by Jeffery Self
“So, JT. Are you a glamour queen or a comedy queen?”
“Huh?”
Tash laughed as he pushed me aside to get back into the conversation. “He’s neither; this one doesn’t even have a drag name!”
Red, having had enough, stepped forward, towering over Tash.
“You know what, Tash? Why don’t you go find somebody who isn’t already tired of your mean-girl routine to talk to? We’re all good without it here.”
Tash, fuming, shot back, “It’s not a routine. I am a mean girl.” Then he stormed off as Milton subtly mouthed his thanks to Red.
“Be careful of that one, gurl,” Milton said as soon as Tash was out of sight.
“Why?” I asked.
Milton and Red looked at each other with the weight of an enormous secret behind their eyes.
“She’s bad news,” Red said nervously, looking over to Milton for permission to continue. Milton nodded to go ahead. “She didn’t used to be. A while ago, she and Milton were super close.”
“The closest,” Milton interjected. “Until. Well …” He looked to Red to continue.
“Until Milton won Miss Teen Atlantic City. That’s when Tash turned against him. See, Tash had never lost before.”
“Like, ever!” Milton interjected again.
“And she makes a good queen, too.”
“Really good!” Milton couldn’t stop chiming in. “So good that she doesn’t even have a last name, she just goes by Natasha, like she’s Madonna or Meryl or something.”
“So now she does whatever it takes to keep anyone from getting in between her and the crown. And I mean anything.” There was a trace of something sinister in Red’s voice. “She’s not even here for the scholarship—Tash doesn’t want to go to college. Her ten-year plan is to win Drag Race and join The View as its first drag co-host. And honestly? I bet she could.”
“But what do you mean? When you say she’ll do anything, what does that include?”
Milton and Red looked at each other with fear in their eyes, like people in a scary movie telling somebody what happened that terribly fated night. They even checked over their shoulders to make sure no one was listening in.
“I heard she poisoned Snow Cone Joan in the Buffalo pageant with some expired cottage cheese at the continental breakfast so she’d be too sick to compete,” Red whispered.
“And I heard that she convinced the judges that Trixie Treat was actually twenty-two to get her disqualified, and you don’t even want to know what she allegedly did to Nicole Just-Kidding-Man,” Milton murmured.
“She. Stole. Her. Wig.” Red shuddered as he said this.
I gasped. I didn’t even want to tell these two that I had not only made an enemy out of Tash but that we were currently sleeping under the same roof.
“Anyways,” Red chirped. “Glamour queen or comedy queen? You must understand the difference. Milton? Explain to our new friend.”
Milton straightened his shoulders and stepped forward like someone with perfect grades in a spelling bee.
“A glamour queen is a queen whose tastes are for decadence, beauty, and class. A glamour queen puts her elegant look above all else. Your classic pageant queen. Red is a glamour queen.” Red smiled. “A comedy queen, while still glamorous—because after all, gurl, this is still drag—is a queen who uses humor to sell her glamour and style. A comedy queen might not have the prettiest gown, but she’ll always leave you laughing.”
“Milton is a comedy queen,” Red added.
I stood there processing all this new information, a little overwhelmed. Milton and Red could tell.
“Hey, don’t panic,” Red said. “Drag isn’t just about labels like that—you can be whatever you want. Sorry. You new at this or something?”
I wasn’t sure whether to admit to these two that this was only my second time, but for some reason I trusted them. Besides, even if I couldn’t be a glamour queen or comedy queen, at the very least I could be an honest queen.
“This is my second time.”
“Ever?” Milton asked in shock.
“Uh-huh.” I could feel my cheeks getting redder, which was weird, since I was talking to someone named Red. “Please don’t tell anybody. I know most everyone here is a pro at this but, well, I love doing it and I desperately need the scholarship and I don’t want people to think I’m disrespectful to the drag world by just doing it again for a scholarship because that’s not the only reason, it’s just a big one. I really want to be great at this because it brings me a lot of joy, like the most joy I’ve ever felt doing something. And I hope by doing it I can figure out how to be who I’m supposed to be. I want to love myself, and when I’m in drag I think I actually might.”
Milton and Red smiled at me. I could see something dancing around in both their eyes.
“Gurl, you just found your introduction.”
They both hugged me, and in our embrace, I saw Tash watching from the wings, hating every second of it.
NATHAN LEARY ARRIVED AFTER LUNCH. He was one of those actors who had been around since I could remember. He was never a big movie star, but he was always the type of actor who popped up in everything from sitcoms to historical dramas about obscure but irrationally funny Founding Fathers. Meanwhile, Broadway was his main home. He was probably around seventy years old, so he had stories on just about every important celebrity there’d ever been in the past fifty years; if he hadn’t starred with them on some TV movie or Broadway show, he’d probably played their sassy assistant in a major (or not so major) movie … or at least he’d have a story that claimed so. He’d been openly gay since long before being openly gay made you cool, and I thought he was forgotten for that sometimes. Sometimes it felt like the celebrities who were out before out was cool were not considered as cool as those celebrities who’d only recently come out after being prodded to do so. People always loved something new and shiny, I guessed. Nathan Leary, however, was the real deal.
He was there to give us the talk about what the judges would look for in our “Why I Drag” speeches. A natural performer, it seemed he was taking this opportunity to workshop a full one-man show for this room of eager gay queen-teens. Who could blame him?
“Why I drag. Think about that statement for a second, boys. Think about it.” Leary projected to the back of the theater even when he wasn’t in a theater. “Why do I drag?”
He looked around the roomful of guys my age who had also, undoubtedly, grown up with his performance as a beloved drag queen in the cult hit movie Has Anybody Seen Mrs. Mapplethorpe?
“That’s what we want—we want you to dig deep inside yourself and tell us why. We don’t want some stock pageant answer—that’s not what this is about. This is about you. What’s in your heart. Do all of you understand that?”
The room let out a moderately enthusiastic yes as Leary launched into a long story about the first time he’d worked with a long-dead Broadway legend named Mary Martin and how that taught him to speak only from the heart, and to never eat mayonnaise right before curtain. Which said a bit more about Mary Martin than I cared to know. The truth was, I sorta knew “why I drag,” but I wasn’t so sure I’d be able to explain all that eloquently onstage.
“Now, speaking of my time working with Mary Martin—Daryl wants me to remind you that after this, you’ll each do a walk-through of your talent segment. If anyone needs an accompanist, we ask that you sign up here.”
Nathan passed around a clipboard as everyone applauded his speech. I’m not sure any of us were particularly moved by what he’d said—but he was a judge, and judges, we knew, love their applause as much as the next person. Especially when they’re actors.
Now was my time to freak out about the talent portion of the competition. I’d decided to sing—because my only other option was a demonstration on how to most effectively pump gas. But Tash’s condescension at the notion of singing—and Lady Rooster’s triumph without singing a note—made me wonder if I wasn’t making a big, big mistake.
Then there was me, unlucky number thirteen.
“Hi. Linda Lambert. But you can call me Linda.” She shook my hand as she stood up from the piano. She had a super-friendly face and supportive smile, and spoke with the prettiest British accent I’d ever heard that wasn’t from Helen Mirren in a moderately boring movie. “You’re number thirteen? What am I playing?”
“Yeah. I’m JT. It’s really nice to meet you. I’m a big Broadway nerd, and I went to see the tour of your show twice when it came to Tampa, so it’s crazy that you’re going to be the one playing for me. I’m going to sing.”
“You’re so sweet! Also, I’m glad somebody’s actually singing.” She lowered her voice. It was so exciting to be sharing a secret with a Tony Award winner! “Just between you and me, I think it’s a real waste of talent that we’ve got this roomful of teenage divas and they’re all lip-synching to somebody else’s voice. Know what I mean?”
I told her I did, but that I’d deny it if she repeated I’d said so. She got a big kick out of that.
“Got your sheet music?”
I opened up my backpack and reached inside for the “Part of Your World” pages. As I did, I noticed the autographed sheet music from Tina Travis and her “People Care” song. I paused, my hand staying still inside the bag. I knew “Part of Your World” by heart. (I mean, who doesn’t?) But I had an idea and my gut was saying to go for it. My experience with Tina Travis was one of the coolest things that had ever happened to me, and singing the song itself actually meant something to me now, as opposed to “Part of Your World,” which meant something to me when I was six and still thought it was relatable to yearn to have legs.
“You okay? Something got your hand in there?” Linda asked with a bemused grin as I stood there with my hand bizarrely stuck inside my bag.
“Sorry! I just …” I knew I had to decide, and finally I just thought screw it and pulled out Tina’s music and handed it to Linda.
“Tina Travis? Wow. I haven’t seen her name in a long time.” Linda laughed. “Where did you even get this?”
I didn’t want to seem like some snobby kid who knew famous people, mainly because I wasn’t some snobby kid who knew famous people—I’d just happened to have one help me with a flat tire a few days ago.
“Oh, just found it at a yard sale. My mom always played her songs when I was growing up.”
Linda smiled as she placed the music on the piano. “That’s lovely. Shall we?”
She began playing and I began sweating. Everyone in the room was waiting. I couldn’t believe I was about to do what I was about to do, but I had no choice. It was too late now to go back, so I went forward. She kept playing, supportively chiming in every once in a while to tell me to slow it down or speed it up. At one point I heard someone across the room audibly wonder, “What the hell is this song anyway?” and I felt proud—proud of myself and proud of my friend Tina Travis, a great icon who’d been lost by time.
By the midsection of the song, everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing to stare at me. I couldn’t tell if this was a good thing or bad thing, but I didn’t let myself freak out. I kept picturing Tina’s face in my head, telling me I could do it, and somehow that worked.
As the song ended and the room was quiet for a brief second, Linda looked up at me and mouthed “Awesome” while a handful of people in the room clapped politely. I couldn’t believe it, but I had just performed in front of a roomful of strangers and I didn’t even feel like crawling into a cave and dying. In fact, I was feeling readier and more capable of doing this pageant than ever before. Maybe I was out of my mind, but I really could feel it—I was close enough to being Miss Drag Teen USA to almost reach out and touch it. I’d never felt confident about anything in my life, and suddenly, there it was, this strange and foreign feeling of confidence. I didn’t even know what to do with it. That’s when I realized I’d found the second thing on my to-do list: I did have a talent, I just had to ignore my own bullshit long enough to do it. I pulled out the list and, with a pencil lying on the piano, crossed out number two.
Two down, two more to go.
I WAS ON CLOUD NINE when I met up with Heather and Seth after rehearsal at the cutest New York café around the corner, which I realized once I walked inside was actually just a Starbucks. They’d had their own kind of New York sightseeing-packed day, taking selfies in front of Carrie Bradshaw’s brownstone and walking around Central Park for, as an exhausted Heather put it, “what felt like three and a half days.” The evening’s plan was to go out for a big and cheap-as-possible dinner in Little Italy. Then I had to go back to the apartment to write my “Why I Drag” speech.
“It was crazy,” I told them. “I wish you two could have been there. I was standing at the piano and something in my head told me to do Tina’s song instead of ‘Part of Your World.’ And I did it, and I was terrified, but when I finished, people clapped. It felt so good, you guys!” I couldn’t stop smiling.
“Babe, that’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.” Seth kissed my forehead, getting crumbs from the black-and-white cookie he was eating in my hair. “So you’re feeling ready for tomorrow?”
“I feel scared to say so.” I looked around, as if one of the other contestants might be listening. “But yeah, I actually am. Is that cocky bad luck?”
“NO! Don’t be ridiculous!” Heather slapped the table. “You should feel ready! You’re going to kick drag ass!”
We walked all the way down to Little Italy, subtly using the maps on our phones to try to look like we knew where we were going. For some reason, looking like a tourist in New York seemed like the most mortifying thing any of us could ever do. I supposed when you wanted to belong somewhere as badly as all three of us wanted to belong here, you hoped people would just assume you already did.
Seth was a natural at it, which didn’t surprise me at all. I wondered if he felt like he was already walking through his future. I wondered if he felt me by his side while he did.
Little Italy wasn’t quite as magical as it seemed in movies. The coolest part was the Little Italy sign made out of lights that hung from the streetlamps. It was so crowded, and everywhere we went, so many people shoved menus in our faces that we didn’t really have a chance to make up our own minds or actually look around. We finally settled on a place midway down the block because we were tired of all the pushy people with the menus and because it had our one requirement: red-and-white Italian restaurant tablecloths. Heather and Seth were immediately excited because the waiter didn’t card them; they shared a carafe of red wine that smelled like expired salad dressing.
“Can you believe we’re really here?” Heather asked, already tipsy on her second glass of the nasty wine. “We’re so Girls right now!”
“You guys, I’d like to make a toast.” I lifted up my Diet Coke. “I can’t thank you enough for doing this with me. I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have such amazing friends, and I just want you to know I wouldn’t be here without you.”
Heather lifted her glass, spilling a little bit onto the table. “Oh, JT, don’t worry. We know.”
Seth remained strangely silent, but he did clink my glass, at least.
I spent the rest of the dinner gossiping about all the other contestants
in the pageant. I told them about how everyone seemed to be terrified of pissing off Tash, and speculated about whether Red and Milton were a couple, and detailed the Afro guy’s magic act. I told them about this contestant named Roxanne Roll, who absolutely terrified me because she seemed to have made it her mission to be terrifying and, as she had referred to it to Eric Waters, hard-core.
I waited until the end to mention that the guest judge was going to be Sam Deckman.
“SAM DECKMAN?!” Heather shouted, her jaw almost dropping into our basket of garlic knots.
“Shhhh. But yes. Apparently he’s on their board of directors. They’ve also got Nathan Leary and—”
“Do I get to meet him? I want to meet him. I have to, JT. It’s only fair. You know how much I loved Aqua Man!” Heather managed to say all of this in one breath.
“I’ll see what I can do. But you have to promise you won’t embarrass me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, offended.
“You can come on a little strong when you’re excited. You know that. Look at how you acted around that creepy bouncer at that club. Plus, right now you have an enormous glob of garlic-and-olive-oil sauce on your chin.”
“He has a point, Heather,” Seth added.
I could tell we had both said the wrong thing and, frankly, replaying the words inside my head, they sounded pretty bitchy. Oh God, I thought, is Tash rubbing off on me?
“Sorry! That came out wrong. Forget it. Also, you really do have pasta sauce all over your face.”
She grabbed a napkin, humiliated. My instinct was to keep apologizing, but I could tell Heather’s guard was up from the way she kept staring at her phone for the rest of the meal.
“So are you ignoring us now?” I asked carefully. Heather looked up, as if she hadn’t heard me.
“Huh?”
