time.

  “Welcome to the Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency,
” I say, trying to keep my excitement from scaring him again. Don’t want to act like I’m not a real-live talent agent signing up new clients all the time. Coco-or-Julian grins from ear to ear. I think I sold it.

  “Can you meet tomorrow at school during lunch period for our first strategy and planning session?”

  He nods. “I have second lunch.”

  “Good.” I usher him to the door before he can change his mind and tear up the contract. “Me too. I’ll make some calls right away,” I say, but I don’t know why. I don’t have any idea who to call. I don’t even have my own phone. But it just came out, so maybe I’m a natural at this talent-agent thing. I must have good show-business instincts, and sometimes that’s way better than real-life experience.

  “Oh, okay,” he says.

  His smile is huge now and his eyes are sparkling. I can’t help feeling like I’m part of the reason for that. I’m about to make all his drag-queen dreams come true, after all.

  “Well, bye, I guess,” he says, opening the door and stepping out into the carport. “See you tomorrow at lunch.”

  “Lunch. Yes,” I say, waving and following him out.

  I watch him walk to the end of our driveway before I dart back inside. Suddenly I have so much energy I could bounce off the walls. A talent agency. It’s perfect. Why haven’t I thought of it before? There’re loads of talented kids at school. Pap Pruitt will be so proud when I make Coco Caliente the biggest drag queen in all of North Charleston Middle School. And maybe Tommy Jenrette and his jerk friends will finally stop teasing me about my failed business ventures and show me some respect.

  I hurry back over to my desk and open a Web browser on my laptop.

  “Now, Mikey,” Mom’s irritated voice calls over the intercom.

  I don’t answer. This will only take a second and she’ll think I’m already on my way in. I open Google and type my question into the search bar.

  Michael Pruitt Business Tip #350: Fake it till you make it. When in doubt, you can google anything. Even What is a drag queen?