by Tanya Boteju
He definitely acted weird around Deidre, but not in an entirely bad way. He’d blush a lot, then scowl, and sometimes he’d shy away from her touch but other times almost seem to nudge up against her. I could tell he was enamored with her somehow—whether it was in a romantic way or not didn’t seem to matter. The fact that Gordon Grant had made friends with a drag queen and treated her with the respect she deserved was the big news.
He and I hadn’t spoken about what he’d shared since the night of nachos and drag bingo, but a couple of incidents told me he and Deidre had been communicating outside of our time together—like when Deidre handed him a book as we left rehearsal one day, saying, “That’s the one I told you about.” Or when Deidre was a couple of minutes late for rehearsal, and Gordon mentioned she had “some appointment” that afternoon, like he’d grown familiar with her schedule.
At one point, Deidre asked him to take some film and photos as we rehearsed, “to get a look at what needs fixin’ and for posterity, of course.” But I think it was her way of getting him to use a camera more—to let him play with his artistic side a bit without having to hide it. We borrowed Charles’s fancy camera, and though Gordon was a little reticent at first, by the end of rehearsal, he was even calling out a few directions in his usual tactless style.
I noticed his wardrobe was changing ever so slightly too—more slim-fit shirts and tighter pants versus ripped, faded T-shirts and drooping jeans. No doubt a touch of Deidre emboldening his closet.
Gordon was still Gordon—moody, sometimes mean, and completely inappropriate at least half the time. But I couldn’t be happier for him.
Midway through the final week of rehearsals, I told Deidre I was taking her to dinner—a meager thank-you for all her patience and wisdom.
After cooling down from a frenetic boogie session, we drove to a modest diner Deidre said was a “gem in the rough” and sat at the counter on old-fashioned barstools. Once we’d ordered, Deidre excused herself to the washroom, leaving me to sip my water and twirl aimlessly on my stool. On the third twirl, long, silky hair in one of the booths opposite the counter caught my eye. Her back was to me, but I had no doubt it was Winnow.
I continued my rotation back to the counter and placed my hands flat on its surface. She was with someone, but I hadn’t registered who. I hadn’t seen her or communicated with her since the Lava Lounge, not that I hadn’t thought about her each and every day.
What to do?
I took a huge gulp of water, tucked a curl behind my ear, and slid off my seat. Deidre was just exiting the washroom as I crossed the floor to the other side. Catching my eye, she tilted her head in a question. Following my glance to Winnow, she mouthed, “Ahh” my way and blew me a kiss.
I noticed now that Winnow was with Devi, which almost made me turn back to the counter, but Devi saw me, and I mustered up a smile, adding a deep breath on top.
Winnow turned to look at me as I stepped up to their table, her eyebrows relaying surprise, but a not entirely unpleasant look passed over her face.
“Hey,” I offered.
“Hey, Nima,” Winnow replied, the hint of a question in her greeting.
I looked to Devi. “Hi, Devi. How’s it going?”
She glanced at Winnow, then back to me, a slight tug at her lips. “Good, good. You?”
“I’m pretty good.” I stared at the food on Devi’s plate for a moment. What now? With Devi here, things were a bit tricky, and I could tell from her crossed arms that she wasn’t about to give me any time alone with Winnow.
Fuck it.
I turned away from Devi and leaped. “Winnow, I’ve been thinking a lot about you and I just want you to know . . . I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit of a mess, and I didn’t know—I still don’t know—what I’m doing. But I’m starting to figure things out, I think, and . . .” I paused to think through my next words. “And if you could ever forgive me for being such an ass”—her eyes smiled at this, which made me smile—“then I’d love to hang out with you again sometime.” I swallowed. Glanced at Devi. Forced myself to look back at Winnow. Took the next plunge. “Actually, I’m performing at Chills on Saturday night, if you’re interested.” Laughing in my usual awkward way, I added, “Don’t worry . . . I rehearsed this time.”
Devi coughed, but Winnow paid her no mind. Her eyes stayed with mine as she nodded and said, “That’s really cool, Nima. I’m not sure I can make it, but I’ll see.”
It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no, either, and somehow, I was okay with the uncertainty. I’d said what I needed to say. I couldn’t do much else but give her the space to take it in and decide what she wanted to do.
I nodded back. “Cool.” I glanced back at Deidre, who was not-so-subtly twirling in her seat now, sipping her drink and smiling at me. “I should get back to that lovely lady over there, but it was really good to see you,” I said, giving Winnow one more smile.
She waved to Deidre and replied, “You too, Nima.”
When I was settled back on my barstool, Deidre reached over and squeezed my hand. “Now, that’s the boogie I’m talkin’ ’bout, girl.”
Thursday. Two more days until show day. I woke up feeling like someone was making scrambled eggs in my stomach. Sleeping wasn’t much of an option these last few days, but I didn’t feel tired. Nervous, excited, horrified, incredulous . . . but not tired.
Deidre found me the perfect jacket—a shiny, electric-blue piece with fat black buttons and velvet lining. Against one another, the tangerine shirt and blue jacket busted out at you like a 3-D image. Deidre had even taken the time to stitch some sweet crown designs into the lapels—“accents fit for a king.”
Charles, like a champ, slogged back to Old Stuff on his own. He was careful to go when Ginny wasn’t working, just to avoid any unnecessary tension on my behalf. But to be honest—I was over it. It wasn’t Ginny’s fault she liked guys, and even if she did kiss me out of curiosity, I can’t say I’d take back the moment if I could.
Charles managed to find matching blue pants—the color wasn’t exact, but Deidre said it was close enough. With the shoes and sunglasses Deidre found in her secret stash of drag paraphernalia at the church, my ensemble was complete.
For Friday’s rehearsal—the last one with Deidre before the show—Deidre made sure I did full dress and makeup so I knew what it would feel like to perform with my boobs flattened by an ultra-tight tensor bandage (it was definitely harder to breathe) and a rolled-up sock down my pants (definitely trickier to dance). As annoying as boobs can be, I’d choose them over a penis any day.
Deidre also made me bring both Gordon and Charles to watch. She said I needed an audience before I stepped in front of the real one on Saturday.
I couldn’t think of anything worse than having both Gordon and Charles watch me perform, but as with everything, I trusted Deidre and sucked it up.
After she dimmed the lights in the basement to make me more comfortable, she whispered, “Remember how filthy cute you are, girl,” shot Gordon and Charles severe warning looks, and hit play on the stereo.
After an initial resurgence of nausea, I used the mantra Deidre taught me to get into “boogie mode”: Laugh at yourself. Laugh at others. Let them laugh at you. And dance, dance, dance like a goddamn fool. Then I just let the music move through me.
As the last chords of the song faded out, Deidre squealed and popped up from the couch where she’d been nestled in between Gordon and Charles. She leaped across the floor like I’d seen her do a hundred times and swept me up in her arms. I was hot, sweaty, and out of breath, but my performance felt tight and smooth. I looked over Deidre’s shoulder at Gordon and Charles. They both clapped, but in a dazed kind of way—slowly and sporadically.
Deidre released me and twirled to face the couch. “Well, what d’ya all think?”
Gordon stared at his knees. Charles pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Both suddenly had overactive Adam’s apples.
“C’mon, you two, don’t be shy!” D
eidre encouraged, squeezing my shoulder.
Charles spoke first. “I—I can’t believe that’s you, Nima.” He pushed at his glasses again. “In a good way, I mean. I mean . . . I like the regular you too, but this you is—”
“Fucking rad.” Gordon was still staring at his knees, but his smirk had appeared. “Seriously. Fucking. Rad.”
Charles looked at him, then back at me. “Yeah. What he said.”
Deidre just about choked me with her next squeeze, and I just about suffocated from disbelief.
CHAPTER 18
Charles, Gordon, and I piled into Gordon’s beast around five o’clock. Jill was going to meet us there, since Saturday was her busiest day at the shop. Our plan was to hang out at Deidre’s, have some dinner (not that I could eat), and get ready there so I could sort myself out in a comfortable, calm setting.
The reality was this: I was a hot mess.
Sitting between Charles and Gordon on the drive to Deidre’s, I insisted on playing my song over and over until Gordon finally yanked my phone from the cord and threw it at Charles’s feet. Charles pretended not to notice and just looked out the window. I folded my arms across my chest and sang the words at the top of my lungs for the rest of the trip.
At Deidre’s, I locked myself in her bedroom, which had a giant mirror in it, while everyone else ate pizza in the kitchen. I shoved my earbuds in and lip-synced the words to my song over and over in the mirror, making sure each word left my lips perfectly, and then I walked through my steps several times.
Through the music, I heard a knock at the door, then Gordon’s voice. “Uh, hey. Deidre says to get out here. She has a surprise or something.”
“Okay—be out in a minute.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the mirror, I paused the music and closed my eyes.
I thought of the first drag show I’d seen—the ambiguous conjoined duo, the flowing hair and fairy wings, the elegant queen, and of course, the poetic punk transformed into sultry gentleman.
I hoped I could be as captivating as them. As magical. As sexy. At one of our rehearsals, Deidre shared that for her, the magic in another king’s or queen’s performance happened when you could see that they only wanted to be right where they were. It was like they were caught up in a story they were telling and acting out. The story was unfolding every moment, and the storyteller wanted nothing more than to peel back a page and step onto the next one. And they wanted the audience to come along with them.
I thought about the story I would tell that night. I wondered if people would understand it and want to come along for the ride.
“Okay, lovey, I have one silly surprise and one that I hope you’ll love as much as I did when I received it.” Deidre stood at the kitchen counter with one hand behind her back. “Silly one first.” She danced over until she stood right in front of me and then drew out her hand, which held a shiny purple bag.
I took the bag from her and peeked inside, not entirely sure this wouldn’t be incredibly embarrassing and trying to figure out what it was before making it visible to everyone.
But Deidre grew impatient with me and dipped her hand into the opening. She plucked out the cloth contents and snapped her wrist to unfold the item. When she grabbed the other corner and pulled the two ends outward, I could see it was a pair of black underpants, with a silver crown on the crotch area and colorful jewels bedazzling the crown.
I looked from the underpants to Deidre’s gigantic smile and couldn’t help but let out a loud guffaw.
“Those . . . are going to be the coolest pair of underpants I own.”
Deidre held them in front of her own crotch and wiggled her hips back and forth. “You’re damn right they are. You have to wear them tonight, of course. They’ll be your good-luck undies.” She flung them at me and I caught them with my face.
Gordon and Charles were trying really hard to continue eating their pizza like nothing was happening.
“Okay, next!” Deidre hollered. “Now, this is something one of my dear, dear friends gave me when I was just a wee drag queen starting out. It reminds me that when I’m performing, I can soar, honey! I’m bigger than that stage, bigger than the room itself.” She reached behind her neck and undid the clasp of her chain. Then she reached behind my neck and fastened it again.
“You’re giving me your necklace?” I asked, pulling at the silver wings with my fingers so I could see them.
“I am.” She placed her hands on my shoulders and crouched to look me in the eyes. “But they come with great responsibility, you hear me?”
That was what I was afraid of. But: “I hear you.”
She gave me a hug, then turned to Gordon and Charles. “Well, sugarplums, Miss Nima here and I are retreating to the boudoir to get ready. You two keep yourselves busy. Play some music or something.”
Gordon and Charles glanced sideways at each other. Then both reached for another slice of pizza.
Deidre helped me dress, wrapping my chest in the tensor bandage and making sure my shirt and suit sat just so on my body. She also managed, with some sort of Deidre-style wizardry, to work my frizzy curls into a sleek, wavy coif. She let me stuff my own pants, though, which I appreciated.
When she pulled out her makeup kit to do my face, I stretched out my hands in front of me. She looked at my hands, then at me, one eyebrow raising in a question.
“Can I try?” I asked. “I think I want to do it myself. Gotta learn sometime, right?” My shoulders lifted into a shrug.
She smiled. In royal fashion, she leaned forward from her waist, one toe pointed out to the ground in front of her, and placed the kit in my hands. Then she bestowed a kiss on my forehead and left me alone in the room.
Facing the mirror, I began brushing and contouring, drawing and smudging, just as Deidre had shown me. Abandoning the sponge, I used my fingers to work the makeup into my skin, along my chin, cheekbones, brow. The creamy feel of skin to makeup to skin was somehow soothing, calming. As I applied each layer, I could feel my body relaxing into itself—my forehead smoothed out, my jaw loosened, my shoulders dropped.
And then the details. A small, neat soul patch just beneath my lower lip, a thin mustache that curved over the edges of my mouth, slightly extended sideburns. I filled out my eyebrows a bit and placed a decisive mole on my left cheek. Each stroke, each point a fierce little transformation of its own.
When I was finished, I put the makeup away and peered into the mirror.
There was just no metaphor for it: I looked good.
When Deidre came in to check on my progress, she halted in the doorway and placed her hands on her hips, uttering a “Hey nah” and giving me an up-down. Then, her head shifting a little to the right, she let out an emphatic “MMM” and yelled over her shoulder to whoever was listening, “I have a prince in my bedroom, y’all!”
After she gave me a tight but careful hug, she did her own face and dress—“I’m going out and loud for you tonight, girl.” This meant a full black Afro wig and a yellow pantsuit that looked so perfect on her it made me want to die and come back a pantsuit just so I could look like that. Accessorized with chunky black-and-gold jewelry and strappy, gleaming black heels, she was sun, sky, stars, and night all at once.
But for the first time, I didn’t feel woefully underdressed next to her.
When we came back out into the living room, where Charles and Gordon had occupied themselves with Deidre’s record collection, Charles actually froze and didn’t break his gaze for a full minute, while Gordon took one look and immediately diverted his attention to the record in his hands.
“The Orange Crush is now departing, y’all! Time to bring the party to the people!” Deidre threw a feather boa at Gordon and a leather tie to Charles, told them both they had no choice, and ushered us out the door with several windmill snaps.
Chills, just around the corner from the Lava Lounge, was a significantly smaller venue, but contrary to its name, much cozier. It consisted of a square room with a small
, circular stage in one corner, a four-sided bar in the middle, and a dance floor in between that looked like it could fit about twenty people. Multicolored icicle lights hung from the bar counters and along the darkened windows that made up one side of the room. A massive mirror engulfed another wall, making the space look bigger than it was.
When we arrived, several things lowered my anxiety considerably. One, eighties music blasted from the sound system. Two, the crowd appeared very mixed—a variety of genders and ages and colors, and people dressed in everything from full drag to jeans and T-shirts. Lastly, at least six people turned and smiled at us as we entered. Maybe this was because we were with Deidre, or because of my amazing blue suit and sweet ’do, but whatever the reason, I immediately felt more at ease.
That ease lasted about twelve minutes.
After Deidre took me over to the DJ to give her my music and instructions and we’d returned to the table where we’d left Gordon and Charles, my eyes shifted around the bar to see who made up my audience. When I scanned past the entrance, Chills finally lived up to its name, because my sight line froze and my skin rose into goose bumps.
Winnow.
She stood talking to the bouncer, smiling that sweet smile and gesturing with her hands to emphasize something she said. Dressed simply in a loose green tank top, artfully torn jeans, and Timberland boots, she still managed to detonate a grenade in my chest.
Deidre caught me staring and said, “That’s your girl, innit?”
I shook my head. “Not mine, no.”
“She could be by the end of tonight.”
My heart rose to my throat. “I don’t think so.”
Deidre leaned in and tugged playfully at my ear. “I think so. She’s here, in’t she?”
She’s here.
“I know I invited her! But now what do I do?” I pleaded, as Deidre touched up my makeup backstage. Three other “sacrifices” were back there as well—one busy wriggling into their costume, another with earbuds in and lip-syncing to their music, and a third obsessively combing back their bouffant. The space was barely big enough for everyone, but Deidre easily carved out an opening for us in front of an oval mirror on the wall.
