Drag Teen

by Jeffery Self

  To Eric Gilliland for the roof, the walls, and the endless support

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  THIS ISN’T ONE OF THOSE stories about a heartwarming journey toward accepting my cursed homosexual identity. No. First of all, being gay is far from a curse. It’s more like an extra order of fries at Wendy’s because the lady in the window isn’t paying attention while she fills your bag. It’s awesome.

  If there’s one thing I’ve struggled to accept about myself, it’s my body. (And that might change, if I stopped eating at Wendy’s so much.) Being gay is, in fact, one of the only things I actually like about myself. I’ve been gay since birth. I’ve never contemplated the alternative. Literally can’t. I have an enormous imagination. But, still, there are limits.

  Specifically there are limits if you live in Clearwater, Florida, like I do. Ever been to Clearwater? Spoiler alert: The water isn’t that clear. And the town itself? Even murkier.

  When my drag teen story started in earnest, I’d been stuck in Clearwater for all seventeen years of my life. But I had big dreams—to maybe someday become a writer or something. I also liked to sing … but you can’t really say “I dream of growing up to be a singer” without looking like a total lunatic giving a reality show confessional, despite there being zero cameras in sight.

  Honestly, though, my dreams never really went much further than the simple hope of getting out of Florida, away from my family, and to somewhere where I could be myself without a single second thought.

  This, of course, would require me to figure out who “myself” actually was.

  Nobody in my family had ever left Clearwater; none of them had even gone to college. Both my parents grew up in Florida, and their parents grew up in Florida, and their parents, and so on. My great-great-granddad owned some orange groves and had the choice to sell them either to somebody who wanted to open a drive-in movie theater or to some weird guy named Walt Disney. He went with the first option. Which meant that by the time my dad was born, the only money my family had was what they made at the gas station they ran in the middle of town. My granddad passed away when I was really young and left the business to Dad, so I grew up right there pumping gas and cleaning windshields. Up until I was fifteen and discovered cologne, I smelled like gasoline on a daily basis. Now I smelled like whatever scent was on sale at CVS.

  I was 100 percent certain that in order for me to get out of Florida and stay out of Florida, I’d need to go off to college. The only problem was that no one in my family had any intention of helping me do such a thing.

  Luckily I had another support system that actually believed in the merits of being supportive: Heather, my best friend since first grade. Unlike me, Heather was the kind of loud and opinionated person who would either end up hosting a daytime talk show or being someone’s wacky aunt. Still, despite her outward personality and parental advantage, Heather was just as much of a mess as me. Which is why our friendship worked so well. We were the kind of outcasts they don’t make teen movies about. Heather was funny, biting, sarcastic, and had a variety of beautiful features, but none of them really went together, and her weight problems were even worse than mine, which meant she turned to her big personality to distract the judgmental eyes of our peers.

  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, Mo
m, 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, p
aid 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.”