Martin McLean, Middle School Queen

by Alyssa Zaczek

  “I can live with that,” Carmen replied primly. “Okay, ideas? Assuming we’re a foursome, that is.”

  “We could be the Scooby-Doo gang?” I offered. “I bet Pickle and Violet would make a great Fred and Daphne.”

  “Yeah, but then we’d need a dog, and my little Woofecito isn’t exactly the Scooby type,” Carmen said, shaking her head. “Have you ever seen a bichon solve a crime?”

  “Let’s be Pac Man and the ghosts. That way I can cover my face in shame,” Pickle moaned. Carmen and I both rolled our eyes.

  “Ooh, what about Peter Pan?” Carmen exclaimed, her eyes bright. “I’ve always wanted to go as Captain Hook. The mustache, the hat, the hook! I love it!”

  “That’s not bad,” Pickle mused begrudgingly. “Violet and I could be Peter and Wendy.”

  “Aww!” Carmen squealed. “That is so cute! So Martin, that leaves Tinkerbell for you!”

  “What? But Tinkerbell is a girl!” I said, my stomach dropping. There was no way I could go to school as Tinkerbell. What if people saw me and knew, just knew somehow about me and drag? What if something about me gave it away? Tío Billy’s voice rang out in my head—What’s so wrong with being a drag queen? Who decides what’s normal?—but the panic was creeping up, threatening to overwhelm me.

  “So?” Carmen said, waving her hand. “It’ll be fun! You can have a blonde wig and wings. I bet those beat up old tennis shoes would even look okay with some white leggings,” Carmen said, gently kicking my sore feet under the table. “C’mon, it’ll be so funny!”

  “It’s not funny!” I snapped. Carmen blinked in surprise.

  “Fine, jeez,” she said, obviously bristling. “I guess you can be Mr. Smee, or whatever.”

  Instantly, I felt bad for yelling at Carmen. But the idea of going to school as a girl made my palms clammy and my stomach ache.

  The world’s longest minute passed in silence. Carmen stared at the other tables, I stared at my milkshake, and Pickle stared at both of us uncomfortably.

  “Sooo,” Pickle warbled, breaking the silence and turning to me. “What have you been up to lately?”

  “I told you, I’ve been doing Mathletes stuff and hanging with Tío Billy”

  “Right, but like . . .”

  “Pickle’s trying to ask why you wouldn’t rather be with us,” Carmen said, matter-of-fact.

  “Exactly,” Pickle said, placing his hands on the table seriously. “What’s the deal?”

  “Deal? There’s no deal,” I said, stammering. “I don’t know. We just hang out.”

  “Didi said she saw you and your uncle at Hoosier Mama the other night talking to some butch lady,” Carmen said, twirling her straw without meeting my eye.

  “Well, Didi is a big gossip.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “But I don’t know, it’s not like we really care what you do.”

  “Then why ask?” I grumbled. “Why are you even talking to Didi anyway? I thought you hated her.”

  “I do,” replied Carmen airily. “But we have to spend a lot of time together in rehearsal, and when she said she saw you there, I thought it was weird.”

  “What’s weird about it? It’s just a coffee shop.”

  “Okay, first of all, you hate coffee,” Carmen said, ticking off the number one on her fingers. “And second of all . . . well . . .” She looked at Pickle, seemingly for support. He sighed.

  “Dude, Didi has kind of been spreading around this . . . not a rumor, but . . . she’s been telling everybody that Hoosier Mama kind of has a reputation,” he said.

  “What do you mean, a reputation?”

  “It’s not bad, it’s just . . .” Carmen trailed off again.

  “I guess the night crowd there is a little different,” Pickle said. “Didi said it’s sort of known around town as a place where certain people hang out.”

  “Certain people?” I repeated.

  “Gay people,” Carmen said, obviously trying very hard to be nonchalant. “It’s kind of a place where lots of gay people hang out, I guess—I don’t know, that’s just what Didi said—and so after she saw you there with your uncle, she wanted to know if your uncle was gay.”

  “You know he is,” I said defensively. “What’s the big deal?”

  “There isn’t one,” Carmen said quickly. “It’s just that after Didi asked about your uncle—and I told her it was none of her business and she should keep her big mouth shut, by the way—she wanted to know . . .”

  “Know what?” But I knew what was coming.

  “. . . if you were gay,” Carmen finished.

  “What? No! I mean, I don’t know.” My tongue was like lead in my mouth. “What the hell, Carmen?”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger!” she cried. “I just thought you’d want to know what people were saying.”

  “People? What people? Didi?” My voice was rising, but I didn’t care. “Didi just likes the sound of her own voice. Are other people saying stuff like this?”

  “I don’t know,” Carmen said. She began to laugh nervously, her eyes defensive and pleading. “Please, Martin, I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

  “Well, what did you mean?” I asked. “What did you think was going to happen, coming here and asking me if I’m gay? How did you think I was going to react? God, everything is just one big joke to you, isn’t it? Everything is hilarious. Well, I’m not laughing!”

  Tears welled up in Carmen’s eyes, and my own face felt hot with anger and embarrassment. It was all too much, too fast, too soon. How am I supposed to answer questions I don’t have the answers to? Can everyone just stop asking?

  “I told you not to tell him!” Pickle hissed at Carmen, who swiped at her eyes.

  “Well, I thought he’d want to know!” she cried. “Martin, what does it matter? Lots of people are gay!”

  “I think everyone is probably a little gay,” Pickle mused aloud.

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” I said, sliding out of the booth. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Martin, come on!” Carmen called after me, but I was already bolting down the aisle. A rush of cold autumn air hit my face as I pushed open the door and hurried to my bike, wrestling with the lock. My fingers were shaking too badly to turn the dial, and I kept missing my numbers.

  “Hey, Martin, wait up!” I heard Pickle’s voice behind me, but I didn’t turn.

  “What do you want?” I asked. There was a pang of silence, and I knew he was hurt.

  “Carmen means well,” he said after a moment. “She just doesn’t realize that not everybody’s like her. Extroverted, you know.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe she should do some reflecting on that.”

  “Yeah,” Pickle said, “maybe she should. Listen, I know you and I, we don’t talk about our feelings a lot. Or ever. Except for when it comes to Violet, and I’m sorry if I’ve been obnoxious talking about her. I know that can be annoying.”

  “You’re fine,” I said. I took a deep breath to steady my hands and twisted the dial. Finally the lock clicked and opened, and as I slid it off the bike, I turned to Pickle. He had his hands in his pockets, looking forlorn.

  “Well,” he said, “I just want you to know that I don’t care who you like—girl, boy, Mothman.” I laughed in spite of myself, and Pickle broke into a relieved smile. “I mean, I might have some questions if you want to date Mothman, like, does he know any other single cryptids? Maybe he could set Carmen up with, say, Bigfoot?”

  We laughed, and after I caught my breath, I met Pickle’s eye.

  “Thanks, Pickle,” I said. “Just do me a favor?”

  “Of course,” Pickle said. “I am eternally at your service.”

  “If you hear other people at school talking about me . . .”

  “They’ll be met with the full extent of my verbal wrath,” Pickle said, looking gravely serious. “This, I swear to you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I should get home.”

  “Right. I’ve got to go reassemble Carmen; I’m pr
etty sure she’s a puddle by now.”

  Pickle clapped me on the shoulder and went back inside the diner. I buckled my helmet and started pedaling home, breathing in deep the cool air.

  I’ve read all about the alternate universe theory, which hypothesizes that there could be infinite universes in existence, where anything and everything is possible. As I pedaled, I wondered what my Alternate Universe Dad would tell Alternate Universe Me about all this. Would he tell me to buck up and pull myself together, or would he hug me and try to talk it out? Would he be on my side? Would he want me to answer that big question, and would the answer matter to him?

  Even if I did have an Alternate Universe Dad to talk to, I couldn’t imagine putting my feelings into words. I couldn’t imagine talking to anyone about what I was feeling, actually. I was too jumbled up inside. I didn’t want to talk to Mom; I’d get caught in endless circles of feelings and “expression.” I didn’t want to talk to Tío Billy either. I didn’t want to disappoint him by being afraid of who I might be, especially when “who I might be” was so much like him. All I wanted was to close my eyes and suddenly be in another universe, one where my dad decided he wanted me after all—one where I was brave enough, proud enough, loud enough to tell the truth.

  ReadMe App

  OCT. 22—9:45 PM

  LadyOfTheStage: Martin?

  LadyOfTheStage: Martin, I’m really sorry.

  LadyOfTheStage: Please talk to me.

  LadyOfTheStage: I didn’t know it would upset you so much. Really, I didn’t.

  LadyOfTheStage: I have to learn to keep my mouth shut sometimes. I know you think everything is a joke to me, but it isn’t. I take our friendship seriously. And I’m seriously sorry.

  LadyOfTheStage: Martin?

  LadyOfTheStage: Okay. Maybe you’re not home yet.

  LadyOfTheStage: Or maybe you went right to bed.

  LadyOfTheStage: I’ll try again later and in the morning if I still haven’t heard from you.

  LadyOfTheStage: I’m sorry. I really am.

  7

  I didn’t talk to Carmen for two whole days. Pickle declared himself Switzerland, and swore not to talk to either of us or be our go-between until we made up. When I wasn’t working on my drag, I threw myself into Mathletes to distract myself even more. I had to get ready for our after-school study session anyway—the fact that it kept me from thinking about the fight was just a plus.

  In a study session, team members can come in and ask each other for help on problems or concepts they don’t fully understand yet. I love study sessions, because it’s the only place in the universe where I have all the right answers.

  “Good afternoon, Martin,” Mr. Peterson said as he breezed into the classroom. I was, as usual, the first one there after the bell rang.

  “Hey Mr. P,” I replied. “What’s new?”

  “Oh, you know; same old, same old. Doughnuts in the teacher’s lounge today, so that was exciting.”

  “Old fashioneds?”

  “Custard,” Mr. Peterson said, pulling a face.

  “So not that exciting after all,” I giggled.

  “Precisely.”

  J.P. and Chris Cregg walked into the room, followed by Poppy and Nelson. Nelson was mid-rant about the cultural importance of Reddit when Chris interrupted him.

  “What’s up, Mr. P?” he waved cheerily. Mr. Peterson waved back in his usual, semi-awkward fashion.

  “Messieurs Cregg and Cregg, good day to you,” he said faux-formally. “Poppy, Nelson, welcome.”

  “Hi,” Poppy replied, “and thank you. Someone won’t stop talking.”

  “I’m trying to explain to you—”

  “You’re Nelson-splaining, and I’m bored,” she said, plopping down at a desk. “You just like to hear yourself talk.” Nelson sighed huffily.

  “Whatever,” he said. “You’ll regret not listening to me when I’m a billionaire e-investor and you’re selling your paintings at high school craft fairs.”

  “At least I’ll be selling my art and not selling out,” she retorted, putting her Converse up on the desk. Mariam came hustling through the door with a stack of books.

  “Can you believe the librarian really tried to enforce the checkout limit?” she asked, dumping her pile of tomes next to Poppy. “Like, with me? Of all people? Really?”

  Mariam holds the school record for reading comprehension tests. I think she’s probably read every book in the school library, twice. J.P. picked up one of Mariam’s selections.

  “Marine Biology for Dummies? Dude, we’re landlocked, you know.”

  “Yes,” Mariam replied, looking annoyed as she grabbed the book out of his hands. “But I’m asking for scuba lessons and a new burkini for my birthday. We’re going to Maui for spring break and I want to explore shipwrecks for microcosms of the larger marine ecosystem.”

  “Whatever that means,” J.P. scoffed.

  “Okay, you all, let’s get started,” Mr. Peterson said, clapping his hands. “Where’s Konrad?”

  “Sick,” everyone said in unison. Konrad is notorious for getting sick right around Halloween. Actually, he’s notorious for getting sick in general. The kid’s got the weakest immune system of anyone I’ve ever met.

  “All right then,” Mr. Peterson sighed, “I’ve put worksheets on your desk. Your team captain is your point person for any questions, because I’ll be nursing this triple espresso and grading papers.” He toasted with his shiny chrome mug and wiggled his eyebrows. “Cheers!”

  Everyone got to work, bent over their papers with pencils in hand, but I couldn’t focus. My mind was on the triple life I was leading: my friends and Mathletes and drag. My chest was so heavy. Can I do all of this? Is it even possible? Will I make it out of January intact or as a vaguely Martin-shaped heap of goo?

  “Hey, Martin?” A soft voice interrupted my thought-spiral, and I jumped involuntarily. “Whoa, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Chris said. He had sidled up next to me, pulling his chair along.

  “It’s okay,” I said, my hand on my chest. Inside, my heart was racing: tha-RUMP tha-RUMP tha-RUMP. I swallowed hard and tried to focus on Chris instead. “What’s up?”

  “So, I have a question on number six. I’m pretty sure I have to multiply everything by four to get the x coefficients to match up, but I still can’t get them to cancel out.” Chris shrugged and shook his head, his wispy light brown hair shifting gently to the side. “This is so much more your wheelhouse than mine.”

  I looked at the problem and right away saw where he had gone wrong. I took his pencil from his hand and used it to point.

  “No. See, you were on track with multiplying by four, but it should have been negative four. And you’re only multiplying the top equation, because if you multiply everything by negative four, it still won’t negate. See what I mean?” I wrote out the next step on his paper, trying to make my chicken-scratch handwriting remotely legible. “Now, −4x and 4x cancel out, leaving you with −13y = 26, which you can then divide by −13 to get y = −2. Make sense?”

  Chris nodded, looking sheepish.

  “All I missed was a negative? God, you must think I’m a loser.”

  “No way!” I exclaimed. “It’s an easy mistake to make, especially when you’re trying to up your solving speeds.”

  “Well, thanks,” Chris said, taking back his paper. “Um . . .” His eyes fell to his pencil, which was still in my hand.

  “Oh! Oh, right. Yes. Here you go.” I handed him the pencil, and our fingers brushed. His hand felt warm and a little rough under mine and I remembered that Chris did pottery at the Y in his spare time. Sometimes when Pickle and Carmen and I hang out there, I see him through the window near the climbing wall, coaxing art out of soft lumps of clay.

  When I looked up from the page, I could have sworn he was blushing, the color of summer berries peeking out from under his freckles. I caught his eye, and a jolt of electricity coursed through my stomach.

  What was that? I asked myself. That
sort of felt like . . . butterflies. I couldn’t believe Chris Cregg actually thought I was smart enough to help him. He was one of the top students at school, not to mention on the team. As he walked back to his own desk I wondered, just for a second, if maybe Chris would want to hang out sometime, but then my thoughts were interrupted by the snapping of bubblegum behind me.

  “Hey, captain?” Poppy asked, her nose scrunched up like a pug’s. “This word problem doesn’t make any sense. Who in their right mind would buy seven dozen watermelons?”

  When I checked my phone after practice that night, I had more missed messages from Carmen:

  ReadMe App

  OCT. 25—5:58 P.M.

  LadyOfTheStage: Hi. I know we’re still not talking. But I miss you, Martin.

  LadyOfTheStage: I swear I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just lately, you’ve been . . . well, I guess I just think it’s kind of weird.

  LadyOfTheStage: I mean, that you would rather hang out with your uncle than hang out with us.

  LadyOfTheStage: I’m sure he’s really cool and all! But he’s like . . . old. Like, at least 30.

  LadyOfTheStage: I’m making this worse, aren’t I?

  LadyOfTheStage: Martin, pleeeeeease. Pleeeeeease talk to me. I’ll do anything to make this better.

  LadyOfTheStage: I know I act like I’m above Pickle’s antics, but I’m not opposed to bribery and plots in this case!

  LadyOfTheStage: Fine, be quiet if you want, but I’m going to find a way to fix this.

  LadyOfTheStage: Super-duper, double-dog, mega-extra promise.

  I wanted to make up with her; I really did. But I was scared of what she’d say if she knew about Lottie. If she thought hanging out with Tío Billy was weird, what would she think about drag?

  It was too much to think about all at once, so instead, I threw myself into Tío Billy’s drag queen boot camp.

  “Okay, what kind of routine are you thinking?” Tío Billy asked that evening. We were lounging in the living room, where Mom was kneeling on a drop cloth, touching up some leaves on the wall. Tío Billy was perched on the sofa like a colorful gargoyle, wearing a bright yellow button-down and matching socks. His laptop was on the coffee table with YouTube open.