Then she zipped off, making absolutely sure no one had seen her talking to me.
So cloak and dagger!
A secret friend!
Things are looking up!
Later on, when I met up with her in the library, we hid behind the microfiche, and I was able to get a better look at my new friend. Plain, but perky. Blah Blah Blah suits her. Blah Blah Blah she’ll remain. But who am I to judge? She’s an angel. A savior. I should love her like a sister and clutch her to my bosom. “God bless you,” I tell her.
She started whispering up a storm. Whispered like it was going out of style. She whispered as if her life depended on it.
This is what she said:
“This school is a terrible place,” she said. “Full of terrible people.”
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“No really,” she said. “This school is the last stop for rich kids that no one else will have. Spoiled brats with anger issues and social integration problems. And it’s so expensive because they know they can name their price. What are the parents going to do? Homeschool them?
Yes, it’s forty-seven miles from Fort Lauderdale, but that’s the selling point, see. In fact, 90 percent of the student body commutes from Lauderdale every day. Most of them probably South Summit residents—i.e., the forgotten children of Fort Lauderdale’s rich and fatuous. The commonly accepted reason for sending their children so far away is that it gives the parents an extra two hours a day to drink, shop, embezzle, take “lessons,” and screw their instructors.
Suddenly it all made sense. Well, except for why I’m here. Obviously, Father didn’t know it was for troubled kids when he got me in.
She was the go-to girl for gossip at Eisenhower. She knew everything about every kid here. Her mind was a vast storehouse of campus gossip. She started telling me about the various kids in biology class.
For instance, did I know:• Bib Oberman was in a BOY BAND, back in his hometown of Orlando? How HOT is that? They were called DA LUV THUGS, and he went by the name KID KRUSH. (Couldn’t you just DIE!)
• The Takaberry twins have webbed feet and vestigial tails? YES! Parents were first cousins, they say. Or maybe even half-siblings.
• Baba Deschler is MAJORLY addicted to suppositories? Every class break . . .
• LittleAnne Swafford wears diapers? Frequently WET diapers?
• Lynnette Franz is secretly Jewish? (Well, SHE finds it shameful.)
• Sesame Blixon is secretly dating the basketball team? (WAY TO GO, SESAME! Show some self-esteem!)
• Betsy Kittenplan is a diet pill addict?
• Dottie Babcock is a cutter for Christ? Haven’t you wondered about the long sleeves and high collars? In a tropical swamp?
• Buddy “Brute” McGlute likes to bring out and play with his little . . . um . . . Buddy during class. If you catch my drift . . .
• Reed Runyon is a manorexic?
• Vera LaBree, the pious Bible Belle, was found naked in a shopping cart, reeking of cheap gin and lawn boys?
• Sissy Russett spent eight months in juvie for shoplifting a Jones New York blazer. (Tan. Ew.) More embarrassing than circumstances of her arrest was the fact that Miss Uppitydoodles was shoplifting JONES NEW YORK. What would drive somebody to such depths?
• Tiff Tarbell’s father is currently serving five to ten for elder abuse. Years and years of granny-bashing his live-in mother. And doesn’t that explain a lot?
Yes. Yes. Yes. All terribly interesting.
“But what about Flip Kelly?” I asked my gossipy new friend. “What’s his story?”
“Flip’s story?” she said, and then she laughed and laughed, like that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Then her eyes got all wide when she realized I was serious. “You mean, you really don’t know? How could such a thing be possible?”
Then she leaned in and whispered Flip’s story . . .
XXI
FLIP’S STORY
Flip Kelly, so named for the Flying Flip maneuver he made famous.
It was the night of the big game, sophomore year, when the former Mark Kelly executed a spectacular last second save by LEAPING and SPINNING ten feet into the air—up and around, like God’s yo-yo—catching the ball in midflip, and using the forward thrust of the somersault to propel himself over the crush of the opposing team and across the goal line, before landing on his feet, yet, triumphant, and with two seconds left in the game.
There was a moment of silence as every person in the stands registered what they had just seen.
People don’t do that.
People can’t leap and bounce like that.
Giant bionic spider monkeys, maybe.
Genetically altered superfrogs, possibly.
Not sixteen-year-old pretty-boy quarterbacks!
The only possible explanation? Obviously, a miracle had taken place on their football field. God, himself, in the form of Mark Kelly, had come down from heaven and ensured the Manatees victory that night.
There was a twenty-two-minute standing ovation, and that included the fans of the opposing team, and after a few minutes, even the opposing team joined the fanfare, and simply felt blessed to have witnessed such a magical moment.
“Flip” Kelly was born, and he was golden. If ever a boy looked great in limelight, it was Flip.
“Born for greatness,” most folks said
There was a parade for him, of course.
October 23 was declared Flip Kelly Day.
He was on all the news channels and interviewed in all the Florida papers. Tough-as-nails female news reporters got all giggly when interviewing him, and gushed in a most unbecoming way.
He was recognized everywhere he went. “Local heartthrob Flip Kelly.” “Teen sensation Flip Kelly.”
Parents everywhere were a little colder to their children that season. Why couldn’t they be more like Flip Kelly?
Every father would trade his no-good son in a heartbeat to be Flip’s father.
Every mother wished her daughter would date Flip, marry Flip, have Flip’s babies.
At school the girls left their panties in Flip’s locker.
And the boys! They were besotted! Like lovesick puppies! Following him around, vying for his attention. “Hey, Flip!” “Over here, Flip!” “Watch this, Flip!” This was as close as most boys were ever going to come to the homo heartland. Secretly, they all would have happily melted into Flip’s arms just to be close to him, to be with him, to smell him. “Oh, Flip, Flip, Flip, really I’ll do whatever you want me to. . . .”
And when Flip declined the honor of homecoming king, and instead asked that it go to Bib Oberman, the captain of the football team and best friend a guy could have, because, aw shucks, it was Bib who led the team to victory (not him; he was just following orders), well, people were just floored by the grace with which this boy prince wore his crown.
And when Flip went on to tell the crowd that Bib’s dog, Diggery-doo, had just been put down yesterday (impacted anal gland), Bib choked back a sob, and Flip went over to him and gave him a big bear hug—right onstage—two boys, almost men, hugging and crying, unashamed. Indeed, everybody cried for the dead Diggery-doo, yes, and for Bib’s loss, but really for what a wonderful, heroic, and selfless boy Flip Kelly was. It was a great moment for friendship, sportsmanship, and mankind in general. From that point on, Flip could do wrong.
So while Bib Oberman may have been the actual king of the homecoming dance, it will always be remembered as the night Flip entered the pantheon of the gods.
XXII
Flip’s haunting tale of early promise really struck a nerve. It stayed with me the rest of the day. I couldn’t stop thinking about his odd predicament.
That moment defined his life, changed forever who he was and how people would see him. For the rest of his days, he will always be FLIP KELLY: FORMER FOOTBALL HERO. That one spectacular leap, ten feet in the air, locked him on a path. It was the best and worst thing that could have happen
ed to a guy like him.
And he’s had to try to live up to it ever since. Prove to everyone it wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t a fluke. He’s had to try and become the person people want him to be.
How odd, to have the most important event of your life happen so early. At age fifteen Flip had already done the greatest thing he would ever do. The entire rest of his life is just one long epilogue. To peak at fifteen, then be almost past your prime at seventeen, and by twenty-five be a washed-up has-been living in the glory days. At thirty-five he’ll be a ghost, a shell, a husk of a man.
He’ll never escape that one moment of greatness.
We’re sort of opposite ends of the same stick, in that respect.
I will never live down those first few minutes of that first class, that first day. I, too, will be forever defined by that one moment. In my case, it wasn’t a moment of glory, but of shame. I’ll always be Silly Billy, the gay pirate. And I have to fight that for the rest of my time here. It locked me on my path, all right.
So he is my opposite, and my twin.
So unattainable, and yet so connected on such a base level.
No wonder it was love at first sight!
XXIII
STRANGE ENCOUNTER
Later, standing by my locker, wondering if I could successfully drown myself in the water fountain, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey.” It was Flip. He smiled.
I was rendered mute.
“My name’s Flip.”
I made some gulping noises and clapped like a seal, which is the international sign for “I’M A BIG, GAY IDIOT! KILL ME NOW!”
He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it. “Anyway,” he continued, “I just wanted to say, don’t pay attention to those guys back there. They’re boneheads. You’re okay, dude.”
I made a barking sound—“ORF” or “GORP.”
He smiled and touched my arm. “Yeah, well, okay. Take care.”
And he was gone. I stared at the still shimmering air where he had stood. What the hell was THAT about? What just happened?
FIVE OTHER WAYS THE CONVERSATION MIGHT HAVE GONE:1. “Oh, hey, Flip. What’s up? How ’bout that mitosis lecture today?”
2. “Hi, Flip. Oh no. I barely even notice the boogers. Don’t worry, dude. But hey, thanks.”
3. “That’s sweet of you, Flip. Maybe you’d like to get together later and talk about various proactive solutions I might endeavor to undertake to resolve my dilemma.”
4. “Well, aren’t you a doll? I’d LOVE to make out with you behind the gym, after school!”
5. “Oh, Flip! Yes, I’ll marry you!”
Instead, I chose “ORF?”
D’oh!
XXIV
ALONE IN MY ROOM
You there, Gentle Reader, pour me a Dr Pepper and pull up a chair. I’m going to get ready now—it’s up to you to look, listen, and learn. Watching me get ready will be a lesson in the Glory of Glitter, the Majesty of Makeup, and the Royal Romance of Drag.
This is my life, darling—and it’s in Technicolor.
Tonight I will take flight. I will soar into the night and burst into flames. I will sparkle and shine with the brilliance of a thousand disco balls.
Tonight he will notice me.
Tonight everyone will notice me.
Tonight my hair will be pink and my skin will be blue. There will be feathers on my face and ruby rhinestones on my lips. I will be swathed in a flowing cloak of iridescent sequins. My eyelashes are going to be so long and heavy that they will obstruct my vision. I will be blind and forced to let a nearly naked Nubian slave boy carry me around.
Tonight I will say witty and wonderful things to all the right people. I will be endlessly entertaining, tossing off quips and epigrams, puns and aphorisms—even as I’m facedown in the vichyssoise. People will gather from all around to hear pithy pearls of wisdom spew from my sparkling lips. They will laugh uproariously at my droll little jokes, and later scribble them onto napkins so they can retell them to their boring little coworkers in their dull little offices.
Tonight he will notice me. Tonight he will see the spell I cast when I walk into a room. He’ll realize how much fun it is to be with a drag queen. We’ll laugh at the commotion my presence causes. He will be my co-conspirator when the crowd parts, the energy level rises, when all eyes are on me. People are attracted and repulsed by me. Tonight he will be drawn into the circle.
He will be mine. He will love me.
Let the dance begin.
Now where are my tools? Where are my creams, my powders, my potions and lotions? Where are my ointments and emollients? Grab that brush! Give me that goop!
Slop that gunk onto my eyes, wipe that crap on my lips! More!
Feathers, feathers, rhinestones, and glitter!
Tonight I need war paint! I am Jezebel. I am Helen of Troy. I am Venus Rising from the Foam.
Look at that eyebrow! Leonardo da Vinci couldn’t have painted it better!
Now I’m ready to conquer the world. Huzzah!
Then again, maybe I’ll just stay in and watch The OC.
XXV
Heaven help me, this is it. I’ve fallen in love.
And I’m a new woman because of it. Suddenly this skittish little drag queen has been transformed into a sultry woman of substance. From crusty gargoyle to blushing bride. From Queen of the Pig People to Fairy Princess.
And that’s a long road to travel.
I’ve never felt like this before.
Whenever I’m near him, I’m on the verge of some great emotion. I cry easily; I’m quick to laugh. It’s like being at a very high altitude—the blood thins; the pulse quickens—sometimes I can’t quite breathe right. What if he thinks I’m stupid? What if I have bad breath? What if, what if, what if . . .
But then I see him in class; I quickly turn and take a peek. Sometimes he catches me and, miraculously, smiles, and I start to tingle all over. My blood is happy; my bones are happy; in fact, my whole body is happy. My feet start tap-tap-tapping to the mambo beat in my head. My heart, once dry and shriveled from lack of use, is now big and wet and doing flip-flops inside my rib cage.
And now—behold!
I have his picture from last year’s yearbook! There he is! Now I can stare at him without fear of being caught.
Just look:
Flip Kelly—pride of the Fighting Manatees! The Most Beautiful Boy in the World!
Superstar/quarterback/all-around golden boy.
Bambi-eyed pretty-boy/surf-punk/he-hunk.
A dewy, chewy, girly-gooey, moist and oozy sex god.
A hot and heaving hump muffin.
The Prince of Pouts. Duke of Drool. Man of a thousand sighs.
Blonder than blond. With the face of God. Or maybe Speed Racer.
He’s a double dreamboat deluxe.
“Flip!” Consider the name: pre-ironic, neo-nostalgic, retro-golly gee . . . impossibly wholesome . . . impossibly good-natured . . . destined for dreaminess . . .
“Flip!” Sing it. Sigh it. Whisper it. Oh, Flip! Flip!
Have I mentioned yet how beautiful he is?
I’m not sure you get it.
Look! Look!
White-blond hair, like Icelandic royalty.
And such killer bangs.
Bright green eyes, like kryptonite.
And have you ever seen such lips? Like two night crawlers.
And that nibbly little nut of a nose.
And his skin, white, like arsenic.
Truly a legendary beauty. Someday there will be songs about him.
He sits in the back row with the other Fighting Manatees—with them, but not one of them. That much I know.
He glows with inner goodness. A saint among Satanists. No, he does not participate in their Billy-bashing games. I know that. Whenever things get out of hand, and I have no choice but to turn to face my attackers, well, that always seems to be just when he looks up, too—surprised at the commotion. He looks up, smiles s
weetly, as if noticing me for the first time, then goes back to work, unbothered by the great apes that surround him.
Of course, he smiles at everybody—he’s not stingy with them. Regular smile slut, he is. But WHAT A SMILE! He is happy to spread the love, and I’m happy to bask in the glow. Why, it almost makes the protractor stabbings and the spit balls worthwhile!
(Um . . . not really.)
Oh, he’s just the most magnificent boy EVER. So handsome. So wonderful.
I love him.
I do.
XXVI
LOVE LETTER, NEVER SENT
Oh my darling! Oh my love!
I woke up this morning with a song in my heart and a tremor in my drawers. I can’t contain myself any longer: I love you! I love you! I love you! It’s true! I’m a monkey on a moonbeam! A pig with a pennywhistle! Whenever I see that chewy little face of yours with that dazzling Colgate smile, well, my ladybird does backflips. BACKFLIPS, DARLING!
And it’s true what they say, you know, Love IS soft as an easy chair, fresh as the morning air. It’s higher than a mountain, thicker than water. It’s the mountains in springtime, a walk in the rain. It’s a storm in the desert, a sleepy blue ocean.
I could go on. I won’t.
Point is, I’ve never felt like this before.
Oh, there have been other boys. I won’t lie. Chad Michael Murray. Aaron Carter. Hobie from Baywatch . . .
But none of them hold a candle to you.
Flip, my love, my pouty little poster-boy, my own special chew toy—I love it when you are dressed in your football uniform, handsome as all get-out. Of course I do. Who could resist your classic cover-boy looks? But I love you even more in T-shirts and jeans, on your slobby, Aberzombie days. Sometimes during class I sneak a quick peek at you when I’m sure nobody’s looking.
Freak Show Page 6
