Martin McLean, Middle School Queen

by Alyssa Zaczek

  “Thank you,” I said. “Um. My name is Martin McLean, and I’m the captain of the Meadow Crest Junior Mathletes team.” I looked over to the team, who nodded encouragingly. I took a shaky breath and continued.

  “I would really like to give a speech, especially because I’ve been dreaming about this moment for . . . well, basically for my entire life,” I said. “But—”

  I looked out into the audience, and saw Mom running up the aisle as Tío Billy waved his hands over his head.

  “YOU: ROUND TWO,” he mouthed, holding two fingers up in the air. “GOTTA GO.” He pantomimed running and cocked his head violently toward the door. Next to him, Pickle and Carmen hopped up and down frantically.

  “But I have to go?” I asked, into the microphone. There were gasps from behind me and murmurs in the crowd. Out in the audience, Tío Billy nodded. Oh my God. I made it to the next round!

  “But I have to go!” I yelped. “Oh, man, I’m—I’m really sorry. I have to go. Sorry! Thank you! But, yeah, gotta go. Bye. Sorry! Bye!”

  I stepped back from the microphone to a smattering of applause. The team swarmed around me, shouting questions, but I pushed through the throng with the trophy and ran off the stage into the audience.

  “Wait, Martin!” Mr. Peterson was following me, with the rest of the team trailing close behind. “What’s the matter? You can’t go; we have to celebrate!”

  “I want to stay, I really do,” I said, handing the trophy back to him. “But there’s somewhere I have to be.”

  “Where?” Poppy demanded.

  “It’s another competition,” I said.

  “Another one?” Konrad exclaimed.

  “The same one,” I stuttered. “I mean, the one I was at before. The drag show. It’s a competition, and I made it to the final round, but it’s happening, like, now.”

  I turned to see Mom and Tío Billy flying down the aisle toward us, flanked by Pickle, Carmen, and Violet.

  “León, we have to hustle,” Tío Billy said, waving me toward the door. “Dorie texted; she put you at the very end of the lineup, but we’re never going to make it unless we leave”—he checked the time on his phone—“Five minutes ago!”

  “But my makeup!”

  “You’re just going to have to go on without it,” he said. “I can’t get you made up in that car, not with the way your mother drives.”

  “Then I’ll lose for sure!” I wailed. “I might as well not even show up!”

  “That’s not true!” Carmen said. “You have to go, Martin, you’ve worked so hard.”

  “She’s right, mijo,” Mom said. “I didn’t raise you to give up!”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. A powerful lump was forming in my throat. “I can’t. This . . . this was supposed to be Lottie’s big performance. It has to be perfect. Without her makeup . . .” I hung my head, tears pricking in my eyes. It’s over.

  “Wait!” Chris stepped forward, a gleam in his blue eyes. “We can help.”

  “What?”

  “The team! We can help you get ready,” he said. “We’ll take the Mathletes bus. It’s the perfect mobile get-ready station. And Mr. Peterson’s the smoothest driver around!”

  Mr. Peterson straightened the hem of his sweater bashfully, going pink beneath the collar.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cregg,” he said. “I’d be happy to help, but only if everyone’s folks are okay with a little detour.”

  “Oh, I am all over it,” Mariam said, whipping out her phone to start texting the team phone tree and notify everyone’s parents.

  “This is perfect!” Carmen exclaimed, whirling around to face me. “Your tío Billy and your Mom can go ahead of us in her car. That way if they beat us there, they can make sure Dorie holds the show for you!”

  “Ay, no way, I’m too nervous to drive! I’ll go in the bus with you and help with makeup. I know a thing or two about painting,” Mom said. She tossed Tío Billy her keys.

  “Anybody else want to ride ahead?” he asked.

  “We’ll go,” Chris said, grabbing J.P. by the arm.

  “Hey!” J.P. protested.

  “Somebody should be there to save seats for the team so we can support Martin,” Chris said pointedly. “It’s the least we can do.”

  “You guys,” I said, looking around at the group. Tears of gratitude sprung to my eyes. “I . . . I can’t believe you’d do this for me.”

  “Of course!” Poppy exclaimed. “You think we’d let our team captain down?”

  “You showed up for us,” Chris said earnestly. “Now we can do the same for you.”

  “You can’t do this!” Nelson said. “That bus is my ride back to Bloomington!”

  “Tough,” Poppy said, sticking out her tongue. “Call a cab if you don’t like it. I’m sure your mommy and daddy will pay for it.” Nelson grit his teeth.

  “I maxed out my allowance for the month already, Poppy,” he hissed. “You know that.”

  “Then it looks like you’re stuck with us!” Chris said with a chipper grin.

  “Well, Martin? Shall we get this show on the road?” Mr. Peterson asked.

  I looked to Tío Billy, sure he’d tell me it was too late, we wasted too much time, kiss my drag queen dreams goodbye. But instead he hooted, and threw his hands up in the air.

  “Ay, middle-schoolers!” he laughed. “I never know what to expect. Okay, then! Vámonos!”

  “Let’s move, people!” Pickle crowed. “We’ve got a queen to crown!”

  14

  I might be the first drag queen in history to have been on the receiving end of a false lash application while traveling at 70 miles per hour down the Interstate.

  As we squealed out of the parking lot, a makeup wipe hit me in the face with a THWAP!

  “Hold still!” Carmen scolded, wiping my face ferociously as she pinned me into my seat.

  “I’m trying!” I coughed. “You’re getting it in my mouth!”

  “Well, that has to be clean, too, so buck up!”

  “Martin, where’s your dress?” Mariam yelled from the back. “We should get you in it before they do your makeup! Poppy, do you want me to tuck some napkins into his collar, just in case?”

  “Just in case?” Poppy protested, rifling through Tío Billy’s cosmetics bag. “I once completed a self-portrait using nothing but an eyebrow pencil and my wits. I’ll have you know I am extremely careful!”

  “You’re going to be doing liquid eyeliner in a moving vehicle,” Mariam replied. “Most professionals can’t even do that!”

  “She’s right,” Mom said to Poppy. “We need all the precautions we can get. The dress and jacket are in this garment bag,” she instructed Mariam, handing it over by its hanger. “Shoes and wig are in these boxes. Wig comb is in the little pocket in my purse.”

  “Uh, Ms. Perez?” Konrad asked, huddled over the backpack with Mariam. “How do I work these?” He held up a pair of sheer pantyhose, tangled into a ball. In the corner of the back seat, Nelson turned red and looked away.

  “They’re for under the dress,” Mariam laughed, snatching them out of his hands and passing them to Violet, whose chair had been secured in place with a series of safety belts. “Let a professional deal with those.”

  “On it!” Violet said, getting to work. “Martin, are you sure you don’t want to switch your look up? Maybe go for some purple lips? Or, ooh, purple glitter!”

  “But who could wear purple as well as you, my darling?” Pickle asked, spinning my wig on one finger.

  “Aw, you’re sweet!” Violet beamed.

  “Ay, stop that!” Mom cried, wagging a finger at Pickle, who went a little pale. “Give me a minute and I’ll help you with the comb. No twirling!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Poppy? His face is clean,” Carmen said. “Let’s do this.”

  “Okay, ladies, here’s what we’re going for,” Mom said, pulling up the reference photo Tío Billy had texted her. “Just ask if you need my help. Pickle?” she asked, turning
to him. “Let’s start on the wig.”

  “Martin, close your eyes,” Poppy demanded, brandishing a foundation sponge like a scalpel.

  “Wait, the dress!” Mariam wailed. “Arms over your head, Martin, now!”

  I was plunged into Lottie’s gown, beads smacking me in the face and arms as I went. No sooner was I zipped in than Poppy attacked me with her sponge, dabbing on primer, foundation, and concealer. This is unbelievable, I thought, as Violet lifted one of my feet to start rolling on my pantyhose. Unbelievable and totally amazing.

  “Stop smiling!” Poppy protested. “You’ll make your under-eyes crease!”

  “Time check?” Carmen hollered. “What’s our ETA?”

  “Ten minutes!” Mom replied.

  “Make that eight,” Mr. Peterson added, stepping on the gas.

  “Just got a text from Chris!” Pickle called.

  “And?” I asked, as Poppy combed through my eyebrows. Chris, J.P., and Tío Billy had taken off for Hoosier Mama while we were still loading up the bus.

  “He says they’re almost there,” Pickle replied, “and they’re prepared to throw elbows if the need arises.”

  “He did not actually say that, Peter,” Violet scolded.

  “Well, okay. But he should be prepared to knock someone into the Forgotten Realms if they get in Martin’s way, is all I’m saying.”

  A nervous thrill ran through me. In a matter of minutes, Chris would see me in full drag as Lottie. What would he think? What would he say? It was one thing to know that I’m a drag queen—and another to actually see it. But there was no time dwell on it—we were hurtling toward my future in a bus emblazoned with algebraic equations, and there was no turning back.

  “Hand me the eye shadow palette.”

  “Got it!” Carmen passed the palette over to Poppy with a nervous giggle.

  “Great, get the lash glue going. Martin, are you very attached to your eyelashes?”

  “Who needs ’em?” I replied cheerfully.

  “That’s what I like to hear. Aaand, here we go!”

  The bus came flying to a screeching halt in the Hoosier Mama parking lot. The second we were stationary, Mom rushed over to me. With the team gathered around us, she surveyed Lottie’s final look.

  “Lashes on, hair laid, dress zipped . . .” She smiled wide and handed me her compact mirror. “It’s all perfect, baby!”

  I examined my face anxiously, trying to ferret out any imperfections that could lead to drag disaster. For a face done by a bunch of middle schoolers in the back of a moving bus, this is pretty incredible, I thought, brushing a curl off my forehead. But something’s missing . . .

  “It’s almost perfect,” I said. “But . . . Poppy, could you hand me the brown eyeliner?” Poppy whipped out the eyeliner and handed it to me dutifully. Taking the pencil from her, I carefully dotted my cheek just once. “Can’t forget my beauty mark,” I said, checking my work in the mirror. “Cassie Blanca would insist, and so do I.”

  I closed the compact and looked up to see Mom fighting back tears.

  “You look beautiful, mijo,” she said proudly. “But you have to go! You’re on any second!”

  The group parted to let me through as I made my way to the front of the bus. Mr. Peterson flung the door open, but I couldn’t move. I spun around and faced the group.

  “You guys,” I began. “I don’t know how to thank you—”

  “GO!” Everyone hollered.

  So I hurried off the bus with the team hot on my heels, up Hoosier Mama’s porch and through the front door. The coffee shop was deserted; everyone was in the basement for the show. I ran downstairs and tried to keep my thoughts from racing too: Stay calm. Remember what Tío Billy said: there’s more of you in Lottie than the other way around. You can do this.

  Halfway down the stairs, I saw the crowd of people packed into the basement studio like beef in a pastelito. Dorie’s voice echoed over the speakers.

  “Next up is our pint-size prima donna, our middle school queen. At just twelve years old, she is . . . Lottie León!”

  “Yo Viviré” began pouring out of the sound system. The lights came up on stage, but I wasn’t there. I was at the bottom of the stairs, trying to figure out how I was going to make my way through the throng, until—I saw Chris holding back the crowd on one side, J.P. pushing people back on the other.

  “Come on, Martin!” Chris called over his shoulder at me. “You’re on!”

  I closed my eyes and took a breath. I was going onstage alone, but not by myself.

  A path was cleared, my song was playing, and there was only one thing left to do. I ran up the center aisle, already mouthing the words. Bom bom bom-bom! went the music as I leapt onstage. I raised my hands up over my head, my back to the audience, and cascaded them down in a rain of spirit fingers, just like Tío Billy taught me. Then, with a flourish and a shimmy, I turned to face the crowd.

  Einstein gave the world a very important theory: the theory of relativity. He imagined the fabric of space and time bending—time literally being slowed—as it flowed around objects with a strong gravity field. It means that time moves like molasses around the largest stars, the densest planets.

  And in the moment my friends saw me on stage, glittering under the lights, performing in full drag, time stopped around me. I was a star, with my own field of gravity.

  The split-second of silence seemed to last forever, then: The cheer that rose up was deafening. The team was up on their feet, shouting and whistling and clapping. If there was any nervousness left in my body, it vanished when I saw them. I couldn’t make out faces, but I knew they were there. Mom and Tío Billy were there too, Mom’s wolf-like whooping piercing through the music and applause.

  It was as if the choreography had been woven into my muscles: Side cross step! Side cross step! Shimmy down, shimmy back. My brain was barely part of the equation; my hips and hands seemed to move of their own accord. I was smiling as I lip-synced, which probably ruined the illusion a little, but I couldn’t help it and I didn’t care. My entire body was lit up by starlight, or pure electricity, or both.

  Reedy trumpets signaled the instrumental break. I did my spins, being careful to “spot” a place on the back wall so I didn’t get dizzy. One, two, three, four tight twirls across the full expanse of the stage! From the spins, Celia’s voice returned, and BAM! Into my cross to stage right!

  The crowd was on their feet, clapping along, reaching out their hands when I got close to them onstage. I don’t remember if I posed correctly, or got every word of the song right, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, really, except the feeling in my heart and the music in my ears. I hit my final pose, panting for breath. My face felt like it would break from smiling, like it was about to shatter into a million pieces on the floor.

  And just like that, it was over.

  The house lights rose, and I saw Pickle standing on his chair, clapping as hard as he could. Violet was whistling while Carmen bounced up and down, beaming. From the end of the row, Chris waved, the disco lights swirling like snow across his face, lighting up his freckles. I grinned and waved back.

  “That’s our girl! Lottie León, everybody!” Dorie said over the microphone. I took another bow, and another, waving to my team and Tío Billy, who was beaming, and Mom, who was crying. I could have stayed out there forever, memorizing every cheer, every face, every feeling to keep in my memory, but I had to leave the stage. Still catching my breath, I reluctantly turned and ducked into the wings.

  Backstage, Aida Lott rushed me, picking me up off the ground and spinning me around.

  “Come through, little Lottie! You killed it, girl!” she squealed, setting me back down. “And that song choice, so fierce!”

  “Thanks, Aida! You made it to the final round too?”

  Aida nodded, then leaned in close.

  “You missed it! That shady mess over there?” She cocked her head toward the stage door, where Anita Paycheck sat perched on a stool, pouting. “Kitty gi
rl choked. Forgot her routine halfway through Britney’s ‘Toxic.’” Aida pulled a “yikes” face. “That’s what she gets for messing with Miss Lottie León’s big debut, am I right?” She nudged me with her elbow and giggled.

  After a few minutes of anxious waiting backstage, Dorie’s voice once again rang out over the sound system.

  “Weren’t all our queens fabulous?” Dorie asked, to many cheers. “Now it’s time to welcome them back to the stage for our awards ceremony.” A hush began to fall over the crowd. “I repeat, all queens back on stage for the awards ceremony.”

  I sucked in my breath. This is it! Aida took my hand excitedly and guided me back on stage. She and I took our places next to three other queens, including Anita. Dorie put on suspenseful music and then made her way onstage, mic in one hand and a slip of paper in the other.

  “The time has come,” she said, tossing her locs over one shoulder and wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “These five fabulous queens have worked and twerked for the gods, and your response has helped decide who will take home the crown.”

  I was so nervous, I could feel my teeth vibrating. Tha-RUMP tha-RUMP tha-RUMP went my heart, pounding so hard it hurt. Aida Lott squeezed my sweaty hand tight. “In fifth place . . . Anita Paycheck!”

  Anita sulked forward, met with lukewarm applause. Even though she had been shady—and downright mean—during the competition, I felt a little sorry for Anita. I can’t blame her for being disappointed, I thought. Who would be happy to come in last?

  Anita shook Dorie’s hand and exited, shooting daggers with her eyes at those of us left on stage. Dorie cleared her throat.

  Tha-RUMP tha-RUMP tha-RUMP.

  “In fourth place . . . Miss Pennie Dreadfulle!”

  An Asian queen with short-cropped raven hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and scarlet lipstick bounded forward, took a big bow, then sashayed offstage. In the audience, I saw Mom mouth “TOP. THREE!” I couldn’t breathe.

  Tha-RUMP tha-RUMP tha-RUMP

  “In third place . . .”

  Please not me please not me please not me please not me—

  “. . . Lottie León!”