Middle School's a Drag, You Better Werk!

by Greg Howard

  I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t actually know what it’s like to have a mom or dad who has problems like Colton’s mom does. And my parents would never leave me or not show up to something I’m a part of. I never really thought about how lucky I am that way. I also realize that Colton’s been hiding a lot of sad stuff behind that wicked-cool smile of his. Like a mask. I guess you just never know what’s going on with someone, even if they seem okay and wear a mask that’s nice to look at.

  “I’m sorry, Colton,” I say, because it’s all I can think of. Lame.

  Colton waves a hand in front of me like he’s waving his mom right out of his head. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  I want to hug him, because that seems like the good-friend thing to do. But we’re right in the middle of homeroom. And if we hugged, all the kids would think that’s super gay—which is funny because of the whole me-being-gay thing. I’m still not 100 percent sure about Colton, though. My gaydar needs a tune-up. Or a jump start. There should be a place where you can go to have that done. Like a gaydar service station or something.

  “Pap Pruitt can’t come today,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to say.

  Colton’s eyebrows scrunch up. “Is he okay?”

  I shake my head. “He’s really sick. He’s had diabetes for a long time. It even made him blind. Now he’s having problems with his heart.”

  Colton sighs a little. “I’m sorry, Mikey. I know you wanted him to be here.”

  I nod. “I did. He’s my hero. I just wanted to make him proud.”

  “Mikey Pruitt.” Mrs. Campbell’s sharp voice slices through the air. “Back to your seat.”

  Colton gives me the wicked-cool mask smile. The one I now know doesn’t always mean everything is okay.

  “Busted,” he says.

  I smile, too. “Yep. See you at the rehearsal before the show.”

  “Oh,” Colton says, sparking back to life a little. “I forgot. Julian’s mom and abuela are bringing his wardrobe during the rehearsal period. Do you think Trey and Dinesh could help them load everything in? I’ll be busy helping Julian with his makeup.”

  “Bringing his whole wardrobe?” I stand so Mrs. Campbell thinks I’m going back to my seat. “But we already decided which dress Coco will wear. The red sparkly one.”

  “He said he needs options depending on his mood,” Colton says, using air quotes on those last two words.

  I roll my eyes super-crazy slow as if to say, Divas, am I right? That makes Colton laugh. I like the sound of his laugh. I wish he felt like laughing all the time.

  “I guess his dad still doesn’t know about the talent show?” I say, starting to move away so Mrs. Campbell doesn’t yell at me again.

  Colton shakes his head. “And Julian hopes he never finds out.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I kind of think it would be good for Mr. Vasquez to see Julian perform. Like in front of an audience, you know? Then he might get it.”

  That gives me a great idea. At least I hope it’s a great idea.

  “Now, Mikey,” Mrs. Campbell says, using a sharper tone than before.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say over my shoulder.

  “Hey, Mikey,” Colton says, his mouth curling up on one side. “I’m sure Pap Pruitt is already wicked proud of you.”

  What he said kind of makes my eyes itch, but I’m afraid if I talk any more about Pap Pruitt, my eyes will do a whole lot more than just itch.

  I just nod, smile, and wave at him like some kind of dork. “See you at rehearsal.” Lame.

  But Colton waves back and shoots me the full-on stomach-blender smile. So, you know, totally worth it.

  26

  THE VERY UNPROFESSIONAL REHEARSAL

  I should start a new business where I go around to middle schools all over the country supervising and organizing their year-end talent shows. I could call it:

  Anything School Talent Shows R Us

  A division of Anything, Inc.

  Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, CEO, and Talent-Show Guru

  I’ve always wanted to be a guru of something. And Mr. Arnold should be my first client, because the rehearsal period before the talent show is a complete disaster. Nobody knows what’s going on, or what the order of the show will be, and there’s no catering table or private agents’ lounge or anything. It’s very unprofessional and I’m super-crazy disappointed in Mr. Arnold because, being in show business, he should know better.

  Miss Troxel is helping all she can, but backstage it’s like a zoo where all the animals have been let out of their cages. Only Taylor Hope and Dustin Parks have been able to rehearse onstage and that leaves thirteen acts to go before the show starts in, like, thirty minutes. I’m not great at math, but it seems like we’re screwed. My board of directors showed up late with Lyla, and she didn’t even have her dance costume on. I sent her and Mom to the girls’ bathroom down the hall to change. Lyla rolled her eyes at me, so I’m going to write her up as soon as I get back to the office. Document, document, document.

  “Hey, bud.”

  I turn to find my dad standing there, looking a little lost. His eyes are red and puffy. I’m not sure if that’s because he’s been crying or because he spent the night at the nursing home with Pap. He probably didn’t get much sleep.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say, shoving my hands down in my pockets, like some kind of defense mechanism against bad news.

  Dad has his serious look. And that’s a look I don’t see on him a lot.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask cautiously. “Is Pap okay?”

  Dad doesn’t shake his head no, so that’s a good sign. But he doesn’t nod yes, either.

  “I stopped by to check in on him on the way here,” Dad says. “His blood pressure is still high and he’s pretty weak. Mrs. Prosser said she would call if there’s any change.”

  I nod and swallow back a huge lump in my throat.

  “He wants you to know that he wishes he could be here and that he’s rooting for you,” Dad says with a weak smile. “He said to tell you that whether your clients win or lose today, you’re already a huge success as far as he’s concerned. And he’s proud of you.”

  Another huge lump. Another swallow. Because it’s like I hear the words for the very first time. Pap already thinks I’m a success. He’s already proud of me. Now that I think about it, he’s told me he’s proud of me, like, a gazillion times. So have Mom and Dad. Maybe Pap isn’t the person I’ve been trying to impress all this time. Maybe it was me. Maybe what I really need is to be proud of myself.

  Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’d better go find your mom and get seats.”

  All I can do is nod. No idea where my voice went. But Dad must get it, because he pulls me in for a huge bear hug and then leaves.

  “Where do these go?” Trey asks. He’s helping Dinesh carry a big trunk with a handheld steamer balancing on top.

  Dinesh grunts, switching hands on the trunk handle. “Why did he bring so much stuff? He can only wear, like, one outfit, right?”

  I take a deep breath and try to get my head back in the game, because I know that’s what Pap would want me to do.

  “He said he wanted options,” I say, giving them my divas-am-I-right? slow eye roll. “Just put it over there by the wall.”

  I follow them, pulling out my flip phone to check the time and to see if I missed any calls. I left Mr. Vasquez a message a while ago at his car dealership. Thanks, Google! I just hope he gets it in time.

  I glance back at Trey and Dinesh. “I don’t think he’s going to get to rehearse if he’s just now deciding what to wear.”

  Fifi barks somewhere in the chaos and I see that she and Sadie are running through their routine on the stage. It looks super-crazy good. I know I should be rooting for Sadie and Fifi, too, and I guess I am, kind of, but I just want
Julian to win. Julian’s mom and abuela walk into the backstage area with Gabby trailing them. Gabby already has her dance costume on and I think that’s very professional of her, unlike Lyla showing up without hers on.

  “Don’t forget the big box of wigs in the back seat, boys,” Mrs. Vasquez says to Trey and Dinesh with a nervous smile. “And the bag of shoes, too.”

  Trey and Dinesh nod politely, heading back out. I can hear them grumbling a little as they walk away, though.

  Mrs. Vasquez fiddles with Gabby’s hair. “Sorry we’re late.”

  Abuela turns, wringing her hands as she scans the backstage area. “Where is Julian?”

  “In the bathroom with Colton, putting on his Coco Caliente face. He brought most of his makeup to school in his backpack.”

  “Smart boy, that one,” Abuela says. She relaxes a little and pats my arm. “Always thinking.”

  Mrs. Vasquez looks around, nervously wringing her hands like Abuela was just doing.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask her. “You guys seem nervous.”

  “I just hope my husband doesn’t find out about this,” Mrs. Vasquez says. “He’s never seen Julian actually perform as Coco before. Especially in public.” She shakes her head. “As good as Julian is, I know his father is not ready for that.”

  And—OMG! I hope she’s wrong about that.

  Abuela pats Mrs. Vasquez’s arm, nodding. “My son is sometimes too much like his father—stubborn and set in his ways.”

  Mrs. Vasquez covers Abuela’s hand with her own and smiles at me. “Don’t get us wrong, Michael. My husband loves his son very much. They used to be so close, before Julian started playing dress up in my clothes.”

  Abuela covers her mouth and chuckles at that. “He was so cute and sassy, even back then.”

  “I had a few drag queen friends of my own when I was young,” Mrs. Vasquez sort of whispers to me. “I was a bit of a party girl before I met Julian’s father.”

  There’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye that I haven’t seen before. But I still don’t think now would be a good time to tell Mrs. Vasquez about the message I left her husband, so I’m glad when Gabby pipes up.

  “Where’s Lyla?” she asks.

  And speak of the devil, Lyla walks up in her dance costume.

  “Hey, Gabs,” she says with a casual wave like she’s not late at all.

  Gabs?

  They’re dressed like identical twins in short, sparkly red-and-white dresses with big purple bows pinned in their hair. Julian finally chose the song “Born This Way” by Miss Lady Gaga for the routine. It’s a song about being proud of exactly who you are and how God made you because you were, well, you know, born that way. It makes perfect sense in my heart. I just wish it did in my head.

  “Mom and Dad are getting seats in the auditorium before they let all the students in,” Lyla says. “When are we going to rehearse?”

  “Here’s the rest of it,” Trey says, huffing behind me.

  I turn as he and Dinesh walk up, dropping the box of wigs and bag of shoes on the floor with a thud. Julian and Colton are coming right behind them.

  “Careful with that,” Julian barks.

  And—OMG! Julian looks like a scary clown-ghost with all his makeup on while still just wearing black sweatpants, a T-shirt, and no wig.

  “Miss Troxel said she doesn’t have my music,” he says to me in a sharp diva-like tone. “Did you give it to her?”

  “Yeah, I gave it to her,” I say. I’m a little annoyed that he’s questioning me—his agent.

  I gave it to her, right?

  “We need to rehearse, Mikey,” Lyla whines. “On the stage with the lights and music and everything. Before the show.”

  Gabby nods. “Lyla’s right.”

  Colton looks at me with raised eyebrows. “They do need to go through the routine. Will there be time?”

  How should I know?

  “Fifi,” Sadie’s voice calls out backstage. “Where’s my dog? Fifi? Girl?” She comes over to us. “Have you guys seen Fifi? She was right beside me and then she was just gone.”

  “Um, no,” I say. “Maybe you should ask your agent.”

  The hurt look in Sadie’s eyes makes me wish I could suck the words right back into my big fat mouth.

  “Harsh, dude,” Dinesh says quietly beside me.

  “I’m sorry, Sadie,” I stammer. “I’m sure Fifi—”

  “Michael,” snaps Julian the scary clown-ghost. “Where. Is. My. Music?”

  I sigh. How should I know? I gave it to Miss Troxel. Right?

  “Excuse me,” Mr. Arnold says, walking up to us wearing a headset microphone. But he doesn’t say it like he’s asking us to excuse him. More like he’s saying, Excuse me, what the heck do you think you’re doing? And he’s staring right at Gabby and Lyla.

  “Who are these children and why are they wearing these inappropriate costumes?” he says to me.

  I think he says it to me, anyway. Maybe he can sense that I’m the real boss around here. I get that.

  “Mr. Arnold,” I say. “This is my sister, Lyla, and Julian’s sister, Gabby. They’re Julian’s backup dancers. Remember he told you at the tryouts that he would have backup dancers.”

  Mr. Arnold shakes his head. “Oh no, ma’am.”

  And, no, I don’t know why Mr. Arnold just called me, a twelve-year-old boy, ma’am. And, no, I don’t know why his head is going from side to side like it’s about to come off his shoulders and shoot up into the rafters.

  He points a finger at me. “It is clearly stated in the rules that I posted online with the final list of contestants that only North Charleston Middle School students are allowed to participate in the talent show. And I’m positive that these two little girls do not go to school here.”

  “Rules?” Julian says. “What rules? Michael, you didn’t tell us about any rules.”

  Mrs. Vasquez exchanges words with Abuela in Spanish. And now everyone is looking at me—Sadie because Fifi is missing, Julian because Miss Troxel can’t find his music, and Gabby and Lyla because it sounds like Mr. Arnold is not going to let them dance in the show.

  “What?” Mr. Arnold says. He glances away and touches his finger to the earpiece of the headset. “What do you mean he has the flu?”

  We’re all quiet, waiting for Mr. Arnold’s head to finally blast off into outer space. “Yes, I know what the flu is, Miss Troxel. But he’s supposed to be here.” He listens. “Well, what am I supposed to do now? Who’s going to emcee the show?”

  Now even Mr. Arnold is staring at me because I guess he just lost his emcee and doesn’t know what to do. Everyone is looking at me for answers. Julian. Mr. Arnold. Sadie. Colton. Gabby and Lyla. Even my best friends, Trey and Dinesh, because they’re a couple of busybodies who love when there’s all kinds of trouble going on and want to see how everything turns out.

  I close my eyes and repeat over and over in my head:

  WWPD?

  WWPD?

  WWPD?

  What would Pap do?

  Pap may not be here in person tonight, but I know he’s here in spirit.

  Finally, a wave of calm blankets me from head to toe.

  Michael Pruitt Business Tip #371 (learned just this second): Being a super-successful talent agent is all about one thing: solving problems.

  I turn to face Dinesh. “Charvi’s supposed to be here, right?”

  Dinesh pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and nods real fast. “Yesterday was her last day of classes, so she came to support the agency.”

  “Good. Take Sadie and go find Charvi,” I say. “Maybe she’ll be able to sense where Fifi is.”

  “But she interprets dreams,” Dinesh says.

  Sadie grabs Dinesh’s hand, pulling him away. “It’s worth a try. Let’s go.”

  “Trey,” I sa
y, pointing at his chest because that seems like the professional thing to do at a time like this.

  Trey stands at attention, shoulders back and chin up. “Yes, my dude.”

  “Go out front, find Brady, and get him back here right now.”

  “On it,” Trey says with a dorky salute, and he’s off. Because when you’re a best friend, you don’t require a lot of explanations. If your buddy needs something, that’s good enough.

  I turn to Mr. Arnold. “Mr. Arnold, Brady can emcee the show because he’s America’s Junior Comedic Sensation and he’s hilarious, and I guarantee you that he won’t insult anyone. Especially not you and Miss Troxel. He’s real sorry about all that. And it was actually my fault anyway because I’m his agent and I didn’t review his new material before he tried it out in public. My bad.”

  Mr. Arnold eyes me suspiciously, but he knows he doesn’t have a whole lot of options right now. “Fine. But there’d better not be any foolishness, Pruitt. Do. Not. Try. Me.”

  I nod at him and then walk over to Mrs. Vasquez. “Mrs. V. You know what the flash drive with Julian’s music looks like, right?”

  She nods. “Yes, of course I do.”

  “Will you go down to the front row and help Miss Troxel find it?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says with a determined look. “I can do that.”

  There’s a ruckus coming from the auditorium, so I guess the doors are opening. Students pour in, noisily finding seats. I scan the audience and spot Mom and Dad. They see me and wave. I don’t wave back. That would be middle school suicide if someone like Tommy Jenrette saw me. I just act like I’ve never seen those people before in my life because that seems like the smart thing to do. Thankfully, someone pulls the stage curtain closed. It’s a lot darker backstage now.

  For some reason I whisper to myself, “All we need is a dream and a prayer.”

  I take a deep breath in and exhale slowly. It’s like I can feel Pap right here with me, cheering me on. I smile.