Martin McLean, Middle School Queen

by Alyssa Zaczek

For a split second, my stomach sank. I didn’t win, I realized, a dull roar rushing in my ears. I got third. Then the world came back into focus, and people were cheering, and Dorie was hugging me tight.

  “You were wonderful, sugar,” she whispered in my ear, pressing her soft face against mine. She placed a red sash over my head and handed me a little tiara encrusted with crystals and ruby red jewels. “Be proud!”

  “GO LOTTIE!” Pickle yelled from atop his chair.

  “THAT’S OUR CAPTAIN!” Poppy called out.

  “THAT’S MY BABY!” Mom cried in response, eliciting warm laughter and even more applause.

  “Take a bow, león!” Tío Billy shouted. Dorie stepped aside and gestured to me with a smile. I stepped forward and bowed, then raised my tiara in the air and whooped for joy, loud as any lion on the plains.

  Aida Lott won first place.

  As soon as she came offstage, covered in confetti and wearing her massive crown, I ran over to her.

  “Congratulations!” I said, throwing my arms around her waist. “You deserve it.”

  “I don’t know, Miss León, you gave me a run for my money!” she said, pulling away gently to smile at my sash. “I think next time you’re going to be the one to beat. You should be very happy with that performance, chickadee.” I beamed back up at her.

  “I am.” I really am.

  It didn’t matter that I didn’t take first, I realized. It didn’t matter at all. What mattered was that when I was onstage, I didn’t worry about anything. I didn’t worry about saying the wrong thing or about what Dad would have said or about bullies like Nelson.

  Instead, I just basked in being me: Martin McLean, middle school queen, and Martin McLean, champion Mathletes captain. I didn’t need anyone’s approval—I could be anyone I wanted to be.

  And that was worth way more than a crown.

  “C’mon,” Aida said, taking my hand. “Let’s get out of these get-ups so you can go greet your adoring fans!”

  After I changed into my street clothes and removed as much of the makeup as I could, I ducked out into the slowly dissipating audience—and ran smack-dab into Carmen.

  “MARTIN!” she shrieked, tackling me. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen! Are you just dying? Were you nervous? Was it fun? Do your feet hurt? Are those lights as bright as they seem?”

  “Give the guy a chance to breathe, Carmen!” Pickle said, sidling up with Violet. “That, my friend, was pretty hardcore. Now, if you had taken home the thousand bucks, well—”

  “Peter!” Violet scolded. Pickle gave a sheepish grin.

  “What I mean to say is . . . you’re awesome, dude.”

  “Love you too, Pickle,” I said.

  Violet smiled sweetly at me. “Martin, you’re so talented! I had no idea you could dance.”

  “Neither did I,” I admitted.

  “Maybe you could give Peter a few lessons,” she said, leaning her head against Pickle’s arm.

  He pretended to scowl. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Ooh!” Carmen exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. “There’s Aida Lott! I’m going to go say hi. I want to know all about her artistic process.”

  She glided toward the back of the room, where the Mathletes were gathered around Aida, Dorie, and a few of the queens who hadn’t made it past the first round. Poppy and Mariam were deep in animated conversation with Aida when Carmen butted in.

  “I’m Carmen Miranda, yes, like the fruit lady,” she said by way of introduction. Nearby, Mr. Peterson, having been cornered by the busty redheaded queen who came in second, was visibly sweating and turning the color of a fire hydrant. Even J.P. and Nelson were politely, if nervously, talking to Anita Paycheck, who seemed to have mellowed somewhat since her defeat.

  Chris appeared on the edge of the group. Finally seeing him in the light, my butterflies started up again. He waved me over with a freckled hand. Suddenly shy, I made my way to him. Play it cool, Martin, I thought. It’s no big deal. Nope, no big deal at all. Definitely not a big deal that Chris just saw you in drag for the first time ever. This is all totally normal and fine.

  “Hey! So, um . . . you survived the car ride with my uncle!” I mentally cringed. So much for playing it cool. “I, uh, hope he didn’t do anything too embarrassing.”

  “No, he was great!” Chris said. “We talked about ceramics and art and stuff. And even J.P. agreed he has great taste in music.”

  “He’s pretty cool,” I agreed.

  “Definitely,” Chris said. An uncomfortable silence settled between us. Chris turned slightly pink. “So, um . . .”

  “Yeah,” I said, and then it was my turn to blush. “So . . . I, um . . . I do drag.”

  “I got that,” he laughed. “You’re really good!”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah!” he said. “I mean, I don’t know much about drag, but as far as I’m concerned, you were robbed.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a small smile. Then I cleared my throat. “Listen, I know I should have told you. We’re, like, friends, and stuff, or at least I think we are, and I should have been honest.” I looked up at him and held his gaze. “I was just super afraid that you’d think I was weird for doing it, and . . . I didn’t want to lose you.”

  “Lose me?” He wrinkled his nose, then started to laugh. “Martin, no, no way.” He reached out and touched my shoulders with his warm, strong hands. “I . . . like you a lot. I want to keep hanging out with you, because . . . you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he said. “Hey, I was thinking. What would you say to video games at my place this weekend?”

  “It’s a date!” Then I panicked, realizing what I had said. “I mean—”

  “It’s a date,” Chris repeated, his blue eyes sparkling.

  And the butterflies shimmied for joy.

  I heard a screech from behind me, and suddenly Mom swept in between us. “Mijo!” she cried, throwing her arms out to hug me tight. “Oh, baby, you were wonderful!”

  “Mom—I—thanks—I’m—I can’t breathe!” I said into her shoulder. She reluctantly let me go, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “Couldn’t have done it better myself, león,” Tío Billy said, his eyes misty. He cleared his throat and threw me our secret handshake.

  “You should be very, very proud of yourself,” Mom sniffled when we were done.

  “She’s right,” Tío Billy said. “How do you feel?”

  How do I feel? I felt like fireworks and snowball fights and the perfect shade of lipstick. I felt like a million solar systems bursting brightly into existence, lighting up the furthest reaches of the universe. I felt incandescent.

  “Fierce,” I said finally, smiling. “I feel fierce.”

  Above Hoosier Mama, the evening sky glittered like Lottie’s gown. After the show, all of us headed out to the parking lot together, drag queens and middle schoolers and grown-ups alike. I took a deep breath of cool night air and closed my eyes.

  Somewhere out there is a universe where things are different, I thought. In that universe, Lottie didn’t exist. In that universe, Dad had stayed, and Mom never had Tío Billy come to visit. In that universe, I never found my voice.

  Maybe I would have liked it there, in that universe. But I would never know for sure—and that was just fine by me. For the first time, I wanted to stay in my universe: a universe full of glitter and laughter and love. A universe where I could be me, quiet or loud or somewhere in between.

  As we approached the bus, I caught a glimpse of myself in the window, illuminated by moonlight. Carmen and Pickle appeared next to me, then Mom and Tío Billy. In the constellation we formed, Lottie and my family and me, I saw myself, exactly as I wanted to be.

  “So, león, what do you think?” Tío Billy asked, turning to me. “You up for another All-Ages Night/Regionals double-header again next year?”

  “Are you kidding?” I smiled. “I could do it backward. And in heels
.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Whenever I’ve been asked “How’s book stuff?” in the roughly two-and-a-half years between sitting down to write Martin and the first copies hitting shelves, I’ve responded with slightly manic laughter.

  It’s the laugh of someone who is 100 percent certain that, any moment now, someone will sneak up behind her, pull off her trench coat, and reveal the roughly seven raccoons playing at authorhood beneath. It’s the laugh of someone who literally cannot believe what’s happening to her.

  How did I get this lucky? It’s completely ludicrous! I’m laughing in disbelief as I write this! I’ve won the great Word Nerd Lottery! Ha-ha!

  Utter incredulity aside: Just as Martin relied on his friends, family, and team to help him on the way to his dream, I am ridiculously privileged to have been supported by some of the best humans on the planet. Here come the thank-yous:

  First and foremost, to my brilliant agent, Jessica Mileo. You changed the course of my life forever with your vision and stalwart support. I could not have asked for a better champion for this book. Thank you for taking a chance on me; you are a wish upon a shooting star come true.

  To my intrepid editor, Rachael Stein. This book is immeasurably better because of your masterful guidance. Thank you for imagining a world with Martin in it, for being my conscience whenever I considered adding another em dash, and for calling me out on just how often I use the word “just.”

  To the Sterling team, including but not limited to: Theresa Thompson, Hannah Reich, Irene Vandervoort, Lauren Tambini, Blanca Oliviery, Maha Khalil, Chris Vaccari, and Kerry Henderson, as well as freelancers Gina Horowitz and Kimberly Broderick.

  To Risa Rodil, Martin’s fabulous cover artist. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for any one person to be that talented, but don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.

  To Anthony LaSasso, publicist and friend. Thank you for holding my hand through my brave new world of author events and for laughing at my bad jokes.

  To Silvia Mileo, for giving authenticity to Martin’s, Gena’s, and Billy’s voices. You went above and beyond the call of Literary Agent Mom Duty—eres increíble, Silvia; muchas gracias.

  To Verenice Romero Ponce for your knowledge of the Spanish language and all things Celia Cruz.

  To Will Harrell, a.k.a. Candy Samples, the very first drag queen to read this book. Thank you for honoring me with your time and expertise!

  To Melissa Francis, Lara Ameen, Melissa Blake, and Lili Hadsell for lending their expert perspectives to this book. Your firsthand knowledge helped to better the representation in Martin, and I could not be more grateful.

  To the LGBTQIA+ community at large, and to drag performers the world over. This book is a love letter to you, your immense strength, your wondrously made hearts, your vital stories. Simply by living your truth, you inspire me to do the same. I am humbled to stand with you.

  To all the superb teachers who helped shape me along the way, but especially: Mary Ann Laurencell, Joyce Staniszewski, Kathy Hagedorn, Denise Garvey, Carrie Hallman, Leah Coleman, George Fear, Ralph Crecco, Dan Sackett, and Geoff Eppterson.

  To Emily Monaco and Amelia-Rose Rubin, the most sensational squad. Thank you for always encouraging me to #ResistTheLizard.

  To Michael Fraser, because you asked, and to Margie Fraser, because you didn’t.

  To Pip and Penelope, the coolest cats around.

  To Jenny Berg, who supported Martin from the very beginning. When I was in the trenches of this book, you were there next to me, cheering me on with your friendship and hilarity (and sometimes wine). Thank you for all of that (but especially the wine).

  To Nick, Jake, Cali, and Olivia. I am so proud to be your cousin, and prouder still of who you’ve all grown up to be. (Your parents are pretty cool too.)

  To Papa, who once changed my world by gently suggesting that I didn’t have to be good at everything. I wish you could have seen this.

  To my grandmother, Alice Zaczek, a lifelong inspiration to me. Thank you for all the stories, for all the sleepovers, and for all the waffles.

  To Erik Zaczek, my “little” brother who has grown into a giant of a man, both in stature and character. I am so proud of you, small orange one. It is an immense privilege to be your big sister and friend.

  To my mother, Elizabeth Zaczek, a force of nature. Thank you for always insisting I should be writing, even when I swore those days were over. You fought to give me all the happiness the world could offer, and if I could buy you a lifetime supply of fuzzy socks and Chardonnay as recompense, I would, but instead I have only this: Mom, I’m happy. Thank you for everything.

  To my father, Robert Zaczek, my hero. The profound gratitude I feel to be your daughter is beyond language itself. I am who I am because of you. Thank you for giving me your sense of humor, your keen mind, your loving heart. I hope your Peanut has made you proud.

  To Andrew Fraser, without whom this book would not exist. In loving me, you changed my life. Your stubborn insistence that I could do this—despite all my equally stubborn protestations to the contrary—gave me the confidence to begin. I hope you know how much I appreciate all you do to keep our life together while I figure out how to be a Grown-Up Author Person. I love you most. (It’s in a book now; that means it’s true—I don’t make the rules!)

  And finally, to all the young readers who pick up this book and find comfort or laughter within its pages. Books belong to their readers, and Martin is and has always been for you. No matter who you are or what your story is, you are capable of marvelous things. You are all the reigning queens of my heart. Sparkle on!