LadyOfTheStage: What now, Pickle?
mathletesmartin: Shh, he’s making a proclamation.
LadyOfTheStage: . . .I want you both to know I am rolling my eyes LOUDLY.
mathletesmartin: That’s an impressive trick.
PicknLittle: AHEM
LadyOfTheStage: All right, okay, go on
PicknLittle: We are gathered here today to discuss an item on the agenda, the issue of one Martin Reginald McLean!
mathletesmartin: My middle name is not Reginald
PicknLittle: MARTIN REGINALD MCLEAN, and the conflicting times of his Junior Mathletes competition and his drag show. It is up to us, as best friends, to solve said issue.
mathletesmartin: Up to you?!
PicknLittle: Are we not the Three Musketeers?
mathletesmartin: Of course we are
PicknLittle: And are we not all for one, one for all?
LadyOfTheStage: Always
PicknLittle: Then we’ll figure it out, because there’s nothing the Three Musketeers can’t do!
LadyOfTheStage: Hear, hear!
mathletesmartin: Any ideas, then?
PicknLittle: . . .
LadyOfTheStage: . . .
mathletesmartin: . . .
LadyOfTheStage: Okay, so maybe we take some time to think about it?
mathletesmartin: Seems that way.
PicknLittle: Can I ask Violet if she has any ideas?
LadyOfTheStage: Martin?
mathletesmartin: Um, I guess so. She didn’t seem bothered by it at all when it came up at lunch.
PicknLittle: I know, right? She’s pretty much the best.
LadyOfTheStage: Aw, that’s sweet
PicknLittle: I LOVE HER SO MUCH, YOU GUYS.
mathletesmartin: So yeah, you can ask her. But you have to swear her to secrecy! I’m not ready for the whole school to know about this.
LadyOfTheStage: Yes, make her swear and prick her thumb and hold it against a Bible, or something.
PicknLittle: She’s Jewish
LadyOfTheStage: Well, the Torah then, I don’t know!
PicknLittle: Got it
PicknLittle: Hey, Martin?
mathletesmartin: ?
PicknLittle: Thanks for telling us. I promise not to ask too many silly questions.
mathletesmartin: Really?
PicknLittle: No, of course not, Martin Reginald. Silly questions are my middle name.
LadyOfTheStage: Ah yes, Pickle “Silly Questions” Tufts.
PicknLittle: I . . . did not think that through.
mathletesmartin: You guys are awesome. Seriously.
LadyOfTheStage: Right back atcha.
9
By November, it had become apparent that I needed an outfit to wear for All-Ages Night. Tío Billy called this my “look” and said that any drag queen worth her fake eyelashes had a signature style that defined her. We set to scouring every nearby thrift store for ideas, but there were so many options, it made my head spin.
“What about this one?” I asked, pulling a long black dress off a rack. The local Goodwill was decked out in Thanksgiving decorations, with paper turkeys taped on all the dressing room doors and jewel-toned leaves hanging on the walls like garland. Tío Billy felt the sleeve and wrinkled his nose.
“Ay, no way. That’s wool. You’ll burn up under the stage lights in that.” He flipped through a few more dresses before selecting one that slipped through his fingers like silk. “See? Much better. Sure, it’s not the most expensive fabric in the world, but at least you won’t sweat your makeup off!”
“It’s nice,” I said, feeling the hem between my fingers, “but I’m not sure it’s quite ‘Lottie’ enough, you know?”
“Then we keep looking!” Tío Billy declared, putting the dress back on the rack. I flipped through a few more hangers halfheartedly. Tío Billy looked at me out of the corner of his eye as he examined a floral dress that flowed all the way down to the floor. “Que bola, león?”
“I wish I had a picture in my head of what she looks like,” I said. “When I close my eyes and imagine Lottie up on stage, it’s . . . more of a feeling than an image.”
“Describe the feeling, then,” Tío Billy said, absentmindedly shaking his head at a lime green, halter-neck prom dress. “What does being Lottie feel like?”
I closed my eyes and pictured the stage at Hoosier Mama. Instead of being Lottie, I was watching her, outside my body but feeling everything she felt. Electricity. The color magenta. Pineapple soda bubbles dissolving on the tongue. Glitter and brass. Carmen’s laugh, and Pickle’s grin, and Chris’s eyes—
A warm flush bloomed in my cheeks. I peeked, and Tío Billy was watching me.
“I don’t know,” I said quickly. “It feels like . . . a victory. A celebration.”
“Oh, so she’s a party queen, huh?” Tío Billy said, ribbing me with his elbow. I shrugged.
“She’s the version of me that can sing and dance like Celia Cruz,” I said, “and own the stage like Cassie Blanca.”
“Now that is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard!” he exclaimed. His face lit up as he reached into the depths of the clothing racks. “Speaking of Celia Cruz . . .” he said, and pulled out a shimmering hot pink minidress covered in hundreds of strands of tiny beads. “Doesn’t this remind you of her hair in the ‘Yo Viviré’ video? That gorgeous little bob?”
I ran my hands over the dress, feeling the beading move beneath my fingers as if it were alive. The color seemed to change in the light, shifting in an instant from a barely-there whisper of pink to an explosion of fuchsia.
And all I once I could see Lottie, really see her. I couldn’t explain it if I tried—it was as though she just popped into my brain, fully formed and fabulous and wearing that dress.
“It’s awfully heavy,” Tío Billy said hesitantly, watching my eyes pore over every inch of the dress. “It might weigh you down too much on stage.”
“It’s perfect,” I whispered. Tío Billy seemed surprised.
“It is a great little number,” he reasoned. “Are you sure, león? This is the one?”
I nodded, without looking up at him. In my hands, the beads sparkled like infinite stars.
“It’s perfect.”
That afternoon, Mom had me stand on an overturned paint bucket so she could start some alterations to the dress. It was heavy, like Tío Billy said, but I liked that it forced me to be aware of how I moved in it. It made me feel more like Lottie. The dress was just a little too big in the waist and hips, though Mom assured me she could take it in. From up on my makeshift pedestal, I watched her work with fascination. Before Lottie, I didn’t even know Mom could sew, I thought as she pinned my right side. Who would have thought we’d bond over drag, of all things?
“When did you get so tall, mijo?” she asked. I shrugged.
“He’s eating his Wheaties, Gena!” Tío Billy called from the kitchen. He poked his head into the living room, chomping on a pastelito de guayaba we picked up from the Cuban bakery on our way home.
“I’ll say!” Mom exclaimed, shifting over to pin my opposite side. “So is your outfit finished now?”
“Nope,” I shook my head. “We’re still missing a jacket.” I had decided to go all-out evoking Celia in the “Yo Viviré” video, which meant including a square-shouldered jacket that Tío Billy assured me we could make “fashion.” Part of me wished I had a bata cubana, the type of dress Celia was famous for wearing, but there aren’t exactly a lot of those lying around the thrift stores of southern Indiana. But with a little creativity, I knew I could channel Celia in my own way—in Lottie’s way.
“What kind?” she asked. Tío Billy brushed the crumbs off his face and hands so he could pull up a photo on his phone.
“It’s sort of dark, but it’s also covered in big jewels or sequins or something, so it’s sparkly. I know it’s kind of ugly” I admitted as she glanced at Tío Billy’s screen, “but it really does make the whole outfit.”
“Not ugly, león. Camp!”
>
“I think I had something like that back in the day,” Mom said. Tío Billy snorted and pulled a face. “Hey!” she yelped. “It was de moda back then, I’ll have you know!”
“Oh, sure,” Tío Billy said as I giggled. “You keep telling yourself that!”
“Don’t listen to him, Martin,” Mom said. “But if you’re looking for clothes, you can check the attic. All my old stuff is up there.”
“Thank God,” Tío Billy said, pretending to whisper to me. Mom rolled her eyes, then stood and patted my arm.
“All done pinning, mijo.” I hopped off the paint bucket and shimmied out of the dress, which Mom carefully folded over her arm. “Why don’t you go up and look for that jacket now? I’ll get to work taking this in,” she said, placing a kiss on my cheek.
“C’mon, león, I’ll help you look,” Tío Billy said, heading for the stairs.
The last time I went up to the attic, it was right after Dad left. I was helping Mom pack up things that reminded her of him. I was so mad about having to help. I thought for sure he’d be back any minute, and then we’d have packed all those boxes for nothing. But when you’re six, I guess you get to be wrong about that kind of stuff.
Tío Billy pulled down the ladder to the attic, allowing me to scurry up with him close behind. At the top, I hoisted myself onto the floor and scanned the cramped space. There were garbage bags full of old clothes and piles of toys that I hadn’t touched in years.
“Good grief,” Tío Billy said, looking around. “Hasn’t your mom ever heard of a garage sale?”
“She’s too busy to have one,” I said, kicking aside a bag of old bed linens. “When Dad left, she went on a cleaning spree. It was easier to pack all the junk away than figure out what to do with it.”
“Out of sight, out of mind,” Tío Billy murmured, tentatively opening a clear plastic bin. It was stuffed with Mom-wear—paisley capris and maternity clothes, colorful caftans and various fringed items. We dove in, laughing and cringing at some of the old fashions. At the very bottom of the whole mess I found a cropped jacket with long sleeves, the lapels weighed down with tons and tons of huge jewels. Bingo.
“Well, I don’t know if la reina Celia would wear it, but we’re doing things a la Lottie!” Tío Billy said briskly, replacing the lid on the bin. I was ready to head back downstairs and show off my findings to Mom, but something caught my eye in the corner of the room. Behind a long-forgotten hula hoop and two pairs of inline skates, there stood a worn and sunken pyramid of boxes labeled “KEVIN’S STUFF.” I went over and ran my hand across the dusty top box. What else did he leave behind? I tore the tape seal off the cardboard flaps and looked inside.
The contents of the box were cushioned with his old shirts, a thick green flannel that smelled very faintly of his shaving cream, and a super soft T-shirt with Captain America’s shield on it. An old video camera was wrapped up inside them, a big bulky thing with an ugly black strap and a bunch of cords nestled around it. I lifted it up and turned it over in my hands.
“What’d you find?” Tío Billy asked, coming over with the jacket slung over his shoulder. I found a little screen on the side of the camera and flipped it open. The screen flashed bright blue for a split second, then displayed a “No Battery” symbol. “Ah,” he said, clucking his tongue. “Dios, your dad was never without one of those.”
“It’s dead,” I said, disappointed. Tío Billy picked up the nest of cords and began untangling them.
“I’m willing to bet one of these charges that bad boy,” he said, wrestling with a knot. “Should be easy enough.”
We took our findings downstairs and started charging the camera. Later, when it had enough juice to turn on, I unplugged it and darted up to my room.
I shut the door behind me and immediately flipped open the camera. A green light flashed steadily on the side of the device, and a menu appeared on the screen: “FILM. LIBRARY. DELETE.” I clicked “LIBRARY” and the screen changed to a bunch of thumbnails. Most of them looked like still photos of Mom, but one of them looked like it was a picture of a baby. I used the little arrow buttons on the camera to get over to that thumbnail, and clicked.
An hourglass symbol appeared, dancing back and forth, and then a video started playing. It was in our first house, a little bungalow on the other side of town near where the students lived. Mom was standing in the background, stirring something on the stove. She was so young, with her hair spilling down to the middle of her back in beautiful curls, and a red flower pinned behind her ear. Music played in the background as the camera turned quickly from Mom to a baby, maybe a year and a half old, in front of the beat-up gray-blue couch we’d had forever.
There I was, in all my pudgy baby glory, standing in a diaper and a pair of Mom’s red patent leather pumps with a small heel. I wore big black sunglasses that took up half my face and had a purple feather boa wrapped around my shoulders. Little plastic jewels were stuck haphazardly to my earlobes. I was laughing, the sunglasses drooping down off my nose, and wriggling my little baby butt to the music.
“Go Martin! Go Martin!” said a deep voice from the other side of the camera. A pale arm, covered in downy reddish hairs, reached out and fixed the sunglasses with a chuckle. The hand rustled my hair, a tiny Afro bouncing to the beat. “Gena, he looks just like you when you dance!”
“Oh, shut up!” Mom scolded from the kitchen.
“I’m just kidding, Martin. Your mother is a great dancer.”
“That’s much better!” Mom called. Baby me squealed in delight at hearing Mom’s voice, clapping my hands and stomping my feet in her heels. All of a sudden, my foot fell out of the shoe, and I started to tumble.
“Whoa, there, big guy!” Dad reached out and steadied me, setting the camera aside momentarily to pick me up. The camera focused instead on Minxy, the black and white cat we used to have. Dad took her with him when he left. I wondered how she was doing, if she was okay. I hoped Dad’s new kids were nice to her.
When he picked the camera back up, it was facing him, with me in his arms. He wore a striped tank top and wire-rimmed glasses, his strawberry blond hair falling into his eyes. He was young, with stubble on his chin and a sparkle in his eye. Dad held the camera out with one hand and kept me hoisted up with the other.
“Listen,” he said to the camera, “This is all fun and games now, but you had better grow out of this. I don’t know how I could live with a son who likes dresses and heels.” And he grinned.
“Kevin!” Mom scolded from the kitchen, but Dad just laughed.
“What? It’s true! All those gays in the film department with me think they’re God’s gift to the art form.”
He set me down on the floor and placed the camera next to me. A pair of feet in striped socks went padding into the kitchen, and the camera caught a glimpse of Dad putting his arms around Mom.
“You know Billy is . . .” I heard Mom say, but the rest was drowned out by baby me picking up the camera. The lens turned on my face: a gummy smile, a burst of purple feathers, a flash of jewel-tone sparkled from the stickers on my ears.
“Uh-uh-uh, no way, buddy, that camera costs more than this house!” Dad said, rushing over to pry it out of my hands. There was a jumbling of images as he reached for the camera, a swirling of faces: his, mine, Mom’s in the background. The final frame was me, so small and helpless, looking to him, in my heels, on the ground.
The video ended. A sudden, empty silence filled the room. The LIBRARY screen reappeared in a harsh burst of white light.
And then I was alone on my bed, wondering how words said so long ago by someone gone for so long could hurt so bad.
I set the camera down and cried.
ReadMe App
DEC. 19—12:01 P.M.
vividviolet: Helloooooo?
vividviolet: Anybody?
mathletesmartin: Hey, Violet
mathletesmartin: Happy Hanukkah!
vividviolet: Thanks! Where is everybody?
mathletesmartin: What
do you mean?
vividviolet: I thought Carmen had planned a brainstorming session for noon. . .?
mathletesmartin: Oh, yeah, she ended up pushing it back to 3, cause she wanted to go caroling with the madrigal singers.
vividviolet: Well, now I’m embarrassed
mathletesmartin: Pickle forgot to tell you?
vividviolet: Totally
mathletesmartin: Yikes. I’m sorry
vividviolet: Oh, that’s all right. It just means I get more time to chat with you!
vividviolet: How are you doing?
mathletesmartin: Fine, I guess
vividviolet: That wasn’t very convincing.
mathletesmartin: Is it that obvious?
vividviolet: Kinda, but I tend to pick up on those sorts of things. My mom says I’m a very empathetic person.
vividviolet: What’s the matter?
mathletesmartin: Well . . . I don’t know
mathletesmartin: It’s kind of about my weird family stuff, and I don’t want to make you deal with that.
vividviolet: Listen, if you’re worried I’ll judge you or tell people, don’t be!
vividviolet: I’ve been on the receiving end of my fair share of judgment and gossip, even from my own family, like a few of my aunts and uncles. I would never ever ever ever do that to you.
mathletesmartin: I believe you, Vi, I just. . . .
mathletesmartin: Um
mathletesmartin: So
mathletesmartin: I found this old video of my dad, before he left. And he basically said that he would hate to have a son like me.
vividviolet: Oh, Martin. I’m so sorry.
mathletesmartin: Thanks. I just don’t know what to think or how to feel.
vividviolet: I think it’s okay to feel however you feel.
vividviolet: But, Martin, you can’t change who you are in your heart any more than I can change my legs. You didn’t choose it, and it’s not a bad thing either.
mathletesmartin: I guess
vividviolet: Look at me: my legs aren’t a problem. Not to me, anyway. They’re just a part of me, like my smile or my hair. Other people might see them as broken or shameful or something to wish away, but I don’t. The way they feel about me is their problem, not mine.
Martin McLean, Middle School Queen Page 11
