Kings, Queens, and In-Betweens

by Tanya Boteju

  Charles, on the other hand, though he was petrified by young female teenagers, couldn’t fight his way out of a pile of kittens, and was about as courageous as my left baby toe, grew into a frenzied fanatic when it came to roller coasters. I could see it in his eyes right now. They darted back and forth, trying to figure out which ride to test out first.

  Lucky for me, he knew how I felt about these things and understood that going on a ride meant that he was going by himself or making a new friend.

  “All right, let’s split up. You get the rides out of your system, and I’ll go find interesting people to watch. We’ll meet back here at eight o’clock. Okay?”

  “Okay!” Charles said, already speed-walking across the Weeds toward the Hell’s Gate roller coaster. Watching him go, my head shook as though acting independently of me—judging me for being even less adventurous than Charles. Charles.

  I turned the other way and moved toward the southeast corner of the Weeds. As I passed between the bigger tents, applause and “Ooohhhs” floated out on the night breeze. I rubbed my eyes, willing the drowsiness of the day from them. A part of me would have gladly walked home and curled up in the hammock. But I couldn’t go home. Not yet. Not without piercing my monotony with a sharp sword.

  From my backpack, I pulled out the candy bag we’d won and yanked a gummy worm in half with my teeth. Determinedly working the jelly with my jaw, I advanced on the other tents.

  Three smaller tents advertised a fire-eater, a magician, and a snake charmer, none of which appealed to me.

  I backtracked toward a group of tents clustered around an unlit bonfire. Later on, when it got dark enough, I supposed the woodpile would be set ablaze, and the party would carry on late into the night.

  What would that be like? I wondered.

  The first of the five tents held two figures—one was a bearded lady, as far as I could tell, and the other was a guy with tattoos over every inch of his body.

  Not interested.

  After dipping into two of the other tents, I found myself beginning to succumb to the tiredness creeping into my body. Pausing in the middle of the tent cluster, animated couples and groups brushing past me, I tightened the straps of my backpack and took a deep breath, recounting my options.

  One: boring and alone. Two: not that. Your choice, Nima.

  Twisting around, I focused on the fourth tent. It squatted lower to the ground than the first three and was much louder. Punk music clattered out through a slit in the front, and a guy in a studded leather jacket with a shock of unruly hair stood outside, calling out to anyone passing by.

  Normally, loud noises and guys in leather would send me fleeing in the opposite direction. But I forced my feet forward and made direct eye contact with the dude just as he called out, “Pretty pixies performing poetic puzzles in pinafores to pretentious punk! Only two bucks!”

  Well, this is different. I took his alliterative flair as a sign, pulled out two dollars, and handed the money to him. He gave me a high five and bowed extravagantly as he held open the tent flap.

  Inside, twinkle lights and a few scattered candles provided the only illumination, apart from the gleam of what seemed like hundreds of silver studs and zippers decorating the guitarist to my left. From his fingers, a commotion of guitar chords pummeled my eardrums. The tent was mostly empty. In the flickering, dim light, I made out only two other people sitting on pillows near a large wooden crate a few feet away. They turned to look at me.

  I almost took a step backward to retreat the way I’d entered, but from an opening in the tent behind the crate, an elfin figure stepped out, slathered in a leather body suit with a lime-green pinafore over top, a strap slipping off her left shoulder. Her legs bottomed out into thick, heavy boots while her jet-black hair rose into a twirling peak—reminding me even more of a forest sprite or some other mystical creature. Deep red eye shadow painted her eyelids, and the faintest hint of sparkles winked off her pale brow and cheekbones.

  I imagined cement blocks around my feet, despite the sudden thumping in my chest. Just see what happens, Nima.

  She stared right at me. I immediately looked at my shoes and used my tongue to dig a defiant piece of gummy worm out of my molar. After a few moments, a hand drifted into my vision. I raised my eyes to stare at the hand, which was attached to the nymphlike figure. Her fingers rippled invitingly. My jaw went slack. Her arm remained an invitation, hovering, and my hand acted of its own accord, rising to meet hers. Her skin was cool and sent a shiver through me.

  She gently steered me to the collection of cushions scattered on the ground. The two other people—a couple, I gathered, since they were draped over one another—gazed at my enchanted guide as she led me to a bright blue pillow. Her hand slipped out of mine, and as she moved toward the crate-stage, she looked over her shoulder and gave me the slightest of smiles.

  It’s entirely possible I imagined that part, though.

  I slipped my backpack off and sat down, hugging the bag to my chest, then folding my knees in after it as tightly as I could.

  The guitar’s remonstrations quieted down behind us, and the musician began plucking the strings in a slow, low cadence. Our “pretty pixie” stood onstage with her back to us, her pinafore parting like a tent entrance itself, revealing that the bodysuit was backless. A geisha tattoo stared out at us from the performer’s skin—the inky figure bent low, hands meeting at an uptilted chin.

  Just as I had convinced myself that this dark blue geisha was about to dance for us, the tattoo disappeared in a twirl and the crimson eye shadow drew my attention again.

  “You can call me Winnow,” she said, meeting each of the three of us with her eyes.

  I’ll call you whatever you like.

  After a deep breath, she recited in a singsongy voice, in time with the guitar:

  “That girl feels like

  Poppin’ wheelies on her trike

  Riding by dingin’ her bell

  I wonder if she’ll ever know

  She’s dingin’ my bell as well.”

  Her voice brought to mind fine dust, slipping over everyone and everything in the space. After a moment, she looked down at the couple to my left, who appeared to be as transfixed as I was.

  “Body part.”

  The couple looked at each other, then back at her.

  “Favorite body part,” Winnow repeated, her fingers clasped in front of her and a faint smile on her lips.

  The guy grinned. The girl placed her hand over his cheeky face before he could say what we all knew he wanted to say. She called back to Winnow, “Hands.”

  “Hands.”

  Then Winnow looked at me.

  Lord lick a lollipop. No one said there was audience participation.

  “Body part.”

  I stared at her mouth as she said it. I understood what she was asking, but my own mouth wouldn’t work. I licked my lips. Bit my bottom lip. Hugged my backpack a little tighter. I glanced over at the couple, who waited with way-too-cheerful smiles on their faces. God. What if I say the wrong thing? The predictable thing?

  “Uh . . .”

  “Favorite . . . body . . . part.”

  I couldn’t tell whether she was actually speaking more slowly or if time itself had begun to wind down.

  Finally: “M-mouth?”

  There was that barely-smile again. My cheeks flushed. I tried to generate some spit to wash away a mouthful of sand.

  Winnow looked down and closed her eyes for a few moments. The guitar continued to plunk away in the background. She shook out her hands and looked up.

  “That girl feels like

  singeing her hands on burning sands

  Her mouth is on fire too

  She touches her lips with her fingertips

  To feel the blaze run through.”

  She paused. The couple and I stared. She finally fixed the fallen strap of her pinafore. We watched her do this. The guitar stopped plunking. She looked at us. She blinked.

  “Th
at’s it, y’all.”

  The word “y’all” coming from those lips broke the spell over us.

  I looked at the couple, who looked at each other and then at me. All three of us clapped awkwardly, not knowing if that was what you did for a “poetic puzzle.” Not really knowing what a poetic puzzle was in the first place. All I really knew was that only a few minutes had passed by and I felt like a puzzle in pieces.

  After Winnow clumped off the makeshift stage in her heavy boots and stole through the flap behind it, I lumbered to my feet and kicked my legs to get the kinks out.

  “Well, that was weird,” the boy said.

  “What do you want for two bucks?” the girl asked.

  Fair enough. But somehow, I felt like I’d just gotten a real bargain.

  The three of us slipped out the front entrance. The dude who’d taken my money was lying on the grass next to the entrance, staring up at the sky and smoking. I checked my watch: 7:43. Why do I feel like I was in there for hours?

  I wrapped myself in my backpack and continued wandering. The crowd had thickened and more voices rang through the air. Encouraged by my foray into strangeness and desirous for more, I approached the final tent, but it didn’t look open yet. I stood awkwardly outside the entrance, unsure of what to do. You can’t really knock on a tent flap. But what if this tent is even more exciting than the last? Just as I was about to poke my nose through the opening, two girls who looked like crew members burst out. I stumbled backward, narrowly escaping their sturdy frames.

  They stopped to consider me. Like a genius, I tried to lean casually against the tent. I failed. One of the girls caught my arm as I toppled sideways and pulled me upright. This all felt a little too familiar. I battled through these feelings and offered, “Ha-ha . . . first time near a tent.”

  One of the girls—with arms like a boxer’s—smiled widely. The other laughed. This was heartening enough to ask, “Do you know what’s happening here?”

  Laughing girl answered, “You should definitely come back later to find out. But you have to be eighteen. Which of course you are, right?” She gave me a wink.

  “Uh . . . yeah?” It was only about nine months from the truth.

  “Perfect. If you like boys in fancy dresses and girls in sharp suits, you won’t want to miss it. And who knows whether we’ll be here tomorrow.” She gave her companion a half smile and an eye roll. The other girl nodded at me as if to say, It’s true. They traipsed off, boxer girl yelling, “Show starts at ten!” as they did.

  Ten? I hadn’t planned on being here that long, and Charles would absolutely not want to hang out here until then. But I was intrigued and bolstered by recent encounters. Boys in dresses and girls in suits? The possibility of running into Winnow again? Something between butterflies and wasps soared about in my belly, and for some reason, that felt . . . okay. Maybe this was what it was like to actually have a life?

  I made my way back over to the meeting spot, still tingling with anticipation. Charles was already there, stuffing popcorn into his mouth.

  “Hey, chipmunk cheeks,” I called out to him.

  He opened nice and wide to give me a good look at a mouthful of pulpy popcorn.

  “Nice. Guess you’re not into eating a proper dinner?”

  He chewed, chewed, swallowed, then said, “This is dinner.”

  “Huh. Okay, well, you enjoy tomorrow’s constipation, and I’ll grab a plate of barbecue.”

  He licked his fingers. “I’ll walk up with you, but then I think I’m going to head home. Want to watch a movie or something?”

  “Nah. I think I’ll grab a bite and head home myself.”

  That was a lie. I had just lied to Charles. It just came out of me, like a miniature mudslide spilling from my mouth. I wasn’t even entirely sure why I did it. Would he understand if I wanted to go back to the festival by myself? Would he want to come? Do I want him to come?

  We exited the Weeds and walked back up to the square. I told Charles a bit about my tent adventures but left out the part where my brain disconnected from the rest of me when I watched Winnow do her thing. Partially because I wasn’t sure how to explain what I’d felt. But mostly because I was unsure how he’d react to me moving from one out-of-my-league girl to another.

  Since it was later in the evening, the barbecue hut wasn’t busy. I got my plate of barbecued chicken, corn, kale, and a biscuit (apparently, punk poetry made me ravenous), and we plunked ourselves down by the community garden.

  Charles munched his popcorn thoughtfully. “So, this punk poetry thing—what was the point?”

  “You got me. You know how performance art can be—completely befuddling whilst impossible to ignore.”

  “But the poems were good?”

  “Well, I don’t know if ‘good’ is the word I’d use. Kind of . . . ‘seductive’ is more like it.” As soon as I’d said it, my stomach pitched sideways. I stole a quick look at Charles. He’d stopped munching.

  “Seductive? Why seductive?”

  “Uh . . . I don’t know. Just, you know, ’cause she was talking about body parts and stuff. That’s all. Maybe seductive’s not the right word. Maybe . . . sassy? Or . . . cheeky? Playful? I don’t know—” He’ll think you’re ludicrous for crushing on this girl, Nima. Chill. Out.

  “Right. Sometimes I wonder how someone as articulate as I am is able to carry on a conversation with someone like you.”

  I threw a piece of kale at him.

  “Yick. Keep your leafy fad-food away from me!”

  We finished up and started walking toward Charles’s house. He talked the whole way about Tessa and what she was doing right now and whether he’d see her tomorrow if he came back.

  I was kind of paying attention. But only between flashes of pinafores and poetry.

  CHAPTER 5

  After Charles and I said our goodbyes, I walked back to the Weeds, albeit with some reservations. My weirdness around Charles had made me momentarily rethink my decision to go back for the next show—it’d be so easy to curl up and watch a movie with him, or cozy up in my hammock with a book. I wouldn’t need to be weird if there wasn’t anything to be weird about. I couldn’t make a fool of myself watching a movie with my best friend.

  But I told myself if I could just get past my house and hammock without being sucked in by the guaranteed comfort, something else might be waiting for me on the other side. Something that might color me outside the lines and flow into other parts of my life.

  The sky had darkened and more lights appeared along the tents and rides inhabiting the Weeds. A few of the standing torches were lit as well, creating vague pathways between one tent and the next.

  I checked my watch for what seemed to be the hundredth time since dinner. It was 9:37. Close enough.

  I wandered over with fake confidence to see whether the last tent was open to the public yet, and to find out what this secret show was all about.

  As I rounded a corner, I bumped into the back of an unusually tall woman with very broad, strong shoulders—at least they felt awfully strong when I ran into them with my face—who was standing at the end of a long line.

  “Oh my gosh—I’m so sorry.”

  The woman turned, and I was momentarily stunned by sparkles and sequins.

  “Oh, that’s okay, sweetheart! People bump into me all the time—only they’re usually a little taller and huskier. But you’re pretty cute for someone with lady parts.” She winked and her eyelashes seemed to wave at me. As far as I could tell, they were false eyelashes (that they were made of silver tinsel gave it away), and they weren’t the only things that were add-ons here. Those golden braids were definitely a wig. Enough makeup to sink a small ship. Nails long enough to out-claw a koala. And those boobs were awfully perky.

  Pretty sure I was talking to a drag queen.

  Not that I knew much about drag queens. I’d read enough books and watched enough movies to know a little about “gay culture.” But I was still a small-town girl, an introvert, and compl
etely awkward. And this was definitely my first time meeting a drag queen. Coupled with my punk poetry experience, my eyes were being yanked open tonight.

  “Here for the show?” Her eyelashes were shiny, thick daddy longlegs. I guessed her age to be late twenties or early thirties.

  “I—I think so. Is this the line?”

  “It sure is. They should open up soon, though, don’t worry.” She gave me a quick up-down. I must have seemed like a Camry next to her Cadillac. “You ever seen a show like this, cutie?”

  “Uh . . . I’m not sure, to be entirely honest.” Could I sound any more amateur?

  Her bright purple lips extended across her face into an ecstatic grin, and I could see the dark shine of her gums. She wrapped her arm across my shoulders and pulled me up beside her. “My dear, dear chocolate sister, are you trying to tell me you don’t know what kind of show this is?” she whispered loudly in my ear. Her breath was sweet with some sort of liquor and . . . bubblegum?

  “No—I mean—well, no. Why? What kind of show is it?”

  “Darling. Life is so drastically bereft of exquisite surprises—I wouldn’t dare steal this one from you. But do come in as my sugar-filled date!” She gave my shoulders a firm squeeze.

  She was gregarious and beautiful, and surprisingly, I was wholly at ease with her. And not only would I avoid attending this mystery event alone, but I suddenly felt something like cool. Even if I wasn’t. And I wasn’t.

  “Uh, sure. How could I say no?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you could. And many people have!” She let out a thrilling laugh that soared across the park. A few people in the line ahead of us looked back and chuckled. This only seemed to encourage her further. “Ladies and gents and everyone in between, I would like to introduce you to my date for the evening, the fabulous—what’s your name, dear?”

  “Nima.”

  “The fabulous Nima!”

  A few people in the line—I noticed now that my date was not the only one in drag—clapped and cheered in delight.

  Part of me was ready to bolt, but it was a small part, and every other part of me was growing more and more enticed by the possibilities that might await me if I could just leave bland Nima behind and absorb a little more of this . . . this glittering being in front of me.