Middle School's a Drag, You Better Werk!

by Greg Howard

  “Um,” I say instead. “I guess so.”

  Why the heck did I say I guess so when I know so? Why didn’t I just say, Yes, Julian, I’m the gayest gay in the history of gays? It was scary when I told Trey and Dinesh, but I didn’t say, I guess I’m gay. I said I thought I might be gay. Crap. Trey’s right, I’m the worst gay ever. But Julian doesn’t call me the worst gay ever for saying I guess so. He just smiles at me and nods. I think he gets it.

  “How did you know?” I say.

  He shrugs. “I see the way you look at Colton.”

  The heat burning my cheeks spreads around to the back of my neck. Is it that obvious?

  “I’ve only told Trey, Dinesh, and my parents,” I say. “I don’t think I’m ready for anyone else to know just yet.”

  I want to add, Hint, hint, meaning, OMG, please, Julian, don’t tell anyone. Thank you very much and have a nice day. But the way Julian nods, I think he understands that I don’t want him telling everyone at school about me.

  “Not that I’m ashamed of it, or anything like that,” I add quickly. But I’m not so sure that’s the truth. Why else would I not want everyone to know? Weird. “Plus I’m not very good at it.”

  Julian kind of chuckles under his breath. “Not good at what?”

  I push my hair out of my eyes. “You know. Being gay.”

  That makes Julian laugh out loud. But I wasn’t trying to be funny—like, at all.

  “Michael,” he says, a wide grin stretching out his cheeks, “there’s no right way or wrong way to be gay.”

  I narrow an eye at him. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” he says. “Just be yourself.”

  It’s not like I haven’t heard that advice before. But I don’t believe him, and I don’t want to argue with him.

  “You know,” I say, trying to get the attention off me and all my gayness, “maybe if your dad saw you perform, like, for real, in a show, with an audience, he would understand.”

  Julian looks down and shakes his head.

  “No, seriously,” I say. “If he saw you perform at the talent show with gobs and gobs of people cheering for you, maybe he would be impressed. And proud of you.”

  Julian pushes off the edge of the stage, still shaking his head. “You might be a good agent, Michael Pruitt, but you don’t anything about my dad.”

  I guess he’s got me there.

  “So, what are your notes about my performance?” he says. He crosses his arms and gives me a neck-roll warning.

  I ease back into talent-agent mode and use my diva-tamer voice. “More smiling, and less peas and carrots.”

  Julian’s lips tighten into a thin line before he says anything. “Okay, boss.” He lets the tiniest of grins slip through as he climbs the stairs to the stage. “You got it.”

  I guess I’m getting pretty good at this diva-taming thing after all.

  I turn back to the others, clearing my throat to get their attention. “Okay, people, from the top.” My own grin wriggles itself free. “Colton, cue music.”

  12

  THE OPEN CALL

  Michael Pruitt Business Tip #360: Never let your nine-year-old sister design your business cards. Just trust me on this one.

  Before I can stop her, Lyla passes the cards out to all the kids who showed up in our carport for the Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency’s first annual open-call auditions. And by all the kids, I mean Colton, Trey, and Dinesh, who aren’t even auditioning; Julian, who’s already on my roster; Gabby, who’s only nine, which is below the minimum age limit that I set at ten—I don’t want to break any child labor laws, after all—and four other kids who are here looking to get discovered by me.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have sent Mom and Dad next door to visit with Mrs. Brown during the auditions so they wouldn’t embarrass me. At least that would have been two more heads in the crowd. I guess I should be happy with the turnout. Four kids auditioning is more than zero, which is how many Lyla said would come. I just thought that since it was a Saturday, tons of neighborhood kids would show up. Mrs. Campbell let me announce the open call in homeroom yesterday and I put a flyer on the bulletin board in the cafeteria. Maybe I should have done more. Or maybe my junior talent coordinator should have done more. I can’t do everything.

  Stuart Baxter races up to me in his tricked-out electric wheelchair like he’s driving the Batmobile. He’s wearing a Spider-Man costume without the mask, but I’m not sure what his talent is yet.

  “Hey, Mikey,” Stuart says, holding my business card up to his face and squinting at it. “So I don’t get it. Are we auditioning for a talent agency or to work at a pizza joint?”

  I take the card from him and stare at it for, like, the thousandth time since they came in via overnight express. Lyla paid extra for that and she didn’t even ask for approval. The card reads:

  Anything Talent and Pizza Agency

  A division of Anything, Inc.

  Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, CEO, and Pizza Expert

  And my company logo is one of Lyla’s Murder Kitty drawings. In purple. I’m sure we paid extra for that, too. Dang it, Lyla.

  “Um, yeah,” I say to Stuart. “That’s, um . . . a misprint. Don’t worry, you’re in the right place. Hey, I’ll see you a little later, okay?”

  I wave Lyla over like an impatient crossing guard. Stuart speeds away looking super-crazy confused.

  “What?” she says with a huff, holding her Hello Kitty clipboard close to her chest like it has top-secret information on it. “I’m busy networking.”

  She didn’t even know what networking meant until this morning when I gave her her assignment for today.

  I hold the card in front of her face. “Why are you passing these out? I told you they have to be redone.”

  “That’s part of networking, Mikey,” she says. “You talk to people and trade business cards and tell them you want to go to lunch. But nobody here has their own business card except for you.”

  She takes the card from me and looks it over like she’s never even seen the thing before. “I think it looks very professional like you said you wanted. I did a good job with Pooty’s face on this one. I think I deserve a raise for this.”

  My blood is boiling and I think my head is going to explode right here in front of everyone. And Colton.

  “You know what I mean, Lyla,” I say, fuming. “You put pizza instead of pizzazz. My business card says I’m a pizza expert. You didn’t even let me see it before you placed the order. I think you did it on purpose.”

  Her lips jut out in a pout. “I already said I was sorry, Mikey. I don’t know how it happened. Pizzazz is a really long word. Maybe my fingers got tired of typing all those letters.”

  “It’s seriously like two letters more than pizza,” I say, gritting my teeth.

  Lyla’s pouty lip quivers. “But . . . but . . . I’m only nine.”

  Forbes gazes up at me from the floor, whining a little and—OMG!—she even has my dog fooled. If I thought she was actually about to cry, I would ease up on her, but I’ve seen this act, like, a thousand times. It always works on Mom and Dad, but not me. I know Lyla’s up to something. She’s always up to something. She’s probably planning a hostile corporate takeover. I wouldn’t put it past her. Or past Pooty for that matter.

  “You can stop with the lip thing you’re doing,” I say, crossing my arms. “I know you’re trying to sabotage me.”

  The pouty lip disappears instantly. See what I mean?

  “How can I sabotage you when I don’t even know what that word means?” she says, all sweet and innocent. But a little smirk tugs at the corner of her human-demon-doll mouth.

  I hold out my hand. “I don’t have time for this. Just give me the sign-up sheet. We need to get started.”

  She pulls a wadded-up piece of notebook paper out of he
r front pocket and hands it to me. Ugh. Pap Pruitt says that when employees talk back and stuff, that’s called insubordination and you can fire your employees for acting that way. I’ll have to write Lyla up for being insubordinate. Document, document, document. I go and stand in front of the two rows of chairs. I wish we had a stage like Julian has in his garage. But I just pretend like I’m standing on one. Dinesh comes over with a girl with long dark hair.

  “Hey,” Dinesh says, giving me a fist bump. “This is my cousin Charvi. She’s in seventh grade but she goes to Xavier Academy. She’s auditioning for you today.” He glances at Charvi. “This is one of my best friends, Mikey Pruitt, the super-cool talent agent I told you about.”

  Charvi smiles at me real big. Her eyes are bright with a hint of blue, holding my attention. Like Dinesh, Charvi is taller than me and she has the same thin nose, high cheekbones, and long eyelashes. I’m not, like, an expert on girls or anything, but even as a gay dude, I can tell that Charvi is super-crazy pretty—almost like a girl version of Dinesh. Wait, does that mean I think Dinesh is pretty? Ew.

  “Hi,” Charvi says.

  She leans down and pets Forbes, who sits obediently at my feet. Forbes isn’t a diva like Pooty, who has to be carried around everywhere. And he’s not very gassy, either. I banned Murder Kitty from the auditions today. I wanted Forbes around as the official greeter and Pooty always scares him off. Poor Forbes.

  When Charvi’s done giving Forbes a scratch behind the ear, she stands, extending her hand like a grown-up would when meeting someone for the first time.

  “Hey, Charvi.” I shake her hand because I know that’s the polite thing to do. “So what’s your talent?”

  Charvi pockets her hands. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I had a talent. Dinesh made me come.”

  I give her a big, reassuring smile that kind of hurts my cheeks. “Everyone has some kind of talent.”

  Yeah, that sounded super cool, like something a real professional talent agent would say—which is what I am.

  “Charvi’s a mystic,” Dinesh says excitedly. “She interprets dreams. This one time I was having the same dream over and over about a unicorn that pooped on my bedroom floor. And the unicorn’s poop looked and tasted like cotton candy. And I ate, like, all of it every time I had the dream. So I told Charvi about it and she said that the unicorn represented my math teacher, Mrs. Jackson. She was seriously, like, the only teacher who didn’t give me an A last semester. And the unicorn’s cotton-candy poop represented my good grades in my other classes. And the reason Mrs. Jackson was pooping out all my As was because she was rubbing the B she gave me in my face. And that Mrs. Jackson probably had some spicy food for lunch. Isn’t that so cool?”

  Charvi smiles like she’s super proud of her interpretation of Dinesh’s dream, but honestly none of it makes any sense. I have a ton of questions, but I settle on the most important one.

  “Dude,” I say. “Why would you eat unicorn poop?”

  A confused look twists Dinesh’s face. “Because it looked and tasted like cotton candy.”

  I don’t say anything else about Dinesh’s unicorn-poop-eating dream. I guess it was my fault for asking in the first place.

  I smile at his cousin. “Thanks for coming and good luck, Charvi.”

  Dinesh and Charvi go sit by Trey, who’s looking at my business card, doubled over laughing. Thanks a lot, Lyla.

  When I turn around, I find Colton kneeling down, petting Forbes. And it’s not just some polite can-I-pet-your-dog kind of thing. He’s scratching Forbes behind his floppy ears, rubbing his belly, and giving him kisses on the side of the head. Forbes wags the whole rear end of his body, including his dirty blond nubbin, which means he really likes Colton, too. My dog has great taste in people.

  “Wow, this is so cool,” Colton says, standing.

  He flashes me one of his wicked-cool smiles as he scans the crowd. I can’t help but smile back, because when Colton Sanford smiles at me with all those freckles and white teeth and shiny reddish-brown hairs, my stomach goes right back into that blender. On High.

  It’s funny, I knew I liked boys instead of girls way before Colton ever came to North Charleston Middle School, but there wasn’t ever a boy that I actually like-liked. I mean, I’m only twelve and I don’t think a lot of dudes my age are thinking about like-liking someone yet. Except Trey does get all tongue-tied when Heather Hobbs speaks to him. And Dinesh has a super-serious crush on Lara Croft. Tomb Raider is his favorite video game. I think he feels like he and Lara are on a date every time he plays it. But I’m sure his parents would forbid him from dating a video-game avatar, so I hope Dinesh realizes there’s no future there.

  “You’re going to be the most popular kid at school,” Colton says, grinning. Like he’s proud of me or something.

  I know he’s going a little overboard to make me feel good, so I don’t let it go to my head. Well, not too much anyway. It would be way cool to be the most popular kid in school. The right kind of popular, that is.

  “I just wish more people would have come out to audition,” I say, looking around the carport.

  Colton pushes his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels. “I thought about signing up, but I chickened out.”

  “Really?” I say, my voice jumping up an octave in surprise. I dial it back down a notch. “What’s your talent?”

  His pale cheeks go red. “I can sing. My mom always wants me to sing for her and she says I’m good, too, but she has to say that. I haven’t been able to sing for her in a long time, though.” He looks down at Forbes.

  I’m about to ask him why not, but then I remember what he said about his mom going away for a while. And he kind of acts like talking about it is off-limits. Forbes licks my hand like an official greeter dog would. Not like a murderous cat.

  “Well,” I say. I hold up the crumpled sign-up sheet. “If you change your mind about auditioning, I could probably fit you in.”

  Colton nods and flashes me a partial Colton Sanford wicked-cool smile, which is way better than no Colton Sanford wicked-cool smile at all.

  I reach into my front pocket, take out my dad’s old aviator sunglasses, and slip them on like it’s something I do every day. I practiced wearing them in the mirror last night and thought I looked pretty cool in them.

  “Okay, people,” I say, kind of loud to quiet everyone down. “Thank you all for coming. Please, take a seat. We’re about to get started.”

  I think that sounded super-crazy professional. I have a card table set up in front, where I’ll sit and judge everyone. It’s standard in the industry, I think. Dad helped me bring out all our dining room chairs plus a couple from the kitchen table, so almost everyone has a place to sit behind me.

  Michael Pruitt Business Tip #361: It’s always good to have a few people standing because it makes your event look super-crazy important. Like everyone wants to be there even though there aren’t enough chairs to go around. But some people don’t mind standing because your event is the place to be.

  Once everyone is settled, I take control of the room— I mean the carport—by clearing my throat super loud.

  “Okay, then. My name is Michael Pruitt and I’m the president, founder, CEO, and pizzazz expert”—I pause and glare at Lyla, or as much as I can glare at her through Dad’s sunglasses—“of Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency. I know you’re probably all super nervous, and you should be, because this is probably the most important day of your lives.”

  There’s a little murmuring in the crowd. They’re probably totally agreeing with me and telling one another how good I am at this.

  “I’m looking to add three clients to the roster of the Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency today.” I just now decided that the number would be three.

  I pull out my used flip phone and hold it up. “And I even turned my phone off so we won’t be interrupted by all my i
mportant business calls.” I slip the phone back into my pocket and notice a few people nodding like they’re super impressed that I have a phone and that I get a bunch of important business calls on it.

  I still have to talk to Dad about getting the phone activated, but no one needs to know that it’s not working yet. I pull out the sign-up list, smoothing out the wrinkles so I can read the first name.

  “Stuart Baxter,” I say. “You’re up.”

  Stuart’s face lights up like I’m about to make all his dreams come true. And if he has enough talent and enough pizzazz, not pizza, I just might be able to. He pushes a lever on the armrest of his wheelchair and it lunges for the spot where I’m standing. I jump out of the way just in time. So does Forbes. I go over to the card table where the eight-by-ten framed portrait of me from last year’s school pictures holds my spot between Colton and Julian. They’re my official guest judges, but only I can make the final decision—just like Miss RuPaul. I hand my picture to Lyla and sit. She walks over to the recycling bin in the corner and drops the frame in like it’s nothing more than a used soda bottle and I swear to God! But I try to not let her rattle me. I need to be professional. I sit, give Julian and Colton a professional nod, and then look up at Stuart.

  “Okay, please tell us your name, where you’re from, and what your talent is,” I say, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear me. I’ll definitely be asking the board for a wireless-headset microphone in next year’s budget.

  Wiping his brow with his Spider-Man mask, Stuart clears his throat. “Um, my name is Stuart Baxter, like you just said . . . and I’m from . . . um, um. Sorry. I’m really nervous.”

  I cross my legs and lean back in my chair. “That’s perfectly normal, Stuart. Take your time.” I think that sounded super grown-up and professional.

  Stuart smiles and relaxes his shoulders a bit. “Okay. I’m from Marion Drive a couple of streets over. And my talent is superhero impersonations.”

  A few whispers trickle around behind me. I know what some of the kids are thinking, and I have to admit, even I’m a little bit surprised by Stuart’s talent, with him being in a wheelchair and all.