Martin McLean, Middle School Queen

by Alyssa Zaczek

  “So what does your uncle do?” Chris asked. All of a sudden, I was hyperaware of my hands starting to sweat over my controller.

  “He works in theater,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  “Oh, cool, like an actor?”

  Say it, I thought. You can tell him. Tell him that Tío Billy is a drag queen. Tell him about Lottie.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “He runs a theater company with his husband.” And then I paused, expecting him to laugh at the word “husband,” to make the jokes that all the other seventh-grade boys would.

  But Chris just nodded his head thoughtfully. “That’s cool,” he said. I swallowed. Now’s your chance!

  “But he also does some onstage stuff too,” I said. His phone buzzed in his pocket, so he put down his controller to grab it. “Like sometimes he performs, um, in drag.”

  I waited with my heart in my throat, barely able to force my eyes away from the TV screen. When I finally did, Chris had gone pale—really pale. He leapt out of the beanbag chair, startling me.

  “Chris?” I said, though it came out strangled. “What’s wrong?” My mind had already taken off racing. Maybe I had gone too far, bringing up Tío Billy like that. Maybe Chris wasn’t as cool as I thought.

  “Oh, man,” he said, without looking up from his phone. “I’m really sorry. I have to go.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked again, feeling the panic grip me. Was it mentioning drag? Did that scare him? Did he think I was gay? And did he hate me for it?

  “Oh, man, I am in so much trouble,” Chris said. “Uh . . . shoot . . . I left my siblings alone for two seconds and now—shoot, I’m so sorry, Martin. I’ll explain later. I really have to go.”

  He can’t even look me in the eye. My mind swirled like a hurricane. And now he’s come up with a story to bail himself out. So he doesn’t have to hang out with someone like me. Chris had already made his way downstairs, and when I finally got to the landing, he was pulling on his shoes. He grabbed his skateboard and turned his flushed face toward me.

  “I’ll, uh, talk to you later,” he said, looking completely freaked. “Seriously, Martin, I’m so sorry! I’ll text you!” He waved goodbye, but he was already mostly out the door. It closed behind him with a dull thud.

  My chest tightened like a vice around my lungs. Everything’s falling apart. Hot, stinging tears blurred my vision as I sat down on the stairs. Everything’s spinning out of control, and I can’t stop it. I can’t be Martin and Lottie at the same time. I can barely handle being just Martin. I tried to breathe in, but it became a shuddering sob. And if this is how Chris reacted to Tío Billy and drag, how could I ever tell him—or anyone—about Lottie? My dad and now Chris—who else is going to ditch me the second they realize who I really am?

  I shouldn’t have said anything at all.

  I shouldn’t have said anything at all.

  I shouldn’t ever say anything at all.

  “León!”

  Tío Billy’s voice broke through my panic. I hadn’t realized he was home, but suddenly he was rushing over to me.

  “What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself? Hey, hey, look at me.” I tried to meet his eyes with mine. “Deep breaths, okay? Match my breathing. In and out, león, nice and steady.”

  “I told Chris Cregg you’re a drag queen!” I blurted out. “I told him and he left and now he hates me, I’m sure of it!” Then I spilled my guts, telling Tío Billy everything—Chris coming over, and how nice he was, and the butterflies and the video games, and how I was sure he left because he hated drag queens and anyone who associated with them. When I was done, Tío Billy put his arm around me and sighed.

  “Oh, león,” he sighed. “Why would he hate you for that, huh?”

  “Because now he’ll think I’m weird,” I sniffled. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “Hey,” Tío Billy said calmly, stroking my hair. “I don’t ever want you talking like that. It is always right to speak your truth, you hear me? And as for this Chris . . .” He made a point to look me right in the eyes, and he spoke very slowly. “Just because something’s different doesn’t mean it’s something to hate. And if this boy is so quick to hate you, then let him.”

  “What?” Let him hate me?

  “You heard me. Let him. Because if he’s the type of person who would hate somebody for how they dress, or what they like, then he’s not the type of person you want in your life.”

  “He’s really cool,” I sniffled. “And nice. And he likes comics.”

  “If you’ve judged him to be of good character, then maybe it’s not what you think,” Tío Billy replied. “Maybe he was so thrilled to find a friend with such amazing interests that he had to run home right away to write it all down in his diary with sparkly gel pens!”

  I giggled, though I didn’t feel like it. Tío Billy gave me a kind smile.

  “All I’m saying is that the only people who deserve space in your life are the people who appreciate everything you are. And you are talented and fierce and brave,” he said. “So who cares if this kid freaked out? The show must go on. And your life, león, is one fabulous show. Don’t miss out on it.”

  I knew Tío Billy was right, but I still felt a little sick and a little sad.

  “Can we practice my routine some more?” I asked, wiping my nose.

  “Would that make you feel better?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I think so,” I said.

  Tío Billy smiled a little and clapped me on the shoulder. “Then put your heels on, girl. We’ve got work to do.”

  Later that night, as I was winding down for bed, I heard my phone vibrate. When I saw that Chris wanted to chat, I felt sick to my stomach. What if he flips out at me for being a freak? I wondered, my hands shaky as I swiped into my phone. What if he’s just like Nelson, after all? Swallowing my nerves, I opened the chat.

  ReadMe App

  JAN. 7—9:02 PM

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Hey!

  mathletesmartin: Hi

  NotJPTheOtherOne: I am so, so sorry for bailing on you today.

  mathletesmartin: It’s okay. You were surprised.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: You have no idea. I can’t believe my sister ended up in the hospital.

  mathletesmartin: Wait, what?!

  mathletesmartin: The hospital?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Oh, man, I guess I didn’t really explain

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Soooo, yeah. I was supposed to be watching the girls, but. . .

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Well, I really wanted to hang out with you! and J.P. was there, so I thought it would be okay.

  mathletesmartin: And it wasn’t?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: I guess I was gone just long enough for Grace-Elizabeth to jump off the couch and break her arm.

  mathletesmartin: Whoa! Is she okay?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: See for yourself

  CHRISTOPHER-JACK CREGG (NotJPTheOtherOne) has added an image to the chat: IMG01071801.jpg

  mathletesmartin: Oh man, that looks bad

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Yeah, apparently it was pretty gruesome. Sara-Rose yelled for J.P., and he got our neighbor to drive them to the emergency room. My mom met them at the hospital, but she was really mad.

  mathletesmartin: I bet

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry for ditching you like that. It was my bad for leaving my siblings with J.P. in the first place. I didn’t mean to be a jerk.

  mathletesmartin: You weren’t! I mean, it’s fine! I’m glad your sister is okay.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Maybe we can hang out again soon?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Outside of school, I mean

  NotJPTheOtherOne: And preferably when I’m not supposed to be babysitting . . .

  mathletesmartin: Yeah, that’d be great!

  NotJPTheOtherOne: I know Mathletes is heating up, but it would be cool to have a break from all that, you know?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Though I bet you’re looking forward to Regionals more than anybody

&n
bsp; mathletesmartin: I guess so

  NotJPTheOtherOne: What’s wrong?

  mathletesmartin: What do you mean?

  NotJPTheOtherOne: You just don’t seem very excited. Regionals was all you could talk about last year!

  mathletesmartin: It’s just kind of complicated for me this year, is all.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Oh. Well, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.

  mathletesmartin: No, it’s not like that . . . I’m worried because I’m not sure I’ll make it to Regionals this year.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: WHAT?!

  mathletesmartin: Yeah, I’ve sort of got a conflict.

  mathletesmartin: A . . . personal thing.

  mathletesmartin: I have a plan and everything, but there’s still a chance I won’t make it to Baker’s Lake in time.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: But we have to have you there!

  mathletesmartin: You don’t, though! You’re all so good.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: No way! You’re the captain! We need you!

  mathletesmartin: I don’t know. It might not happen. I want to be there super bad! But. . .

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Oh man. Martin, I don’t know what’s going on that would keep you from Regionals, and I guess I don’t really need to know, but seriously. We can’t do this without you.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: You’ve kept us together all year!

  NotJPTheOtherOne: And we’ve never been better, or quicker.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: The team just wouldn’t be the same without you.

  mathletesmartin: That’s really nice, but you can win without me.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: But I don’t want to.

  mathletesmartin: Oh

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Yeah! So you have to make it.

  mathletesmartin: I’ll try, really hard.

  NotJPTheOtherOne: Promise?

  mathletesmartin: I promise.

  Chris and I chatted a little more before we both logged off, but I don’t think I processed a word. He didn’t have anything against drag queens at all I—had just convinced myself he did. My secret was safe, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him saying he didn’t want to win without me. I felt like the wings of all those butterflies in my stomach were lifting me up, up, and far away.

  Maybe it was the butterfly wings that carried me over to my closet. I opened the doors to look at Lottie’s outfit. I reached out and touched the beautiful dress, the beads glittering beneath my fingertips, and the jacket covered in jewels so bright they reminded me of candy. I took them out and laid them on my bed, then found my shoes and my wig and the makeup Mom lent me. Carefully, I undressed and slipped the heavy gown over my head, struggling to zip up the back. The jacket hung off my slender shoulders, effortlessly chic. I sat on my bed and used the mirror inside a blush compact to stumble through the makeup routine Tío Billy and Uncle Isaiah had taught me, paying extra attention to my eyes. I drew myself a big red mouth to finish, smacking my lips together in the mirror like I’d seen Mom do a million times.

  When my makeup was finished and I had situated my wig over the wig cap as best I could, I realized this was the first time I would see myself in full drag. I took a deep breath and hopped off my bed, standing with my back to the long hanging mirror mounted on my bedroom door. When you turn around, you’re going to see Lottie León, not Martin McLean. This is it.

  Slowly, I turned. When I opened my eyes, my stomach dropped to my toes. I didn’t recognize the person in front of me. She was tall and leggy, with deep set eyes and full lips and a beauty mark on her cheek.

  When I moved my arm, so did Lottie. When I smiled, wide and uncontrollable, so did she. The person in the mirror sparkled. Her posture was perfect and her hands were graceful. She looked totally at ease. She was beautiful. She was confident.

  And she was me.

  ReadMe App

  JAN. 27—11:11 AM

  LadyOfTheStage: Good morning, beautiful!

  mathletesmartin: Yeeeees?

  LadyOfTheStage: Today’s the day! The sun is shining! The birds are singing!

  PicknLittle: The drag queens are primping!

  LadyOfTheStage: Pickle!

  mathletesmartin: Well, he’s not wrong

  vividviolet: Ooh, you’re already getting ready? I want to see! Send pictures!

  mathletesmartin: No way! I haven’t even left yet.

  PicknLittle: Yeah, a lady never sends selfies too early, or too late. She sends selfies precisely when she means to.

  LadyOfTheStage: Kim Kardashian?

  PicknLittle: A paraphrased Gandalf the Grey.

  LadyOfTheStage: Of course

  vividviolet: Fiiiiine. Martin, you should rest easy knowing everything re: Operation Calcu-Yaaas is under control!

  PicknLittle: We’re very well prepared.

  LadyOfTheStage: I’m so excited for you! You’re going to kick butt.

  LadyOfTheStage: Or, Lottie’s going to kick butt

  LadyOfTheStage: You both are

  LadyOfTheStage: Jeez, what’s the appropriate way to say that?

  mathletesmartin: Um, either. I guess I’m me when I’m offstage, but I’m Lottie when I’m onstage. Does that make sense?

  vividviolet: Ugh, I so wish we could be there! Take SO many pictures.

  LadyOfTheStage: Oh, drat, I have to go. Gotta take Woofecito out. I forgot to earlier and now he’s doing a tap dance by the door.

  PicknLittle: Tap dance, you say? Sounds like a talented pup. Maybe he wants to sign up for a certain All-Ages Night, give Martin a little run for his money?

  LadyOfTheStage: Hardee-har

  mathletesmartin: Don’t joke. Woofecito could easily take me down.

  vividviolet: All right, all right, let’s leave Martin alone to get ready. Beauty takes time!

  PicknLittle: Not for you.

  LadyOfTheStage: GAG ME. (I still love you, Vi.)

  vividviolet: (Love you too!)

  mathletesmartin: And on that note. . .

  12

  I spent the morning of the competitions trying to keep my breakfast down. I was nauseated and shaking and felt like I might vibrate right out of my body. Mom told me to stop pacing the living room, but I couldn’t help it. I knew if I could just get to the show, I could make it through the rest of the day somehow.

  Tío Billy told me it was customary for the queens to get ready at “the gig,” so at 3:30 (finally!) we piled into the car with all of Lottie’s clothes and makeup stuffed into shopping bags. I packed my Mathletes uniform in my backpack and stashed it in the passenger seat.

  When we pulled up to Hoosier Mama, the old Victorian house seemed to loom over me, as if, at any moment, it would bend down and ask what I thought I was doing there.

  “Hey, it’s Lottie León, queen of the jungle!”

  Dorie appeared as I hopped out of the car, swooping me up into one of her big hugs. Dorie reminded me of a kindly lady hobbit, because she always smelled like warm bread with butter, or caramel rolls, or other yummy things.

  “Dorie, lions live in the savannah,” I said as we pulled apart.

  “I know, I know. But ‘jungle’ sounds so much cooler, am I right?” She laughed and turned her attention to Mom. “Gena, yeah? I’m Dorie.”

  “Yes, hi,” Mom said, lowering one of our bags to the ground, “Billy has told me so much about you!”

  “I could say the same,” Dorie said, shaking her hand. “And I have to tell you, you’re just as beautiful as he described.” Mom blushed the color of apricots. I can’t even remember the last time I saw Mom blush.

  “Thank you!” Mom said, smiling wide. “You are too sweet! Martin, we better get you inside.”

  “Of course,” Dorie said. “Let me show you where the staging area is.”

  We lugged all our bags behind us as we followed Dorie through the accessible side entrance and took the elevator downstairs to a room behind the stage.

  “This is the green room,” Dorie said cheerfully. Then she leaned in close to me and whispered, “It’s not
actually green. Don’t tell!”

  She swung open the door, and Mom started coughing because the air was so thick with hairspray. I looked around and counted six queens already seated at stations along a mirrored wall, with only a few empty spaces remaining.

  “You can set up here,” Dorie said, gesturing to a space between two performers who were already well into their makeup routines. “And just holler if you need anything!” She kissed Tío Billy on the cheek and disappeared.

  Mom leapt into action, unpacking my wig and setting it up on a Styrofoam head she got at the beauty supply store. Tío Billy gestured to the chair.

  “Okay, león,” he said as I took a seat. He knelt to my level and lowered his voice, as though we were discussing strategy for a high-stakes mission. And I guess in a way, we were. “You want me to do your makeup, or can you handle it?”

  “Um, could you do it?” I asked, looking around the room at the other queens. “I just want to look perfect, and . . .” I held up my hands for him to see. They were shaking like maracas.

  “Of course,” he said, without skipping a beat. “Let’s get to it.”

  As he helped me wrangle on a wig cap, I watched the queens next to me in the mirror. To my left, a teenager, maybe eighteen, was carefully swiping on a glittery green eyeshadow with the side of his pinky finger. He had gorgeous, sculpted cheekbones and a stuck-up look about him, as though he were on his way to tea with the Queen of England or something. His eyes shifted to the side, catching me staring. I jumped in my seat. He glared, so I quickly swiveled my gaze to my right, where a heavyset man in his mid-thirties (I think?) was doing something weird to his eyebrows.

  The man was combing his eyebrows upward with a little brush and slathering Elmer’s Glue over them straight from the twist-up stick, like his face was an arts and crafts project. Then he layered on an orange-colored concealer, plus foundation and powder, over the area he had just glued down. In a matter of minutes, it was as though he had never had eyebrows at all.