Middle School's a Drag, You Better Werk!

by Greg Howard

  4

  THE FAMILY INTERROGATION

  “Lyla says you had a visitor in your office today.” Dad picks up his burger with both hands and takes a big messy bite out of it.

  I glare across the table at Lyla. She stole my thunder. Lyla chews a big mouthful of hamburger while smiling at me like she just did me a favor. I can tell she’s swinging her legs under the table by the way her body is rocking slightly. She always swings her legs. It’s annoying. Especially in the workplace, when your chairs are only two feet apart. She kept kicking mine. I had to write her up a few times about that.

  Mom passes me the salad bowl because I didn’t put anything green on my hamburger. Mom insists you have to have something green on your plate at every meal. I take the bowl and tong myself some rabbit food that I plan to eat as little as possible of.

  “I was going to tell you about it at the board meeting on Wednesday,” I say.

  Thanks for nothing, Lyla.

  Turns out, Google knows a lot about drag queens, and even some about drag kids. But all I had time to do was look at pictures. I have a ton more research to do before I can take Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem, to the next level.

  “I had a walk-in,” I say, picking up my fork. “A new client.”

  “He was weird looking,” Lyla says, mustard smeared across her mouth.

  “You’re weird looking,” I mumble under my breath.

  “Mikey,” Mom says sharply, frowning at me.

  Mom teaches American Lit at North Charleston High, so sometimes she slips into her scolding-teacher voice at home.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, without looking at Lyla, so I could be saying sorry to anyone about anything. It makes apologizing to her a lot easier.

  Mom wipes her mouth with a paper towel and pushes loose strands of hair out of her face. “And it’s not nice to say someone is weird looking, Lyla. Can you find a better way to describe Mikey’s new friend?”

  “He’s not my friend,” I say quickly, but I’m not sure why I said it so quickly.

  Forbes pushes through the doggy door, trotting happily into the room. Pooty jumps down from the top of his cat condo and hisses at him, sending Forbes right back outside. Poor Forbes.

  “Okay, then. Let me see,” Lyla says to the ceiling as she licks mustard from the corners of her mouth. “He was . . . different looking.”

  “That’s racist,” I say, looking at my burger and not at the devil child of 666 Kudzu Lane.

  Unfortunately that’s our real street address. But I don’t think anyone else has made the connection between our address and Lyla’s peculiar personality. Or the fact that her birthday is June 6. Thank God she wasn’t born in 2006.

  Lyla huffs. “I didn’t mean his skin color.”

  I glance up at Dad. He’s staring at me, the tanned, sun-creased lines in his forehead raised.

  “He’s just a kid from school,” I say.

  “He’s Latino,” Lyla adds.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” Mom says, adding careful lines of ranch dressing to her salad. “You could use a little diversity in your circle of friends.”

  I stare at Mom with my mouth hanging open. I literally have two friends—one is black and one is Indian. And she’s met them several times.

  “Those croquet students aren’t his friends,” Lyla pipes in.

  Oh. That’s what Mom’s talking about.

  “And Mikey doesn’t have a circle,” the devil baby says.

  “Your brother has lots of friends, sweetie,” Dad says, petting her head like she’s a brand-new puppy.

  His voice is always a little higher when he talks to Lyla. I swear they act like she’s still five. She could get away with murder around here.

  “There’s Dinesh and Trey and . . . and . . .” Dad’s voice trails off like he can’t remember anyone else. But in his defense, that’s actually all there is.

  “See, Dad,” Lyla says with a bored sigh. “Not a circle.”

  “So, what’s this boy’s name?” Mom asks, saving me. But not really.

  I think for a minute. There’s a lot to choose from. Coco-or-Julian. Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem. Miss Coco, Mr. Caliente. I decide to keep it simple and use his boy name.

  “Julian,” I say.

  Mom gets the pitcher of tea from the fridge. “And where is Julian from?”

  I realize now that during the excitement of having my first walk-in and starting a talent-agency division of Anything, Inc., I didn’t get a lot of background information on my new client. I need to step up my game.

  Michael Pruitt Business Tip #351: It’s a good idea to get the client’s last name and current address—or any address, for that matter—on all legally binding contracts.

  “I’m not sure where he’s from,” I say. “Here, I guess.”

  “Is he cute?” Dad says, leaning over and grinning at me like a goofy kid.

  “Ew, Dad,” I say. “I’m twelve.”

  Dad runs a hand through his hair. “Doesn’t mean you’re blind. I was about your age when I noticed how cute your mom was.”

  Mom giggles and playfully punches Dad’s arm. I roll my eyes at them. Sometimes parents can be so lame.

  “Why would Mikey think a boy is cute?” Lyla asks. “Only girls are cute.”

  “Not to everyone, sweetie,” Dad says. “Anybody can be cute to someone.”

  Lyla shrugs like she doesn’t care one way or another—as long as the whole wide universe thinks she’s cute.

  Sometimes I wish I’d never told my parents that I thought I might be gay. I said thought and might to soften the blow, but it wasn’t any kind of blow or even a surprise to them. I thought that was kind of weird and it made me wonder if they knew I was gay even before I did. But I don’t know how they could have. They were wicked cool about it right from the beginning, though. I guess I should be glad about that. I’m sure some kids who are gay, or bi, or trans probably don’t have supportive parents. But sometimes Mom and Dad can be a little too enthusiastic about my gayness. Like asking me every day if I like-like any boys at school. I mean, ew times ten. I’m only twelve and they’re ready to sign me up for Gay Bachelor: North Charleston Middle School Edition.

  “What did Julian want?” Mom asks, absently stabbing her salad to death with her fork. Seriously, her plate is almost a crime scene. I think she secretly doesn’t like green food, either, but she’s not about to admit it to me and Lyla.

  “He wants me to be his agent,” I say, like it’s no big deal for a twelve-year-old kid to be a professional talent agent. It sure isn’t to me. Pap Pruitt would understand. I can’t wait to go see him so I can tell him about my new business.

  Dad rests his elbows on the table, boring a hole through me with his blue-gray eyes. “Agent? What kind of agent?”

  “A talent agent,” I say casually.

  “Oh,” Mom says, looking up at me. “Wow.”

  It wasn’t an excited wow. More like a that’s-a-super-dumb-idea-Mikey wow.

  “Well,” Dad says. “That could be interesting. What’s Julian’s talent? Does he play an instrument?”

  His forehead is all wrinkled like he’s not so sure about my latest business idea.

  I shake my head.

  “Is he a magician?” Lyla asks.

  “No,” I say to my plate and not to Lyla.

  I don’t want to tell them what Julian’s talent is before I see it for myself. If I say, He’s a drag queen, it’ll just spark a thousand more questions from Lyla. This already feels enough like an interrogation.

  “Is he a singer?” she asks.

  “No,” I say again. Even though I honestly don’t know if drag queens sing or not.

  “A comedian?” she continues, because she just won’t shut up about this. She’s trying to break me down.

  “I haven’t seen
him perform yet, okay, Lyla?” The edge in my voice draws confused looks from Mom and Dad.

  “Shouldn’t you check out this boy’s act before you decide to be his agent?” Dad asks, but not in a mean way.

  I let out a big sigh and slump down in my chair. They’re not going to let this go until I give them something.

  “Well, his stage name is Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem,” I say, bracing myself for a bunch of questions. But they don’t come. Because what the heck can you say to that?

  Dad opens and closes his mouth a couple of times like he’s trying to figure out how it works, but no sounds come out. Mom squints at me with a constipated smile.

  “Well,” Mom finally says. “That does sound interesting. We’ll expect a full report at the next board meeting, okay?”

  That’s exactly what I said before. But thank you very much, Lyla, and have a nice day. How does such a little kid have such a big mouth? I give her my best get-thee-behind-me-Satan glare. She just smiles real big and cheesy. Like seriously, melted cheese is hanging from the corners of her mouth.

  “Mikey—”

  “May I please be excused?” I say before Lyla can ask another question.

  Mom checks out my plate to make sure I ate all my salad and then nods. I can’t get out of there fast enough. I have research to do and this RuPaul’s Drag Race show isn’t going to watch itself.

  5

  THE WORST GAY EVER

  It’s May—the last month of the school year—so the students are more restless and rowdy than ever. And some of them—cough-cough, Tommy Jenrette—more dangerous. When the second lunch-period bell rings, it doesn’t take long for the silent, empty cafeteria to fill with the growing roar of Monday chatter, laughter, footsteps, and the smell of deep-fried Tater Tots. The noise ricochets from wall to wall and ceiling to floor like in the prison cafeterias on TV. At least prison cafeterias have armed guards standing around keeping an eye on things. Not here, though. Today we have my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Campbell, and the drama teacher, Mr. Arnold, as lunch monitors. But they’re over in the corner gossiping and laughing, so we’re basically on our own. Luckily there’s only three weeks left before summer break.

  Trey, Dinesh, and I keep our heads down as we make our way through the lunch line and out into the maze of long narrow tables. It’s like a minefield out here—watch where you step or you could be blown to bits by the wrong people. Although I’ll bet they consider themselves the right people and us the wrong people. We’ve learned the hard way where it’s okay to hang out, where it’s okay to walk, and most important, where it’s okay to sit.

  The tables closest to the lunch line are in what we call the yellow zone. That’s where the outsiders and unpopular people sit. The middle of the cafeteria is the red zone, where the popular, rich, and athletic kids hang out—mostly eighth graders. We make a beeline for the green zone—the tables closest to the safety of the school’s front office—where the not-popular, but not-really-unpopular, regular seventh-grade kids like us sit. We like to blend in and not attract attention from the red-zone crowd. They’re the worst. The only problem is, you have to weave your way through the red-zone minefield to get to the green zone. Today we just about make it without any problem until a familiar voice calls out as we’re passing through.

  “Loser, party of three. Loser, party of three.”

  I glance over to my left and see that it was eighth-grade horrible person Tommy Jenrette, just like I thought. He’s sitting with all his dumb basketball buddies, cupping his mouth with his hands to make his voice louder. His friends laugh like it’s the most hilarious thing they’ve ever seen and heard, so he does it again.

  “Loser, party of three. Loser, party of three.”

  “Just keep walking,” Dinesh says, eyes glued to the Tater Tots on his tray.

  Snickers follow us all the way to the border of the red zone. Finally we make it to our regular table in the green zone, and Trey and Dinesh sit across from me. Next year Tommy Jenrette and his idiot friends will be in high school and we won’t have to worry about them for at least a year.

  “Those guys are such jerks,” Trey says. He pulls the latest Percy Jackson novel out of his backpack.

  Trey reads more than any kid I know. Reading is like his superpower. He actually looks forward to getting our summer reading list every year, if you can believe that. And sometimes he’ll read an entire book over the weekend instead of watching TV. Like a whole book from front to back—with no pictures. And he never goes to see the movies of the books he’s read because he says they’re never as good. I wonder if reading is a talent. Maybe I should add Trey to my client roster at the Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency. I’d just have to figure out how to turn his love for reading into gobs of commission for me. I need to do some googling about that later.

  Trey covers his naked hot dog with two plastic packets of mustard, two packets of ketchup, and three packets of relish. His spotless white polo shirt doesn’t have a chance.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he says to me. “Why haven’t you joined the Pride Club yet? We had a meeting last week. I thought you’d be there.”

  I’m not sure why, but the words pride and club together give me instant back sweat. I know Trey expects me to join the Pride Club. He’s not even gay and he’s in the Pride Club. And he’s been on me about joining ever since I told him and Dinesh that I thought I might be gay a couple of months ago. But I honestly didn’t think that I might be gay. I knew. I’ve always known. I’m just not ready for all of North Charleston Middle School to know.

  There are four people in the whole wide world who know—my parents and my two best friends—and that’s been plenty of people knowing as far as I’m concerned. I get enough crap from Tommy Jenrette and his jerk friends already. Why give them more ammo? Besides, I’ll have all summer to get comfortable with the idea of being an out gay. Next year I’ll be an eighth grader. Untouchable. At least for a year. In the meantime, I just want to end this school year without the whole world knowing all my business and without Tommy Jenrette having a fresh batch of names to call me. Names with the word gay in them.

  I squirm a little in my seat. “I . . . um . . . just figured since it was so close to the end of the year, I would just wait and join next year.”

  Trey gives me a disappointed sigh and shakes his head. “Dude, you’re the worst gay ever.”

  He maneuvers his hot dog to his mouth with both hands. Still, a thick drop of mustard lands right on his shirt.

  Dinesh points to the mustard stain and hands Trey an extra napkin. “Nice, dude.”

  “Crap,” Trey says. “Moms are going to kill me.”

  Trey always calls his parents Moms because he has two moms. Makes a lot of sense to me. Trey is easily the best looking of the three of us with his perfectly rounded face, his soft brown eyes, and shoulders almost as wide as Tommy Jenrette’s. And his moms always send him to school looking like he stepped right off the pages of a JCPenney catalog, but he never leaves that way. He takes the napkin from Dinesh, dips it into his water, and blots away. He knows the drill.

  Dinesh leans in and nods at me. “It’s true. Trey is a better gay than you and he’s not even gay.”

  Feeling a little defensive, I pick up a Tater Tot and hold it in the palm of my hand, like a rock I might throw at them. “Is joining the Pride Club mandatory? Are there gay rules that I don’t know about yet? I mean, I’ve only been gay like . . . five minutes.”

  Not exactly true.

  Trey picks up his book. “Whatever, dude.”

  I don’t want Trey to be disappointed in me or to think I’m the worst gay ever, even though he’s probably right about that. I didn’t know there was a right way and a wrong way to be gay, but I guess I’ll have to ask Google about that, too.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, hoping that gets me off the hook for now.


  Trey looks over at Dinesh. “What about you? The club is for friends of gay people, too.”

  “I don’t think my parents are going to let me join,” Dinesh says, popping a Tater Tot in his mouth. “They said I need to focus on my grades, not all that.”

  Dinesh’s traditional Indian parents are super nice, but they think everything is a distraction for Dinesh that doesn’t involve passing the bar exam or getting into medical school.

  “‘All that’?” Trey points to me. “Mikey’s gay and you’re around him, like, every day.”

  The words punch me right in the gut. Maybe because he said it kind of loud. I glance around to see if anyone heard him say the words Mikey and gay together. Thank God Tommy Jenrette is too far away to hear. It’s not that I’m ashamed of being gay or anything. It’s just easier being the right kind of popular than the wrong kind of popular at North Charleston Middle School. Even though I’m not really any kind of popular. I guess sometimes that’s the safest kind to be.

  “Yeah,” Dinesh replies with a goofy grin. “But like you said, he’s, like, the worst gay ever, so I don’t think it even counts.”

  They both crack up. And yes, these are my best friends. The ones laughing at me right now. We kind of bonded on the playground in first grade when nobody else wanted to hang out with any of us, so we just started playing together and never stopped. I think that’s how some of the best friendships are made.

  “You guys suck,” I say. I toss a Tater Tot at Dinesh. He catches it and pops it in his mouth. Dinesh’s talent is eating Tater Tots for sure, but I don’t think there’s anything I could do with that, unless . . . I pull a pen and my yellow notepad out of my backpack and write it down before I forget:

  Google local Tater Tot—eating contests.

  Dinesh clears his throat. I look up. His eyes are wide and he’s using them to point over my shoulder, which makes him look way crazy. But I turn around anyway and OMG!

  “Hey,” Julian says. He stands there holding his lunch tray. At our table. In real life.