by Jeffery Self
Just as I was coming to terms with this silent humiliation, I heard the show’s host, Mrs. Patterson, the school drama teacher whose claim to fame was that she’d had two lines in an episode of the short-lived Law & Order: Key West. As she began to introduce me, I realized she couldn’t have cared less about what I, or anyone else for that matter, was going to do—she was too focused on her own role as host. I had a strong inkling that the only reason we had a school talent show at all was so Mrs. Patterson could put on a nice gown and talk on a wireless microphone for two and a half hours.
“And now … JT Barnett!”
Her voice boomed from the scratchy monitor in the wings. I walked toward the stage, and felt I was walking into the oft-discussed posthumous light. My eyes took a while to adjust from the extreme contrast between the dim backstage and the brightness onstage. I wondered, briefly, how Beyoncé pulled it off during her concerts, even managing to DANCE while stage-blind. I thought I might step off the stage any second as my blurry vision adjusted, looking much more drunk than “Drunk in Love.”
The room was mostly quiet as I made my way to center stage. There were a few murmurs and coughs, a few muffled laughs and gasps from people who acted like they’d never seen a boy in a dress before. I was trying to ignore it, telling myself to focus on the song, focus on the performance. I couldn’t see the audience at all, which was a blessing, but I wished I could at least catch a quick glimpse of Seth and Heather to boost my spirits. Instead, I reminded myself that they were out there and I knew they were cheering me on. That managed to boost my spirits enough to start as someone backstage hit play.
I was going to be singing “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid—a song that was definitely in the top five of gay gay gay. I didn’t mind that, mainly because I’d always loved the song and I knew I sang it really well. (Actually, most people could do that song really well. Even Heather sounded pretty on that song, and next to my dad and Cameron Diaz, she was probably the worst singer of all time.)
The song began, and I made up my mind to give it my all. I told myself that I did in fact look pretty no matter how much my shaky nerves were trying to convince me otherwise. I planted my heels firmly on the ground and unleashed my voice from the seashell inside of me. It felt good.
I got through about a third of the song before I heard it—fag or another of those trivial slurs ignorant people use as if they matter. I didn’t care. When someone calls a teenage boy in a dress, singing a song from The Little Mermaid, a fag, their obviousness doesn’t garner a response. Name-calling didn’t bother me—I had half expected it, and I wasn’t going to let it ruin everything. I kept going.
The name-calling got a little worse, a few more stupid snickering teenage-boy voices echoing throughout the room. I could feel the tension building. Why was no one stopping them? Where were the teachers?
When I got to the midsection, which was the part where I could really unleash my inner Ariel to its best effect, there was a loud buzz from the speakers and then the sound stopped cold. Much to my horror, the note I was reaching for instead fell under the sea. I pulled back from the mic as if it had given me an electric shock—and nearly teetered over on my heels. This teeter got plenty of titters. Phones came out, and the audience immediately started muttering and Instagramming.
And me?
I.
Just.
Stood.
There.
Mrs. Patterson came onstage so fast you would have thought someone was offering her a third line on Law & Order: Key West. In a grave tone usually reserved for presidential assassinations, she said there’d been a brief problem with the sound equipment but that it was being fixed and would be back in no time.
“In the meantime,” she said, “perhaps JT would like to finish his song a cappella. What do you think?”
She should have never given them an option. There was some applause. I vaguely thought I heard Seth and Heather cheer. But the bullies were louder, taking Mrs. Patterson’s question as an invitation to boo. At first it was only five or so of them, but then it was ten, then twenty. Then it felt like the entire school had joined in. I was paralyzed, as if each boo was another punch in the gut. Finally I found the energy to rip off my wig and run off the stage. Mrs. Patterson tried to stop me, but only barely. I think she was excited to fill the time with a story about the time she met Burt Reynolds, at least until the sound went back on.
I tried to push my way back to the bathroom stall, past the guys backstage who were laughing and whispering, not so quietly, cruel insults about my body and my voice. I wished they had called me another gay slur—those I could take, those were silly—but the other stuff … it actually hurt. I stayed in the bathroom stall until the talent show was over and I was sure that every single person had left the backstage hallway.
When you put yourself out there, like I had done, and people take that and crap all over it, they manage to make the horribly mean voices in your head that say you’re not good at anything sound as rational and correct as you fear they are. Even as I stood there with my supportive boyfriend, even as he was saying all the right things, he didn’t have a chance against the voices in my head.
“Seth,” I said, “I don’t think this is for me. I really appreciate your thinking of me, but no.”
Seth dramatically slapped the countertop, knocking over the age-requirement sign for buying cigarettes.
“Why?” he challenged. “Give me one reason why not.”
Just one? I thought, cataloging the talent show, the bathroom stall, the boos, the ugly yellow dress; the look of pity from everyone in the backstage hallway flashed in my head like one of those old flip-books.
But then I thought—Oh yeah. I can boil it down to just one.
“Okay,” I said. “How about this? I’m not good enough.”
“But you are!”
“But I’m not, Seth! I’m really not.”
Seth put his phone back in his pocket, shaking his head. “Fine. Forget it. I was trying to help, but you know what, JT? None of us will ever be able to help you until you decide to let us.”
He was saying, Here, take some help, and I was hearing, You are even failing at being a failure—how sad is that? So I struck back.
“Why don’t you find another charity, then?” I said. “Take this third-hand knockoff of a Cher wig and send it to some starving child in some part of the world where they don’t have wigs!”
Seth headed over to the door. “I’ve got to get going.”
But I didn’t want him to leave like that. He was always trying to build me up, and I hated myself for how much I refused to let him.
“Seth. Wait.”
He stopped, took a deep breath, and walked back over to the counter. He kissed me, sweetly and briefly.
“You know what I want?” he said. “For your sake? I want you to open your eyes. You know I love you, right?”
I nodded.
“And you love me?”
I nodded again.
“Okay. Then I wish that you could embrace all of that. All of you and me.”
“And that means me doing a drag pageant?”
“No. It means allowing yourself to go after what you want, even if you’re afraid. It means embracing yourself enough that you allow me to fully embrace you too.”
I came out from around the counter. There was something too weird about fighting over a counter full of discounted candy bars and air fresheners.
“Hey.” I pulled Seth into me. He smelled so wonderful, so clean, so Seth. “I think you’re incredible.”
Seth looked up at me, his chin resting in that little indention in my chest he always called his spot.
“You’re not getting out of this that easy. I just want you to loosen up. Be who you are, one hundred percent. And see how great you are.”
I thought about how much I beat myself up about my love handles and my saggy butt anytime I saw someone like Channing Tatum on TV. I thought about how uncool I felt all the ti
me, every day, as far back as I could remember. I thought about how every time a hot guy posted a gym selfie on Instagram it made me dizzy with envy. I thought about how much I wondered why Seth would want to be with someone like me. And I thought about how little I actually believed I’d ever do anything but pump gas.
I cleared my throat and swallowed my lack of pride.
“I’ll work on it.”
“You felt comfortable and proud of yourself once. I saw you getting ready for the talent show. You were so … you. Don’t forget that.”
“Yeah, and I went straight from that to worst I’ve ever felt about myself, standing up there in front of everybody, being a loser.”
I could tell by how red his ears were getting that Seth was annoyed. They always did that.
Now they were essentially glowing.
“You aren’t a loser, JT,” he said. “Try to convince yourself of that? Please? For me?”
“Okay,” I said.
But I wasn’t sure I meant it.
Copyright © 2017 by Jeffery Self
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
First edition, November 2017
Cover photos ©: front and back: Marcel/Stocksy United; flaps: IP Galanternik D.U./iStockphoto
Cover design by Carol Ly and Baily Crawford
e-ISBN 978-1-338-11842-1
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