A Very, Very Bad Thing

by Jeffery Self

  We spent most of our time dwelling in the nothingness our town had to offer. The afternoon I’m going to focus on here was like pretty much any other day of our summer. By which I mean, the air was weighted with thick Florida humidity and snarky teenage boredom.

  “What should we do today?” I asked. We were in our favorite spot, a little group of old lawn chairs we kept on the roof of the apartment building I’d lived in my whole life. We weren’t supposed to be up there, but the landlords didn’t complain as long as my parents didn’t complain that our ceiling leaked so much we could have opened a water park and charged admission. And then I guess we could have paid to fix the ceiling ourselves.

  “Besides pathetically wait for enough time to pass until we can logically eat lunch again?” Heather asked. “What time is Seth getting out of work?”

  Seth was my boyfriend. He’d moved to town in ninth grade from Maryland, and we’d been boyfriends from the day we’d met. Seth was all sorts of out of my league, to say the least. His adorable features, perfect body, and wavy blond hair made him look like a cartoon version of an attractive teenager. Plus, he fit in. He was the “cool gay kid” at school, the gay guy everyone wants to be friends with because it gives them the latest must-have fall accessory. Oh, and also because he was genuinely nice and stuff.

  I imagined Seth as one of those annoying people who came out of the womb knowing who he was and had never doubted it since. I never saw him worry about what other people might think. But then again, I assumed I wouldn’t care that much if I’d never weighed over one hundred fifty pounds and had the kind of abs that just appear for no good reason. This fit into my theory about people with effortless abs and how they must have done something really selfless in a past life—those abs had to be God’s way of saying Psssst … Hey, you! I’m sorry. Even if this theory didn’t hold, Seth had the kind of confidence I doubted I’d ever find in myself. I suppose that was one of the many things that drew me to him. To me, the ability to be comfortable enough in your own skin—to actually like yourself—was about as foreign as understanding football.

  Being a gay kid in this decade of equality and anti-bullying and all that stuff that gay celebrities liked to talk about on TV had so many advantages, but one of the biggest disadvantages was that I couldn’t blame why I felt like an outsider on being gay anymore. Gay was in, but that didn’t mean that all gay people were. Seth was very in. I, however, suspected that I never would be.

  My mom’s voice howled from downstairs. “JT? Can you come down here?”

  She was calling from the kitchen window right below our feet. I could smell the cigarette smoke and hear the incessant yapping of Li’l Biscuit, her eight-year-old Maltese and Chihuahua mix, who hated everyone that wasn’t my mom or bacon.

  “Coming.”

  We lived on the top floor of the three-story building, which they had the audacity to call a penthouse even though it was still just a two-bedroom apartment with a kitchen the size of most refrigerators. When I got downstairs, leaving Heather to keep watch of the six-pack of Dr Pepper we’d brought up to the roof, I found Mom squeezed in the small space between the countertop and wall, fanning some freshly microwaved Bagel Bites that were bubbling like lava on a smoky paper plate.

  “I need you to work tonight,” she said. It was not phrased in the form of a question.

  She meant work at the gas station, a job I got stuck with countless times even though I rarely got paid.

  “Where’s Crystal?”

  “Her boyfriend’s in jail again, and she’s got to go to night court.”

  “But, Mom, I’m hanging out with Seth tonight. It’s his only night off all weekend—”

  “You tell your friend that you have to help your parents. That gas station is what puts food on our table, JT.”

  She spoke these words while blowing on the steaming microwaved mini-pizzas she’d purchased on clearance from the Dollar General store with absolutely zero trace of irony.

  “First of all, he’s not my friend. He’s my boyfriend. And he has been for the past three and a half years.”

  Mom sucked her cigarette and popped a Bagel Bite into her mouth before she even exhaled the cigarette smoke. I winced at the thought of the complicated taste.

  “Whatever he is, you’re canceling. I really need you tonight.”

  “Why can’t you cover for Crystal?”

  “Because your father and I work all day every day to keep a roof over your head, and we deserve some time to relax. That’s why.” She tossed the unflattering polo shirt at me. “You start at six.”

  Before I could say another word, Mom was stretched out on the sofa with the plate of Bagel Bites and a whimpering Li’l Biscuit resting on her small hill of a belly.

  Sometimes I imagined tossing the gas station uniform in the trash, walking out the door, and never coming back. It wasn’t that my parents were horrible people. They didn’t hate me, but they didn’t appear to be big fans, either. They didn’t get me, didn’t know any better. They knew only their own world, and had no intention of ever learning anything otherwise. That was the problem with home for me, the lack of otherwise.

  When I was a little kid, my grandmother, Nana, would tell me that I was born for big things. Nana was one of the biggest personalities I’d ever met. Loud, the best listener, brutally honest—plus she claimed to have psychic powers. While the only proof of this was the time she predicted my father would have the gout by the time he turned fifty, I always believed that there was something special about Nana. She had seen things, been places, accomplished stuff. And even years after Nana was gone, I still heard her voice in my head, telling me not to give up, to keep trying for something great, to find my otherwise.

  First, I had to get wise to just what that “other” might be.

  THE LATE SHIFT AT THE gas station usually meant dealing with people who were pretty drunk. The late shift at the gas station on a weekend meant dealing with people who were epically drunk. I’ve never liked drinking, but I guess that’s because my parents have always done so much of it. To me, anyone who wants to act stupid and make bad decisions should just go back to being a teenager.

  As I stared at the seemingly immobile clock, I realized I was in for a very long, trying shift. But then the bell on the front door jingled, and in walked Seth.

  “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?” he shouted. He was wearing the green tank top with the shape of California on it that I loved. Green was the perfect color on Seth.

  “What’re you doing here? You’re the first sober person I’ve seen all night. Unless, wait—are you drunk too?”

  “How dare you, JT Barnett!” Seth scoffed, playfully putting his hand to his heart. “How could you ever suggest that I, a straight-A student, an accomplished tennis and baseball player, and president of the senior class, would ever risk my perfect record for the frivolity of underage drinking!” He grinned. “Okay. A little drunk. And here to see the cutest boy in Clearwater.”

  He leaned over the counter and kissed me, almost knocking over the display of lighters shaped like guns.

  “Gee, thanks. Being the cutest boy in Clearwater is sort of like being the smartest person in, well, Clearwater.”

  “What time do you get off?”

  “Not until midnight. Ugh. One of these days I want to hit the road. Just you and me. Wake up next to each other, order room service, pretend we don’t have disgusting morning breath, and cuddle while we eat French toast and watch the third hour of the Today show. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  It also sounded like the farthest thing from a reality I’d ever know. I’d never stayed in a hotel, let alone ordered room service.

  “I come bearing gifts!” He produced a shoe box in an old plastic grocery bag. “I didn’t do so great on the wrapping front, but open it!”

  “What? Why? It’s not my birthday for two months—”

  “Just shut up and open it.”

  I pulled the shoe box out of the bag and shook it. It was way too light
to be shoes and not heavy enough to be a million dollars. Then I saw the strand of black hair hanging out of the side and knew exactly what it was.

  “Seth!”

  I opened the box, and inside was a long black wig. It wasn’t the nicest wig if you considered yourself a wig aficionado (which I did) but I counted the thought nonetheless.

  “I saw it in the window of that thrift shop downtown and immediately knew you needed to have it.”

  I pulled the wig out of the box and combed my hands through it.

  “A thrift shop wig? How punk of you.”

  Seth knew the way to my heart, which just so happened to be wigs. More than a writer or a singer, I wanted to be a drag queen—or rather a drag teen, a term I claimed to have made up (although a quick Google search would have proven otherwise). Unfortunately, following through with my dream made me sick with stage fright. I had only ever performed in drag once, and it had not gone so well.

  But even if I hadn’t yet earned my feathered wings, I was still obsessed with drag culture. I suppose it started when I was a kid and stumbled upon that old nineties movie To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar. One night when I couldn’t sleep I found it on TV and watched the whole thing, the story of three drag queens turning a town upside down by bringing boatloads of wisdom and glamour to a landlocked hamlet. I wanted to know those queens—I wanted them to show up in my town, fix all my problems, and teach me the same kind of wisdom and glamour so I could live life like they lived life.

  I confessed this desire to Heather and she very quickly introduced me to RuPaul’s Drag Race, the reality show where drag queens competed to win money and vodka. On a level that stretched from my gut to my tippy-toes, I understood there was something special about people performing in drag. These queens knew how to find the inner strands of themselves and sew those strands into something fabulous. Usually a dress. They were all so bold, so confident, so strong, so special. I was none of those things and would have settled for just one. That’s why I had initially decided to try it, step outside myself and into drag. But that had turned out to be an enormous mistake.

  Seth knew this, but still he said, “Put it on.”

  “Come on, Seth. I told you—I’m not doing it again. Not after—”

  “Oh, shut up and let’s see how it looks.”

  Seth was already putting it on my head. I pushed his hands away and took control.

  “Okay, well, if I’m going to wear it, at least let me put it on properly.” I pushed my bangs back into the netting, pulling the sides down around the corners of my head. I also kept one eye on the door, in case Drunky McNeedgasserson stumbled in and thought I was the funniest thing he’d ever set his beer goggles on. “Well, how do I look?”

  Seth cocked his head to the side and grinned.

  “I don’t think black is your color.”

  I ripped off the wig and threw it at him.

  “Hey!” I said. I was trying. “It’s not even a good wig, anyway.”

  “Kidding! I’m kidding!” he pleaded. “There’s more to the gift. That was just the first part.”

  He handed over his iPhone, which was already opened up to a website. I read the headline aloud.

  “‘The John Denton Foundation presents the Sixth Annual Miss Drag Teen Scholarship Pageant.’” I looked up. “What is this?”

  “It’s another opportunity for you to try performing in drag in a situation that isn’t some stupid school talent show.”

  I handed him back his phone, shaking my head. “You’re insane.”

  “NO! Listen! It’s a full scholarship, paid for by some big nonprofit gay charity in New York. With my help and some really hard work, I think we could make it happen.”

  He passed his phone back to me; I read on.

  “‘The pageant is seeking high school seniors in need of late-in-the-year financial support for college. Professional performance experience is in no way required. This is a scholarship not for being the greatest drag queen alive but for being the greatest you that’s hiding inside your heart. Your inner goddess. The you you’re afraid to show. The you that drag can help burst through.’”

  I passed back his phone and stared at him as if he’d just turned into a parakeet.

  “Seth. Come on. You know what happened last time I tried.”

  He ignored me and kept reading. “‘The most important thing is that you showcase YOU. Prepare a talent portion as well as write and read a personal essay on what drag means to you and how you will follow in the footsteps of award-winning playwright and novelist John Denton and his four rules to live by: finding one’s glamour, talent, heart, and soul.’” Seth looked up from his phone, his eyes wide and frustratingly beautiful. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” I asked, ready for this whole thing to be over.

  “I think you should do it. You’re always talking about how you can’t find a scholarship that’s within reach. I think this could be your perfect ticket out of here.”

  I let myself indulge the fantasy for a moment: Money for college. No more gas station. An excuse to buy more mascara. A life outside the one I was outgrowing faster and faster every day.

  It was everything I wanted.

  But then, inevitably, I felt that tug at my gut. The tug that says, “Hey, who do you think you are, Gas Station Boy?”

  “But I’m not a drag queen!” I protested. “I love drag queens, but that doesn’t mean I can do it. Just like watching the Florida Marlins all the time won’t make you a professional football player.”

  Seth pressed on. “It’s baseball—but I see your point. And I also see how wrong your point is. You are totally a drag queen—or at least have major drag queen potential. You were great when you did it in the school talent show. It’s not your fault that your audience was made of a collection of inbreds who wouldn’t know a good drag queen if she hit them over the head with a platform heel.”

  He had a point there—the audience of my school talent show had grotesquely underappreciated the art of drag the one and only time I’d tried it. The school talent show had always been a mix of everything Clearwater had to offer—from a Florida version of a Norwegian black metal band to the Peyton sisters’ attempt at making their own Cirque du Soleil out of three Hula-Hoops and a bucket of Gatorade. I figured a drag performance would fit right in. Ever since the first time I’d put on a wig in the privacy of my own bedroom, I’d felt so free and it had felt so easy. So I just thought … why not?

  Unfortunately, on the afternoon of the school talent show, I found out exactly why not.

  My doing the talent show at all was so out of character for me. I hadn’t had much experience getting up in front of strangers onstage. I hadn’t had much experience even talking to strangers, for that matter. This didn’t really hit me until about eleven minutes before I was due onstage. And when it hit me, it wore brass knuckles wrapped around an anvil. Nervous and terrified didn’t even begin to cover it as I sat there, locked in a stall in a bathroom in the backstage area of our school cafe-gym-atorium. I was desperately trying to stop myself from sweating, already feeling beads of makeup-coated perspiration running down from my wig.

  My wig, by the way, was terrible. It was a nondescript blue bob I’d bought from the clearance aisle of Kmart, two weeks after Halloween. Also, I was wearing this big, puffy dress that made me look like I was being swallowed by yellow cotton candy, or had fallen feetfirst into a freshly peed-on mound of snow. I had managed to squeeze my feet into a pair of Heather’s heels but my feet were at least three sizes too big. It had never occurred to me that walking in heels would be somehow different from the shoes I was used to wearing. Graceful has never been a word you immediately pinned to my physical prowess; a flailing, tumbling human version of Jenga was a tad closer to accuracy. The heels only served to make matters worse. I felt like I was attempting to balance all of my weight (a number that is absolutely none of your business) on two shaky pencils, while my crammed-in toes felt like they were bound together wi
th a billion of those little rubber bands they use to torture people with orthodontia.

  Needless to say, I was a wreck.

  I had looked at the running order and was counting down to my turn like a prisoner awaiting execution. I had exactly two performances until I had to walk the plank—or, rather, perform. The bathroom stall was hot, and not helping my sweaty makeup in the least, so I figured it was now or never. On top of being freaked out, I was also mad at myself for being so freaked out. I mean, sure, being a teenage boy at his school talent show in yellow taffeta could feel a bit unnerving, but it was more than that. It had felt so exciting when I’d first thought about it, the idea of stepping outside of myself into this whole other persona and having nothing to lose. But now I was betraying myself. Like I’d invested so much of my heart into it, into the idea of feeling beautiful and important and talented, that the very real and likely possibility that it would go horribly wrong was already looming over me like an avalanche of self-loathing about to crash down.

  I clicked open the bathroom stall and took my first few wobbly steps, grasping on to the automatic hand dryer for balance. It immediately, and very loudly, turned itself on, which took me by such surprise that I almost fell into the trash can.

  I checked myself in the mirror one last time. My makeup was far from perfect but I’d done the best I could. I adjusted my wig, wishing it was a nicer and more expensive, like the wigs on Drag Race. Then, like a contestant on Drag Race, I took a deep breath and opened the door to the stage. A group of sophomore girls were singing a mostly off-key rendition of an already not-so-on-key Ariana Grande song and it was going over super well, the audience cheering and whistling along. I was lost in thought, thinking about how much easier it would have been for me to do something simple, like stay home, watch House Hunters International, and not compete in the school talent show at all. Then I snapped back to my non-alternate reality and realized that everyone backstage was staring at me. They weren’t making faces, or laughing, or anything flat-out mean … but they couldn’t stop staring, blankly, the way you stare when you find something bizarre in a place you don’t expect to find something bizarre. Like when there’s a dead opossum in a pool skimmer and you just sorta stare at it for a second like, Hm, I wonder what THAT is about before getting a net and wrestling it out.