My Fairy Godmother is a Drag Queen

by David Clawson

  “Hi,” I said, pressing my face into the crack between the door and the doorjamb.

  “Hi,” he said back, looking unsure. “It was rude of me to come so early. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  Just as Iris called again from the living room, I noticed J.J. was carrying the missing shoe in his left hand. My savior! I grabbed Duane by the arm, swung the door briefly wide, and stepped out onto the front landing, yanking him out behind me, and pulled the door shut behind us.

  “You brought my shoe!”

  He looked down at it in his hand and smiled. “Yeah, it didn’t seem like just one was going to do me much good. It’s nice, though.”

  I nodded, then looked to Duane for any help he might be able to give with the conversation, but I quickly saw there was no assistance to be found there. He was staring at J.J., eyes not blinking, literally with his mouth open. I realized my hand was still on Duane’s arm, so I quickly removed it.

  Pointing to the shoe in Duane’s hand, I said, “I’d actually borrowed it from him, so you’ve really saved my skin.”

  “Oh, that was nice,” J.J. said, holding his hand out for Duane to shake. “I’m J.J. Good to meet you.”

  As he haltingly put his hand out to shake, Duane said something along the lines of, “Neh-shem-meh-heh.”

  J.J. smiled, rolling with it, then held out the shoe in his other hand. “Then I guess this goes to you.”

  Duane’s head bopped up and down like a tacky dashboard toy as he took it.

  At this point we all heard another scream, but this time it was muffled because we were on the outside of the closed door. Urgent voices, running feet, and general panic were suggested by the noises coming from inside the house. J.J. and I tried to act like we hadn’t heard anything, and, well, I’m not sure Duane was capable of taking in much, all of his senses other than sight seeming to have been momentarily suspended.

  “Thank you so much,” I told J.J., making my pathetic claim for admittance into the Quick Thinkers Hall of Fame.

  “My pleasure,” J.J. said, looking awkwardly down at his now-empty hands.

  I looked desperately again to Duane for help, but finding him still pathetically starstruck, the only thing I could think to do was punch his arm. I couldn’t exactly do the classic snap-out-of-it! face slap right then.

  Duane’s head flicked to me, outrage briefly flashing in his eyes, then realizing the stupor I’d just arm-punched him out of, he quickly remembered his street mask. “Yo, whaz up?” he said to J.J., jerking his chin up toughly.

  J.J., to his credit, suppressed a smile. “What’s up?”

  “Didn’t you have to get those shoes back to your friend before ten?” I asked Duane.

  He looked down at the shoes and suit jacket in his hands. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I do. I should go.”

  The top half of his body got the message and started moving forward, but unfortunately the lower half was apparently still in shock. He began to pitch forward, and both J.J. and I reached out to keep him from toppling down the front steps. Luckily Duane’s feet finally started moving, and he tried to play the whole thing off by adopting an exaggerated pimp-stroll. He held up two fingers, saying, “Peace out,” as he left. I couldn’t swear to it, but I think his knees might have buckled once or twice on the way. But maybe we’ll say that was intentional.

  Then I realized getting rid of Duane maybe hadn’t been my best impulse, because now J.J. and I were alone. All of the ridiculous fantasy I’d indulged myself in the night before flooded through my mind, and I could feel the heat rising on my cheeks. As the shock of J.J.’s reappearance began to wear off, the miserable awkwardness of my situation began to overwhelm me. Luckily he found something to say first.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night.”

  I nodded, focusing my eyes on the landing, wondering if its molecular composition might benevolently manage to alter just enough to swallow me up. “Kimberly was saying the same thing.”

  When he didn’t say anything in return for a long time, I finally ventured a look up to find a questioning expression.

  “I couldn’t think of any other way,” he said.

  “You—waithuhwhat?” I said, confusion complicating the struggle between my heart and mind, as a tiny pulse of hope began to radiate in my center while arrows of reason and doubt shot down from my brain, cautioning me to remember how foolishly I’d let my imagination run mere hours before.

  But there he was, once again, staring into my eyes, longingly, questioningly, and I’m fully certain that mine could only have been mirroring his.

  Was this really possible?

  And then the door opened, and Buck, still in his bathrobe, spread his arms wide and said, “Dude, don’t you sleep?”

  Having gotten themselves dressed and presentable in record time (and all by themselves, as I pointedly pointed out to them later), Kimberly sat with her legs demurely crossed at the ankles, knees together, in a sweater-set and skirt, on the couch cushion next to J.J., and in the wing chair close by, Iris draped a silk-slack-covered leg over her knee while she fondled her long pearl necklace like worry beads. Buck sat back on the couch on the other side of Kimberly, while I trembled (sadly, I don’t think that’s even an exaggeration) and perched on another wing chair a bit closer to the door.

  In answer to a question from Iris, J.J. was telling them something about how his mother thought he should practice law for a few years before running for office, but I was far too discombobulated to follow any trains of thought outside of my own head. There was enough of a traffic jam in there. It was crazy, right, to even entertain the thought that The J.J. Kennerly could be thinking anything in the same universe as I was, right? Those long stares could be … because he thinks I’m a special needs child … and, wait, is eye contact good or bad with those? Well, if I don’t know the right answer, then maybe he doesn’t either? No, wait, the Kennerlys are famous for their work with special needs people, so he probably does know. So, that’s probably the right thing to do, make eye contact. Unless…

  I practically hopped up from my chair. “I’m going to go make some breakfast for us all.” I said a little too loudly, and from the looks I was getting from Iris and Kimberly, I’m guessing in the middle of J.J. talking. But I didn’t care; I just had to get out of there.

  “Buck,” I asked, “where did you put those bagels?”

  “Uh, Mom told me to hide them.”

  Iris shot daggers at him until J.J. turned to look at her, then she brightened right up into a smile.

  “So, where’d you … put them?”

  Buck’s face twisted uncomfortably, not sure if he should answer.

  “That’s okay, I’m not really that hungry if you’re just worried about me. My mother would be appalled by my breach of etiquette, just showing up like this.”

  Kimberly reached out and placed a hand on his. “Hush. We’re flattered you wanted to spend even a minute of your Sunday with us. What’s better than Sunday brunch, after all?”

  Buck looked at his watch. “It’s barely even nine thirty. That’s not brunch, that’s full-on breakfast.”

  Well, at least when J.J. left I wouldn’t be the only one killed, if the looks on Iris’s and Kimberly’s faces were any indication. I crossed over to Buck, excused my rudeness to J.J., then whispered into Buck’s ear to tell me where he’d hid the food I’d bought hardly an hour before. Even though I knew everyone was watching me, as casually as possible I walked over to the antique Louis XIV armoire and found the two brown paper bags amongst the assortment of CDs, cassette tapes, and, oh, look, empty wine bottles. And I’d just cleaned it out a couple days ago.

  I’d almost managed to escape the excruciating circumstances of the living room, when, just as I was crossing the threshold, J.J. said, “At the very least I must insist on helping.”

  I stopped short, almost dropping the bags in my hands, and looked over my shoulder to await Iris’s cue.

  “Oh, you,” she said, as if he’d
just told a naughty joke. So, I started to move again.

  “No, I’m serious,” J.J. said. “I’d love to help.” So, I stopped again.

  Iris waved me away. “Really, J.J., how would it look if I let a guest in my home fend for himself?” So, I started to move again.

  “Like you wanted me to feel welcome and like one of the family,” J.J. said. So I stopped.

  Not quite willing to admit defeat yet, I could see Iris scanning her brain for a way to prevent him from going to the kitchen with me, and as I saw her running into dead end after dead end, I felt a fluttering in my stomach as I realized I might actually find out what the heck was going on between J.J. and me. And the way he was acting was certainly tipping the scales in my favor, or so my heart tried to convince my logic. Hope tingled through me, and I was beginning to feel a giddy burst of adrenaline when—

  “Actually, J.J.,” Buck said with bro-ish intimacy, “Chris hates for anyone to go into the kitchen when he’s in there. It’s like it’s his private sanctuary or something. How gay, right?”

  Although I suddenly wanted to throttle him around the neck even if it was too late to stop him from saying what he’d just said, technically, Buck wasn’t exactly wrong. The kitchen had been my stronghold since my dad died. It was the one place where I knew more than anyone else in the family, and regardless of how they might dismiss me in other matters, it was the one area where I felt I had some control. But that didn’t mean now was the time for him to have one of his moments of clarity. Not to mention using the word “gay” in that generic, anything-not-cool way.

  J.J. looked to me for verification, and I couldn’t think of a way to contradict the usual truth of what Buck had said fast enough, and Iris jumped on her advantage.

  “It’s settled!” she said.

  I continued on my way to the kitchen. As exciting as the possibility of learning that J.J. and I were thinking the same things was, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that mixed with my disappointment that Buck had unknowingly blocked my chance at some alone time with J.J., I was also relieved. Not only was I not ready to give up the fantasy of the possibility of it again so soon, but, honestly, knowing you’re gay, even saying you’re gay, and actually being with another person who might be gay in an intimately gay way—and I don’t even necessarily mean a sexual way—was raising the stakes exponentially. While in some ways it felt like I’d been secretly struggling with these feelings for such a long time, in other ways I wasn’t entirely sure I was ready to deal with the reality of them. Maybe that seems naive for a seventeen-year-old male, but every flower blooms in its own time. Or so said some motivational card I once saw at a Duane Reade.

  But I’d hardly emptied the bags when J.J. peeked his head tentatively through the swinging door and asked, “Do you really not like people to be in here?”

  I waved him in urgently, looking to see if anyone was behind him.

  “How did you convince Iris?”

  He shrugged. “I asked if I could use the bathroom.”

  “But there’s one in the hallway.”

  He shrugged again, putting up his hands in faux-innocence. “I didn’t know.”

  Have you ever had that moment you really wanted right in front of you, and then not known what to do with it? Well, that was me at that moment. So, true to form, I used productivity as a distraction.

  “Bagels or fruit?” I asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Do you want to do bagel prep or make the fruit salad? Or eggs. You could make the eggs.”

  “Shouldn’t we do the fruit first? That takes the longest, and the bagels and eggs will get cold.”

  “You’ve done this before.” I had not expected that.

  J.J. rolled his eyes. “Yes, and I also know how to tie my own shoes and wipe my own ass.”

  I laughed. And it wasn’t just nerves (although, maybe partially). Suddenly I realized that since we’d met, I’d been looking at him as more of a myth than a person, and what I thought he was telling me with his joke was that he really just wanted to be known as the guy he really was. I handed him a knife and a bowl. “Start with the melon while I rinse the other stuff.”

  Full confession: I’d initially offered him the two jobs (bagels and fruit) that required using a knife because my hands had started shaking, and I was afraid I might cut off a digit. I figured I was unlikely to do too much damage with the egg beater, but as J.J. and I talked while I rinsed and organized and he chopped, I forced myself to take a few calming breaths as subtly as possible, and I got the worst of it under control.

  “So, did Buck make that up about the kitchen?” J.J. asked.

  “No, not really. I mean, it’s not like I have land mines hidden to keep people out or anything, but it’s sort of how I contribute.”

  “That’s nice. Everyone does their share of the chores, and you cook.”

  “Well, no, I do those too, actually.”

  He looked at me with a confused expression, so I explained, “Iris and my dad got married when I was ten. Before that he and I had lived very differently, and I was very self-sufficient. And then when …” I trailed off, because I never knew how to handle the next piece of my history. As I struggled for the right wording, J.J. came to my assistance.

  “I think my mom mentioned something about a family tragedy.”

  Afraid that my voice might betray the wave of longing for my father that surged up—no matter how many years went by, I never knew when these moments would hit—I nodded and kept my eyes down on the blueberries I was rinsing.

  “We’ve had a number of those in my family, too,” J.J. said.

  We worked quietly for a bit, then trying to change the mood, J.J. tossed the last of the strawberries he’d pared into the bowl and jovially asked, “What’s next?”

  “You’re a good assistant,” I said.

  “This is fun. I hardly ever have time to cook anymore.”

  “Well, then I intend to take full advantage of you.”

  Then, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I heard the unintended double entendre and just about died. As my eyes dropped to the ground, I caught the slight surprise on his face as he looked to see what exactly I’d meant by those words. Ohgodohgodohgod, whywhywhy, killmenowkillmenowkillmenow, was about all my brain was capable of thinking.

  “Chris?” J.J. said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

  I looked up to find his eyes unwaveringly focused on mine.

  “Yes?”

  Neither of us blinking, possibly neither of us even breathing, we stood there for what felt like forever, until he finally said, “Is there anything you want to ask me?”

  “Like what?” I said, afraid of the painful awkwardness ahead of me if I asked the wrong question, no matter how badly I wanted the answer, any answer, just let this intensely cruel not-knowing end.

  “Like … anything.”

  I wasn’t conscious of it at the time, and later J.J. said he hadn’t been either, but somehow our faces were drawing closer to one another. I didn’t even realize it, but somehow we were finally close enough for me to feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. (So I guess at least one of us was breathing.)

  Swallowing, he gently licked his lips.

  Then I did the same.

  And finally, as my neck tilted up, I gently parted my lips and—

  “Yoo-hoo!” Kimberly burst through the swinging door.

  The heart that had been beating faster than the wings of a hummingbird inside my chest just about burst from terror and panic as I jumped away from J.J. and spun to face our intruder.

  Apparently oblivious, Kimberly beamed at J.J. “We were wondering where you’d got lost to. There’s a bathroom in the hallway, silly.”

  Looking far calmer than I felt, J.J. coughed and ran a hand over his brow. “Yeah, Chris said so, but since I was here, I decided to go ahead and offer to help.”

  Kimberly shook a finger as if the scolding she was giving me was just a joke, although I certainly knew
that it was not, “Chris, shame on you. He’s our guest.”

  “I insisted,” J.J. said firmly.

  “He insisted,” I said, nodding my head with emphatic agreement. “It seemed rude to argue.”

  J.J. added his own nodding. “Yes, that would have been very rude.”

  Then Kimberly surprised me by throwing up her hands and saying lightly, “Oh, heck, I don’t care. Mom is the one who’s all Emily Post about everything.” She came over to where we’d been preparing the food. “So what are we having?”

  “Well, um, we just finished the fruit salad, and J.J. was about to cut the bagels.”

  “And Chris was about to make the eggs,” J.J. said.

  “Well, what can I do?” Kimberly asked.

  It took me a couple seconds to realize she’d really, actually, not-just-in-my-fantastical-imagination said those words, but the shock didn’t wear off fast enough for me to come up with anything more than, “Ummmm,” in response.

  “How about I set the table?” she said.

  J.J. looked to me for approval.

  “Uh, sure,” I said. I began to point, “The plates are over—”

  “I know where the plates are, silly.” With a roll of her eyes, Kimberly proceeded to open a cabinet door that revealed mixing bowls and cake pans. “Oh, someone moved the dishes.”

  Sure, three and a half years ago. But I didn’t say that. I merely pointed to the correct cabinet. Kimberly took out enough plates of every size for a Thanksgiving dinner, then opened a few drawers until she found the silver utensils, and once she’d amassed enough tableware to serve Bolivia, she marred her brow with overwhelmed confusion and asked J.J. if he could help her get everything into the dining room.

  “I can take care of the bagels while the eggs are cooking,” I said. Once the two of them left the kitchen, as I crossed to the refrigerator for eggs, I was finally able to look down and confirm that I hadn’t peed my pants when she’d burst into the room.

  Holy shit. What the hell was happening here? I was 99.4% sure that I had just almost kissed J.J. Kennerly, somehow forgetting that my family was only a hallway away, and, oh yeah, my stepsister was under the impression that he had come to see her, and Iris—