“Well, you should know that I never wear makeup, so I won’t be able to tell the difference.”

I dig through our spread and come up with a silver eyeliner and use it to draw little stars in the corners of her eyes before handing her the mirror and letting her apply her own mascara. I top it off with a black lipstick from a few Halloweens ago, and then I lean back to appreciate my work.

“You look stupid good. Okay, I gotta get ready. Wear those combat boots.” I point out the black ones with the neon-blue shoelaces sitting in the corner.

“Those are Hannah’s,” she says.

“Nothing says high school lesbians in love like wearing each other’s combat boots.”

“Well, that’s accurate,” she admits.

I throw up my best spirit fingers in an attempt to curb my nerves at the thought of attending MY. FIRST. GAY. BAR. “And now I must transform.”

Sixteen

It feels really fucking good to dig into the side of my closet I’ve preserved for future Waylon adventures. I might not be living my post–high school dreams just yet, but it feels like for one night only, the future is here. Or at least a preview of it.

With my fingers, I swipe a translucent shimmery eyeshadow over my cheekbones and use a clear gloss on my lips. I salvaged my new boots that fell prey to mud earlier this week and pair them with black leggings I stole from my mom and never gave back and a black T-shirt with a velvet robe Grammy was donating that “fell out” of the bag before I dropped the rest of the items off at Our Lady of Peace Women’s Shelter.

Outside, as we’re getting in the truck, Hannah says, “Whoa, y’all look like—”

“We’re old pros who have been to a million gay bars and aren’t even a little bit nervous,” finishes Clem.

“I was going to say like people who googled ‘what to wear to da club,’ but sure, that too.”

I hold my robe out like a cape and take a twirl. “We’re not nervous for the club. The club is nervous for us.”

“You look amazing too,” Clem says to Hannah as they share a quick kiss.

And Hannah does look great in skintight black jeans and a white tank top. She’s smudged a touch of matte gray eyeshadow across her lids, and it’s the perfect addition to make her light-brown eyes sparkle. Tonight, her hair is pulled back from her face with one side swept back in a French braid. Hannah always looks like the kind of girl who could kick your ass, but tonight she looks like the kind of girl you’d be begging to kick your ass.

“Not to be a total creep, but is that side boob you’re rocking?” I ask.

Hannah blushes instantly, but instead of telling me to shut up, she curtsies and says, “Indeed it is.”

It’s not that we’re all different versions of ourselves tonight, but it’s like we turned up the volume a little, and it makes me excited for what could be.

As we buckle up, Hannah says, “Y’all know this is basically like a honky-tonk, but gay, right? Not at all classy.” She’s got that nervous energy that spawns anytime you’re about to share something you love with someone and are suddenly thinking of all of its flaws you’re usually indifferent to. “Y’all are, like . . . really dressed up. Way more than usual.”

“Be the class you wish to see in the world,” I tell her as I hit the gas and haul it out of Clover City.

I’ve heard all kinds of things about the Hideaway, which is right outside of town somewhere in between nowhere and the middle of nowhere. Depending on who you talk to, it’s a breeding ground for carnal sin or it’s a place where the most unlikely of dreams come true.

The reality, however, is just as Hannah promised it would be. A gay honky-tonk.

“I was promised drag queens,” I remind her as we pull into the gravel parking lot.

“This place looks . . . rough,” Clem says as she takes in the clusters of people in the parking lot and dotted around the edges of the building, some smoking, others vaping, and some sitting on the hoods of their cars. The clientele ranges from teens to elderly. A few look like what you would expect to see at a country-looking place like this, but some look like people you would see at the grocery store or the mall, and then there are a few who overdressed for a night out. Honestly, I think I might share an immediate and mutual understanding with anyone who would overdress for a night out at a middle-of-nowhere gay bar.

We join the line at the door, and a big, burly guy checks our IDs before slashing big X marks across the tops of our hands with black permanent marker.

As we’re funneled in through a short but narrow hallway, Clem says, “Alex and Kyle should already be here.”

“Oh, joy,” I say.

And if Clem had any sort of response to me, it’s lost to boisterous laughter and a constant buzzing of conversation over Katy Perry remixed with One Direction. Is this heaven? Am I dead?

Actually, based on the smell—cigarettes, sweat, a sickly sweet something, and the faint scent of mildew—this most definitely is not heaven, but it’s a dark little corner of the universe full of oddballs and misfits, and even though I’ve never been a fan of crowds or loud noise, I feel at home. For the first time ever, I have the freedom to blend in or stand out. It’s something I never thought to wish for.

“Follow me,” says Hannah as she takes Clem by the hand, who then takes my hand.

We form a chain link as we slither in and out of people and around tables until we’ve made our way to a small circle table where Alex and Kyle are waiting. The table is made to hold three, but we squeeze in and make it work. Alex is wearing his usual skinny jeans and rumpled T-shirt, and Kyle looks like a missionary in his Sunday khakis and lavender polo shirt. There’s letting your mom dress you, and then there’s looking like you let your mom dress you. Kyle is definitely the latter.

Immediately, Alex and Kyle dive into a conversation with Clem and Hannah while I scope the place out.

There are so many little clusters of people who look just like us—a little bit uncomfortable and a little bit astonished. What’s so special about being the small-town gay kid in a room full of small-town gay kids? But my whole heart feels full and I’m scared to join the conversation at my table for fear that I might start crying for no reason. So this is what it feels like for so many of the people I’ve known my whole life. This is the comfort of effortlessly blending in.

I feel at ease in a way I never have before, and I didn’t realize how distancing it was to watch queer people through a television screen or a computer monitor without ever feeling this kind of close proximity. This kind of safety in numbers.

From across the room, I see Corey and Simone, a Black girl with a nearly shaved head who I recognize from the wrestling team, and wave. They’re sitting with a small group of kids—some who I recognize and some who I don’t. I think I missed the boat on Prism, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe I haven’t always been so alone and if, in reality, there’s been this little queer network all around me.

The muscled man from the front door takes the stage and he’s greeted by a few wolf whistles and squeals. “Now, come on, y’all. I damn well know y’all aren’t here to see little ol’ me. Put your paws together for the one! The only! Leeeeeeeee Way!”