My Fairy Godmother is a Drag Queen

by David Clawson

  Copyright © 2017 by David Clawson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imagination, and used fictitiously.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Sammy Yuen

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-1411-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-1412-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  Interior design by Joshua L. Barnaby

  To Wendy West -

  because once upon a time

  she was my fairy godmother

  when I really needed one

  HELLO

  It’s really weird to see yourself on the cover of a tabloid. I mean, you go into the convenience store at the corner to get an energy drink because you need something to help you stay awake so that you can study for your Calculus exam the next day, and there’s your entire family on the cover:

  * Your stepmom trying to look like she’s had to deal with the paparazzi every day of her life since she was born, not just for, like, a few weeks.

  * Your stepbrother, who you’d think was really hot if you didn’t know what an idiot he was.

  * Your stepsister, who thinks she’s living the American blonde version of Kate Middleton’s life.

  * Her boyfriend, with whom you’re in love—more on that later—and …

  * YOU, half-hidden in shadow because you were trying your best to get out of the shot, but when all of those guys with cameras were coming from so many directions … well, you know that’s you. Plus, you realize how badly you really need a new winter coat. The one in the picture just doesn’t flatter you the way it did when you got it, when you were thirteen, eight inches shorter, and fifty pounds skinnier.

  Is it weird that I keep referring to myself as “you”? Because all of this really happened to me. Me. I still can’t believe it.

  I suppose it would be logical to think you wouldn’t have picked up my story if you didn’t already know who I was, but just in case, I’m Christopher Bellows. Although, for all of my seventeen years up until then, everyone just called me Chris. I’m not really sure why the press always identified me as Christopher. Yes, it’s the name on my birth certificate, but if they’d ever just asked that question, I would have told them. But they were interested only in other details—not that they got those right—and never really interested about me. I admit, I bear my share of the responsibility for their getting it all wrong, so I guess I’m just going to tell this story as if you knew nothing, because, in reality, even if you read every single article published up to the moment of the big announcement, about the truth you do know nothing.

  So, yeah, the first thing I’d like to make clear is that I was never their maid, their captive, or their slave. (I’m rolling my eyes here, just like you probably would if you ever read or heard that about yourself. And this time I really mean you, not me.) I’m not saying I can’t see how someone could interpret our lives that way if they wanted to, especially since I think it might have been Coco who got that whole rumor started, but since being a drama queen often goes hand-in-hand with being a drag queen, consider the source. Actually, the night I met Coco was the same night we all met J.J. So it’s basically the night that separates the before from the after in this story. I should probably start there. Even if you have read all of those inaccurate news accounts that began the next morning, these were the last few hours of relative calm before the proverbial storm.

  CHAPTER 1

  A VISION APPEARED

  “Chris! I need you!” came loudly from three different rooms—my stepmother, Iris, from her bedroom suite; Kimberly, my stepsister, from her bathroom; and my stepbrother, Buck, no doubt from his usual place sprawled on the couch in front of the TV. Since he was downstairs, and the rest of us were upstairs—I’m speculating—I called down to him that he would have to wait. He growled loudly in response.

  My hands were already filled with a curling iron (which was what Kimberly was most likely calling for), the steamer I’d forgotten to put down after using it to remove wrinkles from her new Vera Wang dress that had arrived minutes before, and a bottle of white wine plus a corkscrew (which was almost certainly what my stepmother was yelling about).

  “Chris!” Kimberly bellowed again, just as I rounded the corner into her bathroom, and jerked my shoulder to draw her attention to the arm which was precariously clutching her curling iron to my side. She took it resentfully as she said, “You’d better not have been using this as a dildo.”

  “You’re disgusting,” I responded with a wince.

  So, Kimberly. The stepsister: nineteen, blonde, perfect body, hours away from entering the bubble of fantasy that leads to being named one of PEOPLE Magazine’s “Most Beautiful People,” and someone with whom I have always had, and perhaps always will have, a complicated relationship. More on that later, too.

  After quickly plugging the curling iron in and turning it too high, she put her free hand on her flowered-silk-robe-covered hip, and looked at me accusingly. “I’m serious. When and why did you remove one of my possessions from this verboten territory? You know you’re not allowed in here without my permission.”

  “Do you really want to interrogate me while Iris waits for this?” I asked, holding up the bottle of wine to avoid explaining I’d been using Kimberly’s iron to curl construction paper for a diorama of the French Revolution for AP History.

  Kimberly blanched, saying, “Dear God, run,” but then, stopping me with a hand on my upper arm, whispered, “Get her to drink as much of that as you can before we leave. I don’t know how I’ll make it through this night if she’s not good and mellowed by her ‘medicine.’” The look of miserable anxiety that came over her face was almost enough to make me feel sorry for her. But, seeing as how I was the only member of the family not going to the night’s big event, I was still sulking in my quiet little way and chose to ignore any feelings of sympathy for the spoiled little bitch. So there. I left the room without comment and headed toward Iris’s rooms.

  Now if you’re flipping back to what I wrote before about not being a maid, captive, or slave, I can understand your confusion. Maybe I can explain. First, remember that for most of the time before my dad married Iris—the first ten years of my life, really—he and I had been dirt poor. Since my mom had died of pneumonia when I was still an infant, I learned to take care of myself at a very young age. Although my dad tried his very best to do as much for me as he could, probably by the age of five I was doing more to take care of him than he was doing for himself. But the American Dream being what it is, my dad worked as hard as was humanly possible. With a healthy dose of good timing and even better luck, when I was eleven he hit it big. Suddenly we were rich. Like, stinking rich. At least on paper.

&nb
sp; We didn’t really change the way we lived right away, though. I was just glad that I got to spend more time with my dad, and that finally being able to work only one job (managing his new assets) gave my father time to sleep enough to get rid of the dark, under-eye circles that I had always thought were just the way he looked. It turned out I didn’t have to worry about inheriting the genetics of a raccoon after all.

  But eventually Dad met Iris Fontaine, of the Upper East Side Fontaines, at some business-slash-charity event, and suddenly our grungy little apartment in Queens didn’t really make sense for a guy now worth over fifty million dollars (on paper, at least). And within a year, we’d moved twice. First to our own large apartment in the upper 80s, and then later into the historic and storied Fontaine brownstone in which Iris’s family had lived for over a hundred years.

  In just a few short years, I went from collecting plastic bottles off the street to help add to the household budget to living in a house where Rockefellers and Vanderbilts had once dined. Plus, I had a new stepsister and stepbrother and another new school. It was all too much and too fast, but when I saw the way that my father looked at Iris, I couldn’t resent him for it. Somehow I knew that the love in his eyes was what he’d also felt for my mother, and although he’d never, ever made me feel like he needed anyone other than me, I finally understood how lonely he’d been.

  But, oddly, after our family had grown by three, I felt alone in a way I never had before. Plus, we had maids and drivers and assistants and a cook—people to do things that had been my responsibility. (Not to mention the decorators and architects and construction men who flooded into the house. While the place still looked terribly fancy compared to our small apartment in Queens, I was told that the house was a shadow of its former glory, and now that was all going to change.) While I know a kid is supposed to jump for joy when all of his chores and responsibilities are suddenly lifted off of his shoulders, I felt useless instead. I never complained, and I tried to always be pleasant to everyone, but I spent a lot of time alone in my room reading. A lot. Which I guess is pretty much what I’d always done when it was just Dad and me, but back then it had never felt like I was hiding out or missing anything. It was just the way it was. But now it definitely made me feel removed from all that was going on around me, and other than meals and “required” family events, I guess avoided dealing with my new reality by ignoring it as much as possible.

  Sometimes, late at night, I would sneak into the kitchen and cook something, just so I could feel useful. But then I was so afraid of getting in trouble with the cook or making her feel bad because she might think I didn’t like her cooking, I would slip out of the house and leave whatever I’d made at a little park where I’d once seen a homeless person sleeping. The next day on the way to school, I’d check to see if the food was still there, and it was always gone. For all I know some city maintenance worker might have tossed it, but it at least made me feel like maybe I was doing something good for someone who needed help.

  I guess I would have adjusted to this new lifestyle eventually—maybe—but I never really had the chance. Because when the stock market crashed in 2008, I learned that the danger of being rich on paper is that paper tears very easily. At least the kind of paper of which my dad’s wealth had been made. Since we’ve just met, I’ll save the grim details for later, but suffice it to say that I was technically an orphan, and it left me shell-shocked and overwhelmed.

  All I do know is that although I was pretty new to her family, Iris didn’t throw me out. As flawed as they may be, they’re all I have. So, if I have done more for them than some people think is right, well, those people weren’t in our house and don’t really know what they’re talking about. I’m always amazed by how readily people judge the right and wrong of things they know only from the outside. Honestly, it kind of pisses me off.

  “Chris!” Iris called again, in more of a desperate whine than a yell.

  “I’m coming!” I said, trying to uncork the bottle as I ran along the hall that separated Kimberly’s end of the house from Iris’s. As I passed Buck’s open door I noticed that his tuxedo had slipped off his bed and onto the floor. I stopped short, bent down to leave the clothes steamer I was also carrying just inside the door, and muttered to myself not to forget where I’d put it, while adding “de-wrinkle suit” to the mental To-Do list running through my head. Which reminded me of all the homework I had due on Monday.

  Now that my hands were freer, the cork came out of the bottle easily just as I entered Iris’s dressing room. She heard the pop! and practically melted onto her faded, chintz chaise lounge.

  “Thank God you’re finally here,” she said, extending a limp arm in the direction of the wine glass I was filling with a modestly priced Chardonnay. Although she was only in her early 40s, and had been considered the great beauty of her debutante year, Iris Fontaine-Bellows had a haggard puffiness that belied her best attempts to make the world believe that everything in her life was just as perfect as she had always been brought up to believe it would be.

  “Are your nails dry?” I asked, holding the glass just out of reach. Partially I was toying with her, I’ll admit, but also I was the one who’d spent much of the last hour giving her a mani-pedi—high on my list of NOT My Favorite Things—so there was some self-preservation involved.

  “My nails are drier than Prohibition. Give me the glass!” She even went so far as to partially sit up, and I couldn’t help thinking of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel as her fingers reached out for her own spark of creation. The possibility of getting that into my AP Art History paper flew through my mind before I handed her the glass, which she half-emptied with her first “sip.”

  I waved the bottle in the air as I asked, “Shall I leave this?”

  She answered with only a dark look, then pointed at the TV. “Turn up the volume.”

  “The remote is right beside you,” I said, gesturing with my chin to where it lay on the side table.

  She squinted her eyes as the corners of her mouth hinted at the pleasure she took from using my words back on me. “But my nails. You wouldn’t want me to chip them, now, would you?”

  Momentarily bested, I reached over for the remote and turned up the volume. Since I’d gotten home from a Calculus study group a little after lunch, every TV in the house had been turned to NY1 for any and all updates on the night’s big social event at The Plaza, The Autumnal Ball. This was both the reason the house was filled with so much anxious activity as well as the reason I was sulking. Obviously, I could understand that thousand-dollar-apiece tickets were prohibitively expensive, but if the money could be found for everyone else to go, then why not me, too? I sighed.

  “Would you stop that!” Iris said. “Do you think I like that we can’t afford for all of us to go? Do you think I like having to live this way?” Entirely free of irony, she gestured around her large dressing room. To be fair, it was faded, threadbare, and out of style, but in a weird way it was comments like this that reminded me more than anything how different I was from my stepfamily. While it was always frustrating, it also made me forgive them a little. To put it simply, they just didn’t know any better. They had always lived a certain way and had never learned to adapt. It all sounded so Henry James or Edith Wharton, and yet a hundred or so years later, for some people, very little had changed.

  As the news anchor on the TV announced that they would be going live to the remote reporter at The Plaza, Buck called for me from downstairs. “Chris!”

  “You’d better go check on him,” Iris said. “And tell him that if he’s not showered, shaved, and perfect by seven-thirty, I will kill him and his Xbox.”

  “You want Buck to be ‘perfect’ by seven-thirty?” I asked.

  “You know what I mean,” she said, wrenching out of my hand the wine bottle. “And check on Kimberly. How’s her dress? Did you steam it? She has to look perfect. She has to be perfect. We all have to. God, this is all too stressful. I think I’m going to vomit.” And
then she filled her glass to just below the rim and downed it like a shot. “I’ll need you back in here soon to help me get dressed. Well, what are you waiting for? Go!”

  As I walked down the stairs to the ground floor, I could hear the news reporter from the living room TV. “… But what really has tongues wagging about tonight’s Autumnal Ball is the expected attendance of the man being called “The Most Eligible Bachelor in America,” none other than J.J. Kennerly.”

  I entered the living room to see video footage from some other red carpet event of the ridiculously handsome, brown-haired, brown-eyed, square-jawed, cleft-chinned J.J. Kennerly, the only child of the closest thing America has to royalty.

  “I don’t really get why everyone thinks he’s all that,” my stepbrother Buck said from the couch. He was stretched out over the length of it in sweat pants and a t-shirt that barely contained his pecs and biceps. The tennis shoes he’d kicked off lay sloppily on the floor. “I mean, seriously, would you want him humping your buns?”

  “You’re not funny, Buck.” Over the last few months, he and Kimberly had both taken to making rude comments like this to me incessantly.

  He acted as if he were thinking about what I said, then responded, “Yeah, I am.”

  I sighed deeply. “What did you need me for?”

  “Do we have any Fritos?”

  “I don’t know. Did you get off your lazy ass and go look?”

  Buck sat up, leaving his legs outstretched. “First off, I don’t want you thinking about my ass. That’s disgusting. We’re semi-related. And B, you’re the one who is anal-retentive about the kitchen—among other things—so I didn’t want to disrespect your purview.” He lay back, proudly crossing his arms over this chest, as if he’d just won the Academic Decathlon.

  Here’s the thing about Buck. He’s annoying, obnoxious, a total jock, Xbox-worshipping meathead, but then he’ll throw in an SAT word like “purview.” And even use it correctly. I have a theory that he’s not actually as stupid as he likes to act, because often he’ll play the stupidity card in a really smart way. He’s especially good at using it to give Iris and Kimberly shit, but getting away with it by acting like he has no idea what they’re talking about when they get upset with him for whatever he just said. It’s either really good luck or a little bit of genius. I can never quite decide.