I gave Grammy my best performance, and afterward, she said, “I don’t buy this sick act, but if you’re calling me, it must be for a reason. Tell the secretary I’m on my way. I’ll deal with your mother.”

And that was only one of many instances where Grammy swooped in and saved the day, so not even Clem is surprised when I drop her off at school the next morning and announce that I will be taking a self-care day.

“Going to Grammy’s?” she asks, fully aware that I’ve not been myself, especially since yesterday’s lunch.

“I’ll pick you up after school,” I promise her.

“Mr. Brewer,” calls Mr. Higgins from the carport where he’s on morning parking lot duty.

“Shit,” I mutter.

“How chivalrous of you to drop your twin sister off up front. I suspect you’re going to find a parking spot and that I’ll see you in first period?”

I nod mutely.

“Stupendous!”

Clem shrugs. “Sorry,” she says quietly.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I tell her.

“Stupendous,” she says in her worst Mr. Higgins voice. “I’ll wait for you inside.”

I circle back around and take a spot at the back of the lot. After hopping out and walking halfway across the parking lot, I double back because I forgot my backpack, and I can already feel my annoyance at merely existing today start to ramp up. Maybe if I can make it through first period, I can skip for the rest of the day.

As I’m walking into the building, Clementine comes barreling down the hallway. “We have to go to Grammy’s!” she says breathlessly.

“What?” Panic spikes in my chest. “Is she okay? What’s wrong?”

“There she is,” Patrick Thomas sings as he steps in front of her, cackling in my face. “Miss America!”

“Are you high?” I ask him.

“Excuse me, Miss Patch?” says one of his younger goons in a voice so high it makes him sound like air escaping a balloon.

My chest begins to tighten. No. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. Suddenly, my throat feels like sandpaper. There’s only one way someone would know to call me by that name.

Clem grips my wrist. “Come on. Let’s go. Ignore these guys.”

Another guy who I vaguely recognize pretends to vogue, but does an awful job of it as he sings a nonsensical, barely recognizable version of “Lady Marmalade.”

Around me, the entire hallway full of students is laughing. At me. They’re laughing at me.

I turn to Clem, unable to hide the betrayal I feel deep in my bones.

I tear my arm away from her and look up just in time to see Tucker Watson grimace at this whole disastrous situation and turn away. So glad I could disgust you, I nearly spit at him.

I could hide out in Ms. Laverne’s office, but that would require diving even deeper into the school. If Patrick Thomas has seen my audition video, everyone else has too, and if this is what I am greeted with after stepping five feet into the building, no thank you. Sorry, Mr. Higgins. I’m out of here.

I walk with purpose, my head held high and my shoulders squared, the whole way to my car as Clem chases after me.

I don’t know how the video got out, but I do know that I shared it with one person and one person only. Besides, it’s not like Clem was being so judicious in the first place about who she shared it with.

I get in the truck and Clem circles around to get into the passenger side, but I hit the lock button before she can open the door.

“Waylon Russell Brewer!” she says, shocked.

I shake my head and turn the radio on.

Clem comes over to my side and knocks on the window. “It’s not so bad,” she pleads. “Please let me in. We can handle this! We can do anything together! We’re the Brewer twins, damn it!”

And that’s it. That’s the final straw. I roll my window down and turn to her. “Together? Really? Just like how you were going to go to Georgia without me? Or were we supposed to do that together too?”

Her jaw drops, and it’s then that I know this is really happening. My twin sister, my best friend, is leaving me to go halfway across the country and she didn’t even have the courage to tell me. She’s not thinking about it or weighing her options. Clem’s mind is made up.

It takes her too long to form a thought, to grasp her words.

I’ve already rolled my window up and am blasting Gaga’s “Bad Romance.” I reverse out of the parking lot, leaving my sister there, her jaw still slack.

Eight

It only takes a few minutes of internet sleuthing to piece together how this happened, and it all starts with Kyle Meeks.

Of course, it does. I slam my phone down in the passenger seat and grip my steering wheel as I try to inhale the good vibes and exhale the toxic anger that makes me want to crush Kyle Meeks and everything he loves until all that’s left is ashes for me to sprinkle across a pit of rattlesnakes.

After a few moments, I pick my phone up again and begin to reread his text message.

Kyle: Waylon, I am so incredibly sorry! I shared the video to the Prism Club Facebook group. Or so I thought. I accidentally publicly posted it to my personal page. It was only up for 20 minutes. 30 tops.

I pull up Facebook and find his post in the Prism Club, where he’d originally intended to post it.

Kyle Meeks (Moderator) → Prism (Group, 36 Members)

I’m so thrilled to share this FIERCEST OF THEM ALL audition tape from our very own, Waylon Brewer. You go, Waylon! We’re rooting for you!

11

Below is the video in its full unedited glory.

He even tagged me. This is what I get for saying Facebook is beneath me. (Honestly though, any platform where my own mother is sharing memes is not a safe space.)

The comments are mostly gentle and encouraging, which honestly softens me a little, but it doesn’t matter because it’s everywhere. Facebook. Twitter. Instagram. There are even a few reaction videos on Snapchat, Twitter, and YouTube. And all it took was thirty minutes before Kyle realized what he’d done and deleted his public post.

I haven’t gone globally viral or anything like that, but there’s no doubt that nearly every soul in this town has seen the video.

Mostly people are just laughing. But some of it is vitriol. Pure hate.

If my son dressed like this, I’d disown his ass.

I’m sorry, y’all, but this just goes against nature. God created this boy to be a boy.

What a perv.

Y’all can laugh all you want, but this boy must be possessed by demons.

In my day, boys didn’t have time to wear skirts. They were busy providing.

Downfall of society, ladies and gents.

Some are even worse than that.

My phone rings.

My dad. Of course this would have made its way to him and my mom.

I think about sending him to voice mail, but that will only make things worse.

“Hello?”

“Son?” Dad’s normally booming voice is soft around the edges. He clears his throat. “I, uh, your sister called your mother and me. Said some kind of video of you is making the rounds. You, uh, dressed in a . . . dress.”

“I was in drag, Dad.”

“Drag. Right. Like on your show, right? Anyone giving you a hard time?”