by Greg Howard
“Colton thinks I need a bigger ending,” Julian says. “Something that leaves the audience gagging. What do you think, Michael?”
“Why would you want the audience to gag?” Lyla asks the question before I can.
“He means gagging like losing their minds and going wild,” Gabby says to Lyla, real serious, like she’s translating a foreign language—which she kind of is.
“Gagging is a good thing these days,” Mrs. Vasquez says. “This means that. That means this. I can’t keep up.”
Abuela nods real hard like what Mrs. Vasquez said is the God’s honest truth and then some.
“Oh yeah, sure,” I say to the group. “Colton’s a hundred percent correct.”
I don’t know if he is or not, but that makes Colton smile with his whole face including all of his freckles and shiny white teeth, and there goes my stomach down into that blender again. On High.
“You have to leave the audience gagging to death—in a good way. But we can work on the ending. It needs to be something amazing. Something . . . fierce. Don’t worry, Julian, I have some ideas about that.”
No, I don’t, but my non-silent-business-partner mouth won’t shut up. Julian nods his whole red wig real fast at me, like what I just said is the smartest thing ever. It feels good to be taken so seriously for once. Maybe I’m a natural at the whole talent-agent thing. In fact, Julian’s so excited, I can’t help but share the one idea I actually do have with him.
“But we only have about three weeks to work on it before your first gig,” I say, crossing my arms, because I think that makes me look super-crazy important.
Julian and Colton exchange puzzled looks.
“You already booked me a gig?” Julian asks, his face changing from confused to excited on a dime.
“What is gig?” Abuela asks.
“It’s a job, ma’am,” I say. “A chance for Julian to perform in front of gobs of people.”
I don’t know how many people will be at the North Charleston Middle School end-of-year talent show, but gobs seems like a safe estimate. Everyone stares at me, waiting for me to tell them more.
Julian punches my shoulder. He’s a big dude, so it kind of hurts.
“Well, Michael?” he says. “What’s the gig?”
I suddenly remember that I haven’t actually signed Coco up for the talent show yet. But everyone’s looking at me and they’re so excited. I hate to disappoint them.
“The school talent show,” I say. “There’s a hundred-dollar grand prize this year.”
Before I can explain about the contest, Julian shrieks so loud I touch a finger to my ear to see if it’s bleeding.
“They’re going to pay me a hundred dollars?” Julian screeches. “And they’ll let me do drag at the school talent show?”
Mrs. Vasquez explains to Abuela in lightning-fast Spanish. Gabby and Lyla look at each other in wide-eyed disbelief.
“Well,” I say. “They’ll pay you a hundred dollars if you win. And I don’t see why they would stop you from doing drag. It’s your talent, after all. I’m sure it will be fine.”
Now that I start thinking about it, I’m not sure it will be fine at all. I don’t think there are any rules about what you can and can’t do as your talent in the show, but I don’t actually know.
Julian is speechlessly fanning himself like he might pass out any minute, so I don’t want to worry him with details. According to Google, it’s my job as his agent to take care of all those details so my client can focus on his performance. I can’t stop grinning, though. Making dreams come true is definitely better than crushing them. Someone should tell Simon Cowell that. Maybe I will myself when they ask me to be a guest judge on one of those TV talent competitions. I mean, it’s probably only a matter of time before that happens, the way everything is going.
A loud clacking sound fills the garage, and just like that, Julian’s big proud smile deflates like a leaky balloon. Mrs. Vasquez’s eyes darken a little as her smile is replaced with a tight, thin line. Gabby and Colton quiet down, too. Lyla and I are left wondering what just sucked all the joy out of the room.
One of the garage doors rises with the grumpy grind of a motor. Gabby runs over to it. “Daddy’s home!”
Mrs. Vasquez and Abuela exchange a look. I don’t know what it means, but it’s definitely not a happy look. They don’t seem to be as excited as Gabby is that Daddy’s home.
When the garage door finally rises, a tall, wide man stands there staring at all of us. Gabby wraps her arms around his legs and he leans down to hug her. But the look he’s throwing our way doesn’t feel very huggy. Julian pulls his wig off.
“You and Lyla should probably go home now,” he says, sounding small and not Miss Coco sassy at all anymore. He glances at Colton. “You too.”
Colton nods, guiding me and Lyla to the side door where we came in. Lyla waves to Gabby and I look over my shoulder. Julian’s mom and dad meet in the middle of the garage, immediately exchanging sharp-sounding words in Spanish.
Mr. Vasquez pauses and looks over at Julian. “Go change now. And wash your face.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask Colton, even though it’s kind of obvious that everything is definitely not okay.
We slip out, but I can still hear Mr. and Mrs. Vasquez arguing through the open garage door. I glance back inside. Gabby, Julian, and Abuela are gone—I guess inside the house somewhere.
Colton walks us over to our bikes, his head hanging a little. “Julian’s dad doesn’t understand the whole drag thing.”
“Then why did he build Julian a stage in the garage?” Lyla asks.
Colton pushes his silky reddish-brown hair out of his eyes, but it falls politely back into place. “He built the stage for Gabby. She does a lot of dance competitions, I guess.”
Lyla hops on her Hello Kitty bike, nodding over to the house. “Is Julian in trouble?”
Colton shakes his head a little. “I don’t know. I hope not.”
Mr. and Mrs. Vasquez’s voices have died down now, so I hope everything is okay. I especially hope Julian is okay and that he won’t get into trouble. He was so good up there onstage. I can’t understand why his dad wouldn’t be proud of him.
There isn’t another bike anywhere in sight. “Did you walk here?”
Colton points to the house next door. “That’s my grandma’s house. Julian was the first friend I made when I came to stay with her.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s cool.” But secretly I wish that Colton’s grandma lived next door to us and that I would have been his first friend when he moved in with her.
“You’re from upstate, right?” I ask, even though I know he is.
Colton nods. “Columbia. But I had to come stay with my grandma when my mom . . . well . . . she had to go away for a while.”
Go away? I want to ask him where his mom went, but he stares at the ground and shoves his hands down deep in his pockets, so I don’t.
“What about your dad?” I say. “Why didn’t you stay with him in Columbia?”
I know I shouldn’t have asked the second Colton looks up at me and his usually sparkly eyes have gone dark and flat.
“My dad left us when I was little,” he says. “I don’t even know where he is now.”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t imagine how Colton feels. So I don’t say anything to that. Because the way he looks over at his grandma’s house tells me that he really doesn’t want to talk about this. I get it.
“Come on, Lyla,” I say, grabbing the handlebars of my bike. “We better get home.” I look up at Colton one last time. “I’m sorry.”
It’s all I know to say. And I’m not even sure which thing I’m saying I’m sorry about—his mom going away or his dad leaving him altogether. Both things suck. But his eyes glint back to life a little, so maybe just saying I’m sorry was enough. I gue
ss it usually is.
“Thanks,” he says. And it sounds like he means it.
I mount the bike and walk it backward down the driveway. Colton watches me the whole way.
“See you tomorrow in homeroom,” he calls out.
My cheeks feel like someone just struck a match on them. It’s a strange feeling and suddenly I’m super aware of Lyla at my side, staring up at me. I wonder if my cheeks are as red as they feel. But if they are, Lyla doesn’t say anything, thank God. She gives me a real curious look before pushing off and pedaling down the street. Colton is still watching me. He smiles and waves.
I pedal away as fast as I can before my whole face explodes into flames.
10
THE BOARD MEETING
“I hereby call this official board meeting of Anything, Incorporated, to order,” I say loud and clear. I wish I had a gavel, but Mom said that might be a little much.
“Hey, y’all. Happy Wednesday and welcome to Rosepepper’s. I’m Caitlyn and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I get ya to drink? We’ve got sweet tea, unsweet tea, peach tea, raspberry tea, fruit tea, mango tea, Pepsi products, and homemade grape soda.”
I look up at the rude server, who just appeared out of nowhere, and who doesn’t understand that she’s interrupting important corporate business without an excuse me or anything. Just walks up and plows right into our conversation. Millennials. Generation Z has manners. We have goals. Plans. Business ideas. Like the:
Anything Millennial Life Coaching Company
A division of Anything, Inc.
Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, CEO, and Life Expert
One thing I could teach them is how to have a whole conversation without looking at their phones. It’s easy for me, because I don’t have a phone. That’s on the agenda for this board meeting.
“Oh yes, please,” Mom says enthusiastically to Caitlyn. A little too enthusiastically if you ask me. Like she doesn’t even want to be having our monthly board meeting right now. “I’ll have a glass of unsweet tea.”
Dad and I each get a fruit tea and Lyla orders the homemade grape soda. That’s right, she’s crashing our board meeting. I got overruled by Mom, who said it would be unfair not to include Lyla because we’re having dinner at the meeting and she’s only nine. See what I mean?
At least she brought a small spiral-bound notebook and a Hello Kitty pen with purple ink to keep her occupied and hopefully quiet. She’s drawing cats in the notebook. None of them look like Pooty. Unless Pooty only had three legs, a lopsided head, one ear, and was, you know, purple.
“First order of business,” I say after the rude server leaves. “The minutes from our last meeting. Mom?”
Mom is the official board secretary, so she’s in charge of taking notes.
“Oh, shoot,” Mom says, digging around in her purse. “I forgot my notepad, Mikey—”
“Mom,” I say with a huff.
“Oh, right. Sorry. Mr. Chairman.” She tucks loose strands of hair behind her ear. “But I remember we talked about your Sports Instruction division idea. It was approved by the board.”
“Unanimously,” Dad says.
Mom nods. “Right. And your dad—I mean Mr. Treasurer—gave us the balance of the Anything, Inc., operating account. Oh, how much was it, honey?”
“Seven dollars and eighty-three cents,” Dad says with a grin, like he’s proud that he can remember stuff.
“Y’all ready to order?” Rude Server Girl blurts out as she drops off the drinks. She just appeared out of nowhere again. Like a ghost. Or pimples. Or Pooty.
“The Tex-Max burger is my personal favorite,” she says, and winks at me.
I guess she doesn’t have very good gaydar. Trey told me that gaydar is like radar for detecting who’s gay and who’s not. Sort of like an internal metal detector, but one for detecting gay people and not metal. Trey said I should have a pretty good one, you know, because of me being gay and all. But honestly, mine’s just as bad as Caitlyn’s. Like, it doesn’t work on Colton at all. I’m still trying to figure him out. Maybe gaydar is something kid gays have to grow into. Like when Mom buys me shoes that are a half size too big and says I’ll grow into them.
“Oh.” Lyla suddenly forgets about her Murder Kitty portrait and sits up straight. “I want a burger, Mom.”
Mom peers down at the menu with the tip of her index finger pressed to her lips. “That does sound good, sweetie, but we just had burgers on Sunday. Let me see what else they have.”
“Do fries come with sandwiches?” Dad asks, peering over the top of the massive menu at Rude Server Girl.
“Sure do,” Caitlyn says. “Bottomless, too. You can get crinkle-cut, steak-cut, waffle, curly, shoestring, garlic, sweet potato, nacho-style, or loaded-and-smothered. But those last ones aren’t bottomless. They’re just a little heaven in your mouth.”
I sigh. Loudly.
Michael Pruitt Business Tip #355: Always hold official corporate board meetings in a professional conference room with glass walls, leather chairs, a whiteboard, a drop-down projection screen, and all-you-can-drink mini bottles of water. Or at the kitchen table, if a professional conference room isn’t available. But never at Rosepepper’s Tex-Mex Cantina on River Road in North Charleston, South Carolina, when Rude Server Girl Caitlyn is working.
We order. Lyla gets her burger, but Mom tells Caitlyn to put extra lettuce and tomato on it. I order the Rosepepper’s Jalapeño Southern Fried Chicken Sandwich with the little heaven in your mouth loaded-and-smothered fries. Caitlyn said the sandwich is a new item on the menu. Mom asks me if I’ve ever had jalapeños before. I haven’t. But once I thought about starting a food-tasting business for restaurants, where I’d try out their new dishes and leave a review on Yelp. I thought that was a pretty good idea, so why not test out this new sandwich for Rosepepper’s. I can bill them later for my review.
When I get Mom and Dad back on track, we move on to my report about the Sports Instruction division.
“It was a huge flop,” Lyla says, looking up from her purple cat portrait.
I glare at her.
“Oh, don’t worry about it, son,” Dad says. “At least you tried something. Most people never even do that. We’re proud of you.”
Mom leans in. “Tell us about this new talent-agent thing, honey. That sounds fun.”
It’s not a thing, Mom, and it’s not fun. It’s a gazillion-dollar business opportunity, and I need an immediate infusion of capital and an iPhone to get it off the ground. That’s what I want to say, but I don’t.
Michael Pruitt Business Tip #356: Dazzle them first, then go in for the kill.
“Well,” I say, clasping my hands together and resting them on the table. “I saw Julian’s act Monday afternoon and I think the kid really has something . . . unique. He’s going to be a superstar one day and make the company a lot of money. I just need to work with him some to fine-tune his act. Our first official rehearsal is Friday after school.”
Dad props his elbows on the table. “What’s his talent?”
Lyla looks up from her drawing. “Wearing girl clothes, a wig, and high heels. And pretending to sing Beyoncé songs.”
There she goes again. That’s not how I was planning to describe it, and now Mom and Dad have confused looks on their faces.
“It’s called drag,” I say.
“I know what drag is,” Mom says. “I just didn’t know kids did it. How old is Julian?”
“Thirteen,” I say. “There’re a lot of drag kids out there, Mom.” And by out there, I mean on Google. I count them off on my fingers. “Lactatia, Desmond is Amazing, Katastrophe Jest, E! The Dragnificent . . .”
“Wow,” Dad says. “I had no idea. I guess that explains the stage name. What was it again?”
I clear my throat so I can get it all out without choking. “It’s Coco Caliente, Mistress o
f Madness and Mayhem.”
“Julian’s sister, Gabby, does dance competitions and she’s good, too,” Lyla says. “I want to take dance classes with her. She’s my new best friend.”
“I didn’t know you had an old best friend,” I mumble.
“Michael,” Dad scolds. “She’s only nine.”
Ugh.
“And Julian’s parents,” Dad says. “They’re supportive of him doing this Coco thing?”
Lyla pipes up again before I can answer. “Coco Caliente, Dad. His mom and abuela are, but not his dad.”
I’m losing control of my meeting, so I jump in quick. “Julian told me at school yesterday that his mom calmed his dad down about it. He just doesn’t understand it. But I need to book Julian some gigs before I can make my commission.”
Mom and Dad nod. Lyla draws big, sharp teeth on Purple Pooty. Is that purple blood dripping from those fangs?
“And I can’t book him gigs without my own phone,” I add casually like it’s no big deal. “The latest iPhone probably makes the most sense for the president of a big-time talent agency.”
“But you’re not thirteen yet,” Mom says, like I don’t know how old I am. “That was the rule. For both of you. No phone until you’re thirteen.”
“I already have a phone,” Lyla says, without looking up from her art.
I sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you, Lyla? Your Hello Kitty phone is not a real phone.”
“Sure it is,” Lyla says. “Pooty calls me on it all the time.”
We all just kind of stare at her. I don’t know what Mom and Dad are thinking, but I wouldn’t put anything past Lyla and Murder Kitty. They probably communicate in all kinds of crazy, Voldemort-like ways, plotting my downfall and ways to terrorize poor Forbes.
I ignore her and focus on Mom and Dad. “And I could use an infusion of capital.”
Capital is just money, but it sounds way more professional in a business meeting.
Dad’s brow wrinkles. “Well, how much are we talking, bud?”
I haven’t really thought about the how much yet, but I know I need at least twenty-five dollars for some new business cards. There must be a lot of other expenses involved in starting an international talent agency, too, but I guess business cards would be a good start.
