by Greg Howard
He’s wearing sharply creased jeans and sandals like he was when he came to the world headquarters of Anything, Inc., yesterday—minus the YOU BETTER WERK! tank top. The T-shirt he’s wearing today reads, YAAAS!
Before this weekend I wouldn’t have known what yaaas meant. But after my extensive research watching three episodes of RuPaul’s Drag Race—very informative show, by the way—I know now that yaaas is something drag queens say when they’re super-crazy excited. Like they might say:
Yaaas, queen! That look is fierce!
Fierce means “good” in drag language, as best as I can tell, but I don’t speak it fluently yet.
I look back at my friends. Trey has his nose buried in his book, but he peers over the top, his eyes wide and locked on Julian. Dinesh’s mouth hangs open, two half-chewed Tater Tots balancing on his tongue.
I turn to face my new client, heat flooding my cheeks and beads of sweat exploding across my forehead. I’m not sure why, though. I mean it’s not like he’s standing here in a dress like the contestants on RuPaul’s Drag Race. Still, I glance over my shoulder to make sure Tommy Jenrette isn’t looking this way. Luckily he isn’t.
“Hey,” I finally say.
But I say it a little sharp and more like a question. Like Hey actually means “What the heck are you doing here? At our table? In real life?”
I don’t know what else to say, though. So I spit out the stupidest thing in the entire world.
“Can I help you?”
Can I help you? What the heck is this? A drive-through window? I even say it with a little huff. Like I have no idea who Julian is or what he’s doing at our table saying hey to me. I feel like a total jerk, but that doesn’t stop me from looking at him like I don’t recognize him either.
Julian glances over at Dinesh and Trey, then back at me. His eyes darken a little and his smile fades. “You said we should meet up at lunch for our first strategy and planning session.”
I hadn’t forgotten about that, but I figured I would go find him after I ate lunch with Trey and Dinesh. I try to round up what’s left of my professional manners.
“Oh, right,” I say, like I’d forgotten all about our meeting, because I’m so busy and stuff like that. “Um . . . um . . .” Because that’s a professional response, right? “Where’re you sitting? I’ll come find you after I eat.”
I don’t dare look back at my friends. I’m sure they’re just loving this.
Julian looks around at all the empty chairs at our table and—OMG!—for a second I think he’s about to just sit down with us. And then everyone in the cafeteria would see me with him—that popular-for-all-the-wrong-reasons kid. And they might think we’re friends. But Julian doesn’t sit down. And he doesn’t ask to. And I don’t invite him to. Because I guess I’m a terrible person. Or maybe Pooty somehow got into my room last night and sucked all my nice-person breath out through my nostrils and replaced it with his own evil-spirit breath. I’ve heard cats can do that.
Julian tries to smile again, but it doesn’t take. He actually looks a little sad, or hurt. I feel about two inches tall.
Michael Pruitt Business Tip #352 (learned the hard way): Always set a clear time and location for all business meetings.
He nods over his right shoulder to the yellow zone. “Okay. Um . . . Well, I’ll be over there whenever you’re ready.”
He turns and walks away—straight through the red zone with his head down, ignoring the taunts from the basketball team. I think Tommy yells something about the size of his butt or the way he walks, but I can’t quite make it out. Or maybe I just don’t want to make it out. Julian sits at a table in the far corner of the yellow zone. By himself. I sigh. Worst gay ever.
6
THE WICKED-COOL SMILE
When I turn back to face Trey and Dinesh, they’re staring at me all intense and bug-eyed.
“So,” I say, casually picking up a Tater Tot and popping it into my mouth like what just happened never happened. “Want to hang out after school?”
“‘Want to hang out after school?’” Dinesh says, resting elbows on the table. “Dude. What the heck was that?”
“What was what?” I say, chewing and avoiding their eyes because that seems like the smart thing to do.
Trey closes his book. “Julian Vasquez? Strategy and planning session?”
The last name sounds vaguely familiar, but it takes my brain a few seconds to connect the dots.
Ah. Julian/Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem, equals North Charleston Middle School popular-for-all-the-wrong-reasons eighth grader Julian Vasquez.
“Oh, that,” I say with a wave of my hand, buying a little time to figure out how much I should tell them.
Trey and Dinesh are usually pretty cool about all my business ideas. They’ve never teased me about them like some of the red-zone kids do. They even help out sometimes. On the opening day of Anything General Store, they stood on the sidewalk and handed out free samples of our green apple Jolly Ranchers to lure people over to the store. They always work on a strictly volunteer basis, though. I would never pay my best friends. It’s not in the budget.
And we don’t have any secrets either. When I told them I thought I might be gay, Dinesh seemed the most surprised. But then he shrugged and said, That’s cool. Trey gave me an eye roll and a drawn-out duuuh—whatever that meant. But the way they’re acting about Julian right now puts me on guard a little.
“It’s just a new business venture I’m working on,” I say. “He’s my new client. No big deal.”
Trey and Dinesh look at each other like I just told them I’m a drag queen or something.
“No big deal?” Dinesh says, pushing his tray to the side and leaning in to whisper. “Dude. Julian is gay. Like way gay.”
This isn’t news to me. I guess I just assumed Julian was gay because of the whole Coco Caliente thing. But I guess non-gays can be drag queens, too. It’s a free country.
“He is?” I ask. “How do you know?”
Trey looks at me like I have four heads. “His locker is right across the hall from mine. Trust me, everyone knows.”
“You made us swear not to tell anyone about you,” Dinesh says. “You said you weren’t ready for the whole school to know. Especially not Tommy Jenrette.”
I nod like making them swear not to tell anyone I’m gay is a perfectly normal thing to do. It is, right? Dinesh looks at Trey for backup.
Trey pushes his lunch to the side and leans in. “Look. It sucks, but he’s right. If you start hanging out with Julian Vasquez, trust me, everyone will know your secret. Are you ready for Tommy and his idiot muscle-head friends to find out?”
This feels like a trick question. On the one hand, absolutely not, Trey, no, thank you very much and have a nice day, and on the other hand, why do I care what a jerk like Tommy Jenrette and his idiot friends think of me? But let’s face it, for some reason I do. It’s that whole attracting-the-wrong-kind-of-attention thing when I’ve worked really hard all these years to attract the right kind of attention. Not that it’s worked, though. Still, I’d prefer pats on the back to more teasing and rude notes taped to it. And in three weeks I won’t have to worry about those guys for a long time.
Dinesh shakes his head slowly. “He’s right, dude.”
Dinesh keeps talking, but I stop listening because Colton Sanford just walked out of the front office. He’s the new kid who transferred from Columbia to North Charleston a few weeks ago to finish out the school year. Some kind of family emergency from what I heard a couple nosy kids say. Miss Troxel, the guidance counselor, has her hand on Colton’s shoulder and she’s talking to him real serious-like. Colton nods with his head down.
I haven’t told Trey and Dinesh that whenever I see Colton in homeroom or pass him in the hall and he smiles at me, it makes my stomach feel like someone put it in a blender and turned it on High. I t
hought I would give them some time to get used to just the basic me-being-gay thing before I tell them I actually like-like someone who is also a dude. I don’t think Trey and Dinesh have even met him yet. I haven’t actually met him met him yet, either.
When Mrs. Campbell introduced him in homeroom, I remember that was the first time I ever saw any kid at North Charleston Middle School wearing suspenders. They were bright blue and they made Colton look real fancy. And there just aren’t that many students at school with shiny reddish-brown hair and lots of dark freckles. I have only a few freckles and that’s plenty for me. They look perfect on Colton’s face, though. But it was his wicked-cool smile full of, like, a hundred sparkling white teeth that I remember the most. He looked at me and smiled after Mrs. Campbell introduced him, but I guess maybe he could have been smiling at Heather Hobbs, who sits behind me in homeroom. All the guys thinks she’s super-crazy pretty, so I can’t be sure Colton was looking at me and not her. And I’m not even sure if Colton likes girls or boys. Mom says you shouldn’t just assume these things.
Colton’s not smiling now as he talks to Miss Troxel, though. I wonder what he was doing in the front office. I wonder if anything is wrong. Or if he’s in trouble. Miss Troxel wipes something from Colton’s cheek with her thumb the same way Mom wipes Lyla’s tears away. But why would Colton be crying? Just the thought of Colton Sanford maybe-possibly crying makes me want to hurl. What the heck is that about? Miss Troxel gives him the teacher side-hug and sends him off in our direction. He glances up and our eyes meet and—OMG!—he saw me staring at him.
“Dude? Are you listening to us?” Dinesh asks, waving his hand in front of my face.
“Um . . . um . . .” is all I can get out because Colton is just steps away and he’s looking straight at me. Probably because he thinks I’m a creep for staring at him like a stalker. He’s definitely not smiling, but he’s not scowling either, so that’s something, right? His eyes are glassy and he’s kind of staring at me the way I looked at Julian when I was acting like I didn’t know him earlier. Ouch. Pap always says, What goes around comes around. And I guess he was right about that.
Colton is close, so I open my mouth to try to say something—Hi or Are you okay? or I promise I’m not a creepy stalker or You have a wicked-cool smile, so why are you sad? But right as he passes, the words stumble out of my mouth not as words, but as an involuntary burp. And—OMG!—what is wrong with me?
Colton scrunches up his nose probably because my mouth just burped at him. Loud. And just like that, he’s gone.
I turn back to Trey and Dinesh. They’re staring at me like I’m the most disgusting person alive. Or an alien from a gaseous planet. Like Planet Pooty.
“Nice, dude,” Trey says. “Burping in a guy’s face. Wow. Is that one of your smooth new gay moves?”
Dinesh shakes his head. “That was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Sometimes I don’t like my best friends very much. Maybe now that I’m a professional talent agent I should audition some new ones. I look over my shoulder and spot Colton entering the yellow zone and sitting down at a table, with Julian. And they fist-bump and everything. Huh. Julian Vasquez and Colton Sanford are friends? This has to be the weirdest day ever.
I turn back around. “Hey,” I say to change the subject before they start asking more questions about Colton. “Trey, you said Julian’s locker is across the hall from yours, right?”
Trey looks confused, but nods. I tear off a sheet of paper from my legal pad, scribble a message on it, and fold it, like, a hundred times. Okay, maybe five times.
I hold the note out to him. “Can you slip this through the vents into his locker?”
Trey raises his hands and shakes his head. “If somebody sees me doing that, they’ll think it’s a love letter or something. From me. No way.”
I shoot him a glare and lean forward. “I didn’t know you were such a homophobe.”
Trey holds my stare for a while. It’s like we’re playing chicken. But I know Trey’s not a homophobe, you know, because of the having-two-moms thing.
“Aw, man,” Trey whines, shaking his head and grabbing the note from my hand. “This blows.”
I smile and lean back in my chair.
Michael Pruitt Business Tip #353: Using inside information on someone to get what you want is not nice. But it’s not illegal, either.
7
THE PROBLEM EMPLOYEE
Trey didn’t chicken out like I thought he might, because there was a folded-up scrap of paper in my locker from Julian by the end of the day. I’d apologized in my note for being too busy to meet during lunch but asked if I could see his act after school. His note gave his home address. He said to be there at four thirty and to come on in through the garage door. It was signed xoxo, Julian. I’m not sure what’s up with all the x’s and o’s, and I don’t think I want to know. But as soon as I got home from school, I did my homework in my office before hopping on my bike with my backpack full of my business essentials—a few pens, a pencil, my notebook, a calculator, a stapler, and some paper clips. I’ve never held an audition before, so I want to be prepared for anything.
I ride my bike down Julian’s street checking the mailboxes, looking for number 239. Sprawling magnolias line both sides of the road, their sagging limbs dotted with fat white blooms like giant popcorn growing in the trees. I guess that’s why this is called Magnolia Way. We don’t have any magnolia trees in our subdivision, and the houses over here are bigger. The grass is also way greener and the cars in the driveways are nicer, too. It’s weird that Julian lives in the subdivision next to ours and I never even knew it. I thought I knew just about every kid from school who lives around here, but I guess not.
I finally spot number 239, between numbers 237 and 241. I’ve never understood why there have to be all even-numbered houses on one side of the street and odd-numbered houses on the other side. It seems like a very confusing system. Maybe I should go down to city hall and sell my services as a professional re-addresser and get North Charleston all straightened out once and for all. I need to remember to write that down in my Amazing Business Ideas notebook when I get home:
Anything Non-Confusing Re-Addresser Service
A division of Anything, Inc.
Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, CEO, and Address Specialist
So many ideas, so little time. That’s what Pap Pruitt always says, and man, is he right about that. Thinking about Pap causes a weird little pang in my stomach. I wonder if he’s feeling any better today. I hope I’ll be able to visit him this Sunday. I can’t wait to tell him about my new company. Pap might even have some super-crazy-good business advice for me. But he’s been getting sicker and weaker lately. I really want him to see one of my ideas take off before it’s too late, and I think the Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency is what Pap calls a home-run idea.
I pedal into the driveway of 239 Magnolia Way and stop beside a shiny, dark blue BMW that looks brand-new, parked just outside two closed garage doors. The license plate frame reads, VASQUEZ FINE AUTO—NORTH CHARLESTON.
I’m a little surprised by the size of Julian’s house. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s, like, twice the size of ours. A lot fancier looking, too, with real white columns on the front porch and a bright red double front door framed by lots of tiny windows at the top and sides. Dad keeps our yard in tip-top shape, but this lawn is like plush dark green carpet. You could definitely say that Julian’s house is fierce, at least on the outside. A muffled but steady bass beat drifts out from the garage—it could be Beyoncé or Lady Gaga, I’m not sure. I guess I should learn the difference if I’m going to be the talent agent for a drag queen. And, you know, gay.
A familiar but irritating bicycle bell dings twice behind me and OMG!
“Who lives here?”
Lyla pulls up beside me. Hopping off her pink-and-white Hello Kitty bicycle like s
he’s supposed to be here, she gives me the creepy-kid smile as she knocks the kickstand down.
I roll my eyes at her. “What are you doing here, Lyla?”
“I followed you,” she says. Like secretly following people without their permission is a perfectly normal thing for nine- year-olds to do.
She’s wearing a purple Disney Princess dress over jeans, and her devil horns are hidden by flimsy pigtails tied up in yellow ribbons.
“Who said you could follow me?” I say.
“Dad,” she replies with a smirk.
Thanks a lot, Dad.
“So, who lives here?” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, staring up at the house.
“None of your business,” I say, still straddling my bike. “Go home.”
She turns and then heads for the front door of the house. “Okay. I’ll just find out for myself.”
“Wait!” I say, hopping off my bike and chasing her down. I grab her shoulder and spin her around. “You can’t do that. This is an important business meeting. You’re going to blow it for me.”
She crosses her arms and squints up at me. “Does the boy who came to the office the other day live here?”
I look around to make sure no one has seen us yet. “Yes. But you still have to go home.” Mom says I sometimes have a tone, so I try to talk all sugary and sweet to her, hoping that will work. “I mean, how would it look if I brought my little sister to a business meeting? Very unprofessional, that’s how, right?”
She gives me the creepy-kid smile again. “Then you better make me more than just your little sister before we go in. And more than your dumb assistant, too.”
OMG! She’s blackmailing me. And it’s working. I take a second to think this through.
Option A—Lyla crashes the audition and embarrasses the heck out of me, causing me to lose my first and only talent-agency client.
