Martin McLean, Middle School Queen

by Alyssa Zaczek

  That night, it didn’t seem like there was much going on out there in the universe. The skies were clear and calm; I didn’t even see any planes overhead. But I know better than to think that outer space is boring or uneventful. No matter how quiet things are on the surface, there’s always something incredible happening beyond that, even if we can’t see it. Even on the stillest of nights, somewhere out there, there are storms brewing on distant planets, galaxies colliding, stars exploding into being, so far away from Earth that we don’t even have the words to describe it. It’s comforting to me to think that even the smartest scientists in the world sometimes can’t find the right words.

  I took notes on the position and visibility of Saturn and Jupiter and Mars, and eventually, I calmed down. I changed into my pajamas, my favorite button-down set with Captain America shields all over it. My body felt achy from crying and my eyes sort of stung, but I did feel more clear-headed. Just as I was thinking about going downstairs and apologizing to Mom and Tío Billy, there was a gentle knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I called, but no one did, so I went and opened the door myself. There was no one there and no sign of anyone either—no one on the stairs or in the living room. But then I looked down, and at my feet was a plate with a big slice of tres leches cake and a full glass of milk. I peered down the hall toward Tío Billy’s room and Mom’s room, trying to see if anyone was watching me. I didn’t see anyone, so I picked up the cake and the milk and retreated into my room, closing the door behind me with my foot.

  I settled into bed with my cake, slicing a fork through the dessert’s moist layers. As I chewed, something occurred to me that hadn’t before: Tío Billy likes boys.

  I mean, of course I knew Tío Billy liked boys; he’s married to Uncle Isaiah. But I realized maybe the reason Mom called Tío Billy after my panic attack wasn’t because he’s a boy, like me—it’s because he likes boys.

  Like me?

  The cake turned to heavy mush in my mouth. If I did like boys . . . would that be so bad?

  Mom always says I can talk to her about anything. And I would, if I ever figured out what I wanted to say and how to say it. But how could I do that when I didn’t even know where I stood? And if I did try to talk it through with Mom, there’s no doubt she’d share all her opinions on the subject, which might make me more confused!

  This is un gran desastre, I thought. Maybe tomorrow, I can apologize. Maybe I can explain it all to Tío Billy instead. Maybe he’d understand if I told him about what Nelson said and how it made me feel. Maybe he could help, if I could get up the courage to ask.

  I took a deep breath, then another bite of tres leches. There were a lot of maybes ahead of me—I would definitely need more cake.

  ReadMe App

  SEPT. 11—5:39 PM

  PicknLittle: TRAITORS

  PicknLittle: VILLAINS

  PicknLittle: SCOUNDRELS

  LadyOfTheStage: ???

  PicknLittle: DESERTERS

  LadyOfTheStage: Ohhh, right, your bowling date! How’d that go?

  mathletesmartin: It was Carmen’s idea!

  LadyOfTheStage: Hey!

  mathletesmartin: It’s true!

  PicknLittle: I CANNOT BELIEVE

  mathletesmartin: I’m so sorry, I swear I never meant to let her go through with this!

  LadyOfTheStage: Double hey!

  mathletesmartin: I just got distracted. My uncle is here visiting.

  mathletesmartin: It was a bad idea, Pickle, I’m super sorry.

  LadyOfTheStage: Woooooow

  LadyOfTheStage: I’m doing just fine, beneath the wheels of this bus you threw me under, thanks for asking.

  mathletesmartin: Where were you today?

  PicknLittle: I stayed home out of sheer embarrassment.

  LadyOfTheStage: You’re kidding

  PicknLittle: I told my Mom I had a fever, but really I’ve been doused in flop sweat since Saturday night.

  mathletesmartin: That bad, huh?

  PicknLittle: I slipped.

  LadyOfTheStage: No.

  PicknLittle: On the lane

  mathletesmartin: Oh, jeez

  PicknLittle: Flat on my back, in front of God and Violet and everybody.

  LadyOfTheStage: What did you DO?!

  PicknLittle: After I determined that burrowing directly into the ground would take too much time?

  PicknLittle: I stood up and pretended it was a bit

  mathletesmartin: Oh, jeez

  PicknLittle: You know, a Three Stooges sort of thing

  PicknLittle: Pratfalls, and whatnot

  mathletesmartin: If you say you turned to prop comedy next, I’m logging off.

  LadyOfTheStage: What did she say?!

  LadyOfTheStage: Was she totally mortified for you?

  LadyOfTheStage: Did she leave?

  PicknLittle: She . . . giggled.

  LadyOfTheStage: She laughed at you?! That witch!

  PicknLittle: No, no, like, she . . . giggled.

  mathletesmartin: Like . . . a cute giggle?

  LadyOfTheStage: Like a she-thought-YOU-were-cute giggle?

  PicknLittle: Exactly like that.

  LadyOfTheStage: !!!!!!

  mathletesmartin: Oh my God. Pickle’s met his soulmate.

  PicknLittle: So I’m not imagining things? You think she could actually like me?!

  LadyOfTheStage: Okay, I will have to hear an EXACT replication of this giggle, plus a play-by-play dramatic reenactment of the following conversation, immediately upon seeing you tomorrow. We’ll work from there.

  PicknLittle: When she scored a strike, she let me spin her around.

  PicknLittle: I mean, technically she was doing the spinning, because she controls her wheelchair and all. But I was holding her hand!

  PicknLittle: HOLDING HER HAND, YOU GUYS

  mathletesmartin: That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.

  LadyOfTheStage: Sooo . . . I guess you could say we did you a favor in the end?

  PicknLittle: Not a chance, woman, you’re still on my list.

  LadyOfTheStage: Drat.

  4

  Tío Billy burst into my room late Saturday afternoon with a huge smile on his face. We hadn’t spoken much since his first night here—a whole five days earlier, which felt like a lifetime—but now there he was, coaxing me out of my beanbag chair and up onto my feet.

  “Vamos, león!” he trilled, tossing me my coat. “Come on! Throw some clothes on and meet me downstairs in five.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked, but he just waved his hands as he sailed out of the room. I changed out of my grubby sweats and into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt as fast as I could. Then I bounded down the stairs to the living room and found Mom working on her mural, painting orange flowers over one of the last blank spaces on the wall. Things between us had been tense since the big blowup—I still couldn’t figure out the right way to apologize—but when she looked up from her work, she smiled.

  “Hey, mijo,” she said, wiping her hands on her overalls. “Tío Billy’s taking you out, huh?”

  “Do you know where we’re going?”

  “You’ll have to ask him!” she replied with a playful wink.

  “I already did! He wouldn’t say.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to wait and see,” Tío Billy said from the doorway, still grinning. “Come on, we’ve got a schedule to keep!”

  “Chao pescao,” Mom said, kissing my cheek with a wet smack of her lips.

  “Y a la vuelta picadillo!” I answered, heading out the door.

  I was vibrating with excitement as I scurried into Tío Billy’s car. He’s always up to something when he visits us: surprise trips to the zoo, sneaking me out for late-night movies with tons of candy, or putting Mom’s paintbrushes in the freezer just to hear her curse him out in Spanish. Whatever he was planning, it was bound to be good.

  Eventually we turned onto Kirkwood in down- town Bloomington, which was teeming with people milling about
, heading to the restaurants and bars. Bloomington is a college town, so there’s lots of young people and their families, but since Indiana University is a Big Ten school, most of them are rich, preppy white people. Tío Billy pulled into a parking lot set off from a coffee shop, and we hopped out of the car. Looking around, there were white college students in their cream and crimson, sure, but also a group of Japanese students with massive carryout cups and some young Black men and women reading under one of the umbrellas.

  I had walked by the place before with Pickle and Carmen on our way to Hartzell’s for scoops of Moose Tracks (Pickle), bubblegum (Carmen), and Cookie Monster (me), but I’d never really paid attention to it before. The exterior appeared more or less like an old Victorian-style house, with a porch and a garden, though the roof was done up in white twinkle lights with a big rainbow flag pinned up on the overhang. In the front yard, a glossy white sign read “HOOSIER MAMA? COFFEE HOUSE” in bubbly retro-style letters.

  “A coffee house?” I asked. “You know Mom keeps plenty of coffee at home, right?”

  Tío Billy laughed as we strolled up the pathway. “C’mon,” he said. “I want you to meet some of my friends.”

  “You have friends in Indiana?”

  Tío Billy gave me a quizzical look.

  “Hey, your tío used to be a big deal on this campus! I know people!” He pretended to be miffed, but I giggled, and sure enough, he threw me our secret handshake. After the last nod was completed, he swung open the front door and ushered me inside.

  The smell of just-roasted coffee and baked goods filled the air, enveloping us like a warm hug. Big chalkboard signs with wacky cartoon illustrations showed off the daily specials, and a massive fish tank filled with tropical fish and a lone glitter roller skate separated the counter area from the seating. Overstuffed chairs and mismatched couches sat on intricate woven rugs against walls covered almost completely with weird art, from oil portraits of Russian generals to vivid spray-paint pop art to a cerulean bust of a ram wearing a beret.

  “Whoa,” I whispered. Tío Billy’s hand lifted from my shoulder, and he swept past me to embrace a short Black woman.

  “Hey, Dorie!” Tío Billy was smiling warmly as he wrapped his long arms around the woman. “Miss me?”

  “You wish! What, you’re too good for us now, Mr. Miami?” The woman pulled out of the embrace to look Tío Billy up and down. Her long, dark locs were secured on top of her head with iridescent chopsticks, and she was wearing glasses with huge black frames. Beneath her white apron, which was stained a little with what looked like strawberry jam, she had on a “Save the Daleks” T-shirt and a gray tweed vest with jeans. She swatted at Tío Billy with a tea towel. “You look exactly the same. How is that possible? Who did you sell your soul to, and what’s the going rate, huh?”

  “You should talk!” Tío Billy laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit. But what—excuse my French—the hell are those?” He gestured to the woman’s feet, upon which she wore sandal-like slide-on shoes that featured a strange cap over the toes.

  “Custom Birkenstocks. Gotta have closed-toe shoes for kitchen work, but I didn’t want to sacrifice my classic look, so . . .” She wiggled her toes for emphasis. “You like ’em?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not taking that bait! I know better than to comment on your fashion choices,” Tío Billy said. “Hey, I’ve got someone I want you to meet. Dorie, this is Martin McLean. Martin, Dorie owns this place and is an old friend of mine.”

  “Excuse you,” Dorie said, wrinkling her nose. “Speak for yourself when you’re calling people old!” She laughed, a big, boisterous belly chuckle. “It’s good to meet you, Martin. Any friend of Billy’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Martin’s my nephew,” Tío Billy added as I shyly shook Dorie’s hand. “He’s been a little down lately.” He met my eye, and I felt sorry all over again that I had yelled at him and Mom. “I thought he might like to see the show tonight,” he continued.

  “Sure,” Dorie said. “Ever been to a show before?” Confused, I shook my head. A show? She grinned. “You’re in for a treat. Make yourself comfortable downstairs. Billy, show him where to be. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

  And that’s how I ended up in the basement of Hoosier Mama sipping hot chocolate out of a mug with “WORLD’S BEST BIG SISTER” printed on it in big block letters. Tío Billy came downstairs with me, steered me toward one of the folding chairs that faced the stage, and then disappeared somewhere. The basement area was the same long shape as the upstairs, with a big elevator in one corner. The stage, which looked like it was probably built by hand, took up most of the back wall and even stretched out into the room a little, like a runway. A black curtain obscured the backstage from view, and a disco ball hung overhead, spinning lazily.

  I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be waiting for, but as I drank my hot chocolate, people started to trickle into the room from upstairs. They began filling the rows, some of them hanging back near a sound booth that had funky dance music playing. The crowd was mostly men, with a smattering of women. There were college students in baseball caps and shorts, and older men in button-downs and slacks. Some of the men wore eyeliner, glitter, and lipstick, while others wore beards instead of makeup, or nothing on their faces at all. Some hung out together in big huddles, while others seemed to flit from group to group. Everyone was laughing and talking, hollering hello to people they knew over the heads of people they didn’t, wrapping their friends in massive hugs or showering them with kisses.

  I had never seen so many different types of people before in my life, let alone all in one room. My class was pretty diverse, but I was the only mixed kid I knew, and that made it so easy to feel out of place. I could never totally relate to the white kids, but I couldn’t totally relate to the other Latinos either. Where was I supposed to fit in?

  Now, suddenly, I was in a room with people of all shapes, sizes, and colors, and I felt . . . at home. Everyone was hanging out together: people of every race, every gender, and all different styles of dress. I saw a skinny, mixed-looking college guy wearing lime green short shorts and a mesh shirt chatting up a man with glitter in his beard, his mustache twirled into fancy curlicues. A man in a Lucky Brand T-shirt and jeans held the hand of the bearded man. A woman with the biggest Afro I’d ever seen winked at me as she passed by, handing a steaming mug of tea to a pale woman with a shaved head and an ear (and eyebrow!) full of piercings. All the while, people were dancing to the music that was pumping out of the speakers. It was as though a big party and an art installation had a loud Technicolor baby.

  As I took in all the excitement, I saw Dorie slip behind the sound booth. After a moment, the music lowered to a hum, and Dorie’s voice rang out from over the speakers, deep and rich like my hot chocolate.

  “Ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between! Thank you all for coming tonight to our Bargain Basement Babes drag show!” A cheer, some applause, and a couple peals of laughter rose up from the crowd, which had begun to settle into the seats around me. Behind her huge frames, Dorie’s eyes sparkled when she spoke. I had heard of drag shows before but never seen one. I knew from the internet that drag queens were men who dressed up as women, but I had no idea what a drag show might be like or why Tío Billy would bring me here.

  “I know we do this show every Saturday, but tonight is a special one. We’ve got Cassie Blanca in the house tonight!” More applause, and someone whooped loudly in the crowd. “It’s been many, many moons since she’s graced our stage, but don’t ask her how many, ’cause a lady’s real age is between herself and God—and her plastic surgeon!” Dorie kept talking over the laughter. “Anyway, I hope you enjoy tonight’s show. And if afterward you find yourself longing for more, you can catch me as Ewan Dangergirl at next week’s Kings and Queens–themed night. Now, are you ready for our first performer?”

  Dorie held out her microphone, and the crowd cheered as colorful lights danced, bouncing off the disco ball in the center of the ceiling
. “She’s our haute homemaker, our own big-boned Betty Draper; she is . . . Aida Lott!”

  When the clapping subsided, there was a beat of silence that reverberated with anticipation. The curtains parted, the lights came up on stage, and at the center stood a vision in blonde curls and polka dots.

  And then: she started singing, and I was entranced.

  Her cherry red lips were moving along to the music, but then . . . Wait, I realized, she’s not actually singing. She was lip-syncing, but with so much conviction, it was as if it were her own song. As if she were the only singer who had ever sung anything, ever, in the history of time and space. She was that confident. She didn’t actually have to say a single thing—she was telling us how she felt with her movement, her smile, her expression.

  It was dazzling. It was magic. It was magnetic.

  The bass thrummed in my chest—tha-RUMP tha-RUMP tha-RUMP. My heart was pounding, just like in Math, but this time, it wasn’t because I wanted to run away. I wanted to run toward the stage and climb up there with Aida, if it meant I could have even an ounce of her confidence.

  I watched her in a blur of glitter and music and applause, the music swirling around me like a spell. Aida tore off her dress in one smooth, impossible motion to reveal a polka dot bikini. Then she fell into the splits, and I cheered along with the crowd. I didn’t even think about it. I didn’t worry about looking silly or what other people might think. I just whooped with excitement, as people leapt to their feet and rushed the stage with dollar bills in hand. Aida warmly accepted the cash and tucked it all into her bikini top with a wink and an air kiss.

  My cocoa had gone cold, but I didn’t care. I was dizzy from the energy in the room. By the time Aida took her final bow, I was dazed. Every atom in me was buzzing. That. Was. Amazing.

  Dorie announced the next performer, then the next, giving each a funny little nickname or catchphrase. Dream Haus, a wisp of a blonde in a pink latex dress, “contains plastic parts, some assembly is required,” according to Dorie. Billie Holligay was “The Sinful Songstress.”