Martin McLean, Middle School Queen

by Alyssa Zaczek

  “Why?”

  “Because he was worried you’d make fun of him!”

  “Me? This paragon of tenderness standing before you?” I gestured to myself and my puffy winter coat. Carmen giggled. “No way. I think it’s pretty sweet, actually.”

  “It really is. They look at each other all goonie-eyed all throughout lunch. Violet’s actually been hanging out with us a lot lately,” she said.

  “Wow,” I said, “I’ve missed so much.” I’d been eating my lunches in the library, even though we’re definitely not supposed to. I had to hide my sandwich from the librarian when she came by.

  “You have,” Carmen said. “But you don’t have to keep missing stuff, you know.”

  “Yeah. I know. Are we okay?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Definitely.”

  “Promise?” I asked. Carmen rolled her eyes at me.

  “Super-duper, double-dog, mega-awesome promise.”

  “With sprinkles on top?”

  “With sprinkles on top,” she grinned.

  “Good. Oh, hey! I wanted to show you something.” I unzipped my coat and dramatically ripped it open at my chest, like Superman.

  “Oh my gosh!” Carmen said, pretending to swoon. I had dressed as Tinkerbell for her, for the group costume. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a Tinkerbell costume in the traditional sense. It wasn’t a dress—I wasn’t ready for that, yet—but it was a Tink-green T-shirt, khakis, and lime green kicks that I had tied little white puffs to, just like Tinkerbell’s shoes. Tío Billy had helped me make a light-up magic wand out of glow sticks, and I wore a lime green beanie instead of Tinkerbell’s ribbons.

  “You’re like a cool, hipster Tinkerbell!” Carmen cried. “You’re Tinker Bro!”

  “Thank you, thank you,” I said, bowing.

  “What made you change your mind?” Carmen asked. “You know, about the costume?” I shrugged.

  “If dressing up as a group makes you as happy as drag makes me, then that’s something I want to do, you know?” I said. Carmen looked like she might cry.

  “I’ve really missed you, Martin,” she said.

  “I’ve really missed you too,” I said. And I meant it.

  Carmen and I caught the bus near her house and just barely made it to school on time. We met up with Pickle and Violet during lunch, sitting at our usual table near the front of the cafeteria. Pickle was dressed up as Peter Pan, as promised, with the tights and everything. Violet was wearing Wendy Darling’s nightgown costume from the Disney movie, only instead of a blue dress, she had made her own version in a light purple with a matching bow. Sparkly streamers were attached to the back of her wheelchair, below a sign that read “POWERED BY PIXIE DUST.” The four of us looked awesome together, I had to admit.

  “Looks like the two of you have decided to call off the Cold War,” Pickle said as Carmen and I sat down with our lunch trays. “Have we returned to our regularly scheduled programming?”

  “We have!” Carmen replied in a chipper tone. Her eyes fell to a piece of Halloween-themed cake on Violet’s tray. “Ooh, where did you get that?”

  “Over by the milk and stuff,” Violet said, gesturing with her fork. “It’s way good. Here, I’ll show you where it is.” She blew a kiss at Pickle and set out with Carmen in pursuit of cake. Pickle leaned toward me over the table.

  “So what happened with you guys anyway?” he asked, smearing a French fry through some ketchup. “Carmen was so upset the other night, she wouldn’t even talk about it. And that girl loves to talk.”

  So Carmen didn’t tell Pickle what she saw. I looked around the cafeteria and lowered my voice.

  “She sort of . . . look, if I tell you this, do you promise you won’t blab?”

  “Moi?” Pickle asked, feigning total disbelief. “I am a rock, baby. I’m a fortress.”

  “Okay, because it’s kind of big.”

  “Go on,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me. I cleared my throat nervously.

  “She came by the other night and she . . . saw me dressed up,” I said, watching Pickle’s face.

  “Like, red carpet, penguin suit dressed up? Or like mascot dressed up?”

  “No, like . . . dressed up. Like, in a dress. Well, a skirt, technically.”

  “A skirt,” he repeated, with no inflection. I nodded. “What the devil do you mean, McLean?”

  “I . . . I do drag,” I whispered, trying to keep him from making some kind of scene. You never knew with Pickle. “I’m a drag queen.”

  Pickle considered this, his face rumpled in contemplation. I braced myself for any number of uncomfortable questions: So does that mean you’re gay? Do you like boys now? Do you want to be a girl?

  He chomped thoughtfully on a fry and asked, “Are you any good?”

  I blinked.

  “Um,” I said, “I don’t know. I’m sort of still learning. But there’s an all-ages competition coming up, and my uncle’s helping me.”

  “What do you get if you win?”

  “A thousand dollars,” I said.

  Pickle dropped his fry. “A THOUSAND DOLLARS?” he yelled, leaping to his feet in excitement.

  “Sit! Down!” I hissed, waving at him like an idiot and turning eleven shades of red. Slow as a parade float, he lowered himself back into his seat with dignity, but his face was still bug-eyed.

  “Martin. Martin, Martin, Martin,” he repeated, tenting his fingers like a yoga guru. “Martin, my dude, this seals it. You are officially my coolest friend.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know anybody doing anything as hardcore as this! You’re going to put on those pointy, pinchy shoes girls wear, and those amazing clothes, and dance around all night, and then somehow when you’re still standing afterward you’re gonna win one thousand freaking dollars!” he said. “That’s awesome!”

  “I’m . . . thanks, Pickle,” I said, still shaking off the shock.

  “What are we talking about?” Carmen asked, approaching with two hands full of cake.

  “Oh, you know, Martin’s a drag queen and he’s gonna be filthy rich,” Pickle replied. I choked on my milk.

  “Pickle!” I cried, looking from Violet to him and back again.

  “It’s cool,” he replied, cocking his head at Violet. “She’s cool.”

  Violet serenely glided up to the table and parked herself at the head. She seemed totally unfazed by Pickle’s comments.

  “Hi, Martin,” she said. “It’s good to see you. I feel like it’s been ages.”

  “Hi, yeah,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Oh, fine,” she said, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder. “Just trying to convince Peter to come out trick-or-treating with me tonight.”

  I raised an eyebrow in Pickle’s direction as Carmen tittered away next to me. Pickle looked like he wanted to sink into the ground.

  “Peter?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Pickle said through gritted teeth, “how can I help you, dearest Martin?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m looking for my friend Pickle. Do you know where I can find him?”

  Violet giggled and patted Pickle’s hand. “I know he doesn’t like that I call him Peter,” Violet said. “But how am I supposed to introduce him to my family tonight? ‘Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend Pickle.’” She shook her head.

  “Pickle is a Jewish name, isn’t it?” I grinned at him before shoveling salad into my mouth. Pickle shot daggers at me with his eyes.

  “Martin is Spanish for ‘a very rude guy,’ right?” he replied. I pretended to clutch my heart in pain. “And anyway,” Pickle said to Violet, “don’t be so sure that you’ll be introducing me to them tonight.” He turned to Carmen and me. “She has four younger brothers and sisters. I’m going to be taken down by an army of children!”

  “You are not,” Violet chided. “It’s going to be fine.”

  “Are all your siblings adopted, too?” Carmen asked. Pickle blanched.

  “Carmen!” he hissed. “You can
not! Just ask people! If they are adopted!”

  “Well, it’s not like they’re here,” Carmen said, blithely swinging a forkful of cake in his direction.

  Violet laughed good-naturedly. “Peter, it’s okay,” she said, putting a hand on Pickle’s arm. “Yes, they’re all adopted through an agency in Hanoi, like me.”

  “But you’re not like, related-related, right?”

  “They’re my brothers and sisters,” Violet said firmly. Carmen blushed. “But, no, we’re not related by blood. I was adopted first, then Leah a few years later, then the twins, then Elijah,” Violet continued, scraping remnants of frosting off her plate. “Honestly, if you saw how we act when we’re together you’d see that we’re really no different from biological siblings. It’s true that we don’t look like our parents—or even quite like each other—but the way we all bicker and make up over and over again, we’re definitely family.”

  Just then, Nelson passed by the table, holding his lunch tray. He was dressed as Kylo Ren, but he had the mask pushed back on his head. He noticed us and sneered.

  “Well, look at this,” he said, hovering on Violet’s side of the table. “If it isn’t the Three Musket-queers.” He turned his gaze to Violet. “And I see you’ve found a mascot to wheel out when you want to look extra pathetic.”

  “Hey!” Pickle cried, standing up.

  “That’s an awful thing to say,” Violet said, looking as though she might spit in Nelson’s face.

  “Oh, is it? I had no idea,” he mocked. Then he looked at me, and I felt my insides turn to ice. “Good to see you haunting the loser table again, McLean the Queen. Or should I say, Twink-erbell,” he snorted. “Off to sprinkle some fairy dust?”

  “Shut up, Nelson,” I said, but it came out so quietly I could barely hear myself. Behind Nelson, Chris Cregg was approaching. His good-natured smile faded when he saw the look on my face. Recognition appeared in Chris’s blue eyes.

  “Nelson,” Chris said as he made it to our table, “Mr. Peterson was looking for you.”

  “Why?” Nelson said, curling his lip.

  Chris scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just ran into him,” he replied. “He said something about suspending you from the team? Something about a formal report of bullying?”

  All the blood drained from Nelson’s face. Everyone at the table was silent, watching him.

  “You’re—you’re lying,” he stammered, trying to keep his composure. Chris shook his head sadly.

  “Why would I lie? If you get suspended, we’re totally screwed. I don’t know, man, I would go find him ASAP.”

  Nelson looked from me to Chris to Pickle, then back to Chris. He grumbled something unintelligible—I caught the word “nerds”—and shuffled off in a huff. I turned to Chris in awe.

  “That was amazing!” I said. “How’d you come up with that?”

  “It was easy,” Chris shrugged. “Nelson knows he’s a jerk. Couldn’t be hard to convince him other people thought so too.”

  “Have you ever considered trying out for Drama?” Carmen probed, sliding over to make space between us at the table. She patted the open seat, and Chris sat down. “We could really use someone with your improv abilities.”

  “Uh, no, I haven’t,” Chris laughed, “but maybe I will!” We were smushed pretty close together on the bench. Chris turned to me. “I wasn’t lying about running into Mr. Peterson, though. He caught me in the hall—we qualified for Regionals!”

  “Really?” Yes! Regionals! I thought, and then: Oh, no. Regionals. Regionals and All-Ages Night. It’s happening. It’s really happening!

  “Yes, really!” Chris said with a laugh. “As if there were any doubt, with you at the podium.”

  “Wow. Thanks. I . . . wow,” I stammered, but Chris was too busy looking at my outfit to notice that I wasn’t exactly over the moon about the news.

  “Great costume,” he said. “What are you supposed to be?”

  “Um, I’m sort of supposed to be Tinkerbell,” I mumbled into my tray. “I guess kind of a hipster Tinkerbell? For the group costume.” I gestured vaguely to the group. Chris nodded.

  “Awesome! I was gonna guess Jughead. You know, from the Archie comics? With the beanie, you look kinda like him. . . .” Chris gestured to his own head and then blushed, illuminating his freckles with that sunrise glow. “Anyway, I like it.”

  “Hey, I know who you’re supposed to be,” I said, really looking at Chris for the first time since he’d broken the news about Regionals. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a dark blue symbol on it, black pants, and a black mask covering his eyes, and he was carrying two cardboard paper towel rolls painted black.

  “You do?” he blinked.

  “You’re Nightwing!” I said. “Also known as—”

  “Dick Grayson!” Chris exclaimed, looking surprised. “I thought I was the only one I knew who liked comics!”

  “No way, I’m obsessed!”

  “Wow,” Pickle said, casting a dubious look at Carmen and Violet. “Are we about to be replaced?” I made a face at him.

  “Yeah, our older brother Matthew-John left J.P. and me a bunch of comics when he went off to college. J.P. never really got into them.” Chris shrugged. “More for me, right?”

  “Totally,” I said. “What’s your favorite series?” Chris mulled on that for a second, drumming his freckled, calloused fingers against the table.

  “Hmm. I actually really like the Batman: Detective comics they’re doing in the Rebirth series,” he mused, “but I’ve also been kind of into the comics they’re doing with Overwatch.” He looked shyly down at his shoes. “I know that’s super geeky.”

  “What? No way!” I cried. “I love Overwatch!”

  “Seriously?” Chris grinned. “Who do you main?”

  “McCree,” I replied. “You?”

  “D.Va. I wish I had her mech in real life!”

  “Me too!”

  “You know,” he whispered, “I heard Nelson mains Junkrat.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Figures,” I said. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

  We dissolved into laughter. Chris actually got a cramp in his stomach, he was laughing so hard. Soon we all settled into comfortable chatter together, Pickle taking bets on which of Violet’s younger siblings would inflict bodily harm on him first. But while the rest of them talked, I was only half listening. Two competitions, one night, and one very nervous Martin, I thought. I need a plan.

  But then there was Chris. His presence at the lunch table kept me from fully disappearing into problem-solving mode. He’s never sat with us before, I thought. Could it be that he’d actually be my friend outside of Mathletes? It seemed like an impossibility, and yet, when the lunch bell rang and we went to put our trays away, I was struck with a sudden wave of confidence. I caught up with Chris by the tray return station.

  “Hey, would you ever want to come over and play video games sometime?” I asked, bracing myself for instant regret. Chris Cregg is way, way more popular than I’ll ever be. Why would he want to hang out with me after school? I watched his face for embarrassment or disgust, but instead, Chris nodded enthusiastically.

  “Yeah, sure! We’ll plan something soon,” he said, holding out his knuckles for me to bump.

  “I—uh—yeah! We will! Thanks!” I said, tripping over myself to tap his knuckles. He smiled and waved goodbye, heading for his next class. Pickle sidled up next to me before I had a chance to process what had just happened.

  “Dude, what’s your deal?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “My deal? With Chris? I don’t have a deal.”

  “Uh, okay,” Pickle said sarcastically. “He told you you’re going to Regionals, but you acted like he said you’re overdue for a visit to the dentist! Regionals, dude! I thought you’d be doing cartwheels across the cafeteria, but you were totally zoned out for the rest of lunch.”

  “I know,” I said. “But there’s a problem. Regionals is the same night as the d
rag competition.”

  “Hmm,” Pickle said, stroking an invisible beard on his chin. “This sounds like the perfect time for one of my Patented Pickle Plans.”

  A Patented Pickle Plan is just another name for one of Pickle’s ridiculous hijinks. He came up with the name on the playground in fourth grade, and it stuck. Once he devised a Patented Pickle Plan to build a clubhouse in the patch of woods behind his house. He ended up having to go to the hospital after accidentally stepping on a piece of plywood he left nail-side up. That is pretty typical of a Patented Pickle Plan.

  “Oh, no,” I groaned. “I’m not sure a Patented Pickle Plan is what we need.”

  “Ouch! You wound me!” Pickle replied.

  “We can talk about it later,” I said. “Say nothing to Chris!”

  “About this, specifically? Or can I not say anything to him at all? Because it might be a little rude if I—”

  “Pickle!”

  “Sorry, sorry. Serious now!” he said. “For what it’s worth, dude, I don’t really talk to Chris, so your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “I’m just . . . not sure I’m ready for the Mathletes to know about the whole drag thing.”

  Pickle nodded sagely. “I shall take this knowledge to my grave, if that is what my liege requires,” he said in a bad English accent. “Hark, math class awaits!” Pickle bowed deeply and headed off toward Mr. Peterson’s classroom.

  Pickle and Carmen know that I do drag, I thought happily, watching Pickle walk away, and they actually think it’s kind of cool! So maybe it didn’t matter that Nelson was a bully, or that I had no idea how I would do both Regionals and All-Ages Night. Maybe, despite all that, everything would be all right. It was as though the ever-expanding universe had stopped, just for a minute, and let me spin in my own orbit, where everything was just as it should be.

  Carmen came up next to me, shaking her head in wonder.

  “I can’t believe one of the popular kids sat with us,” she said. “Didi Esposito is going to freak!”

  NOVEMBER & DECEMBER

  ReadMe App

  NOV. 3—4:07 PM

  PicknLittle: Hear ye, hear ye!