I brought Clementine’s Merle Norman makeup kit, which I plan on replacing with much better products the moment I have actual money that belongs to me.

As I’m plastering my eyebrows to my forehead with a stick of glue, an older man with a potbelly and olive-toned skin sits down beside me with a dress bag in one hand and a makeup-stained lavender Caboodle in the other.

He smiles at me in our reflection, and I yank the headphones from my ears.

“First time onstage?” he asks over the tempo of the music.

“Yes,” I say. “No, well, yes, formally.”

He opens his Caboodle to reveal stacks of makeup palettes and piles of lip liners and lipsticks. “My kit is your kit.”

“Thanks,” I say, my face nearly turning into the heart-eyes emoji at the sight of his stash.

I continue to do my makeup, but now that I have company, I hesitate with every stroke. My new friend is doing everything he can not to stare at me, but we can’t really avoid each other, and it turns out that painting your face with an audience is actually awful.

As I’m reaching for my lip liner, he passes me a sleek metallic tube. “Try this one.” He motions to my bag, where my brand-new wig from Party Zone is still in the wrapper. “It’ll complement the hair. And you might want to let that girl air out.”

I fumble for the wig and pull it out of the bag, but it might as well be a ball of static.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

Shaking my head, I hand over my dumpster fire of a wig. I ran out after school to get one once I realized I only had the one from my video at home.

“I’m Nick, by the way.”

“Waylon.”

He reaches under the table and comes up with a wig stand. “Or first name: Peppa; middle name: Roni; last name: Way.”

“You’re Peppa Roni!” There was something about him I thought was familiar. “But last name: Way?”

“My drag mother. Surely, you’ve seen Lee up there.”

“Ohhhhh,” I say. “I just thought . . . you’re . . .”

“Older,” he says with a smile. “Lee used to deliver pizza for me when he was still pulling weekend bartending shifts here.”

“So Lee is Lee . . . that’s their drag name and their real name?”

He nods as he attacks my wig with a pick comb and hairspray. “Lee is Lee. In or out of drag. So you go to school in Odessa or something? A college kid?”

I shake my head. “Clover City born and bred.” It takes everything in me to not ask him a zillion questions, from best tucking practices to where I can buy shoes to fit my ginormous feet.

“A true West Texas queen.”

“We’ll see. I’m two weeks from high school graduation and have zero plans other than possibly going to community college. Not exactly glamorous.” I uncap the lip liner Nick shared with me. It’s a bright, fiery orange.

“Well, if you ever feel like making pizzas, I’ve employed my fair share of up-and-coming queens.” He sets out a lipstick for me to try. “Pair it with that.”

I begin to follow the line of my lips and he laughs, but not in a mean way.

“No, no,” he says. “Draw the lips—what’s your drag name?”

“Pumpkin Patch,” I tell him.

“Now, that’s a good one. Draw Pumpkin’s lips. Not Waylon’s. Overline those babies. They won’t be perfect, but one day you’ll find the right shape. You gotta get it wrong before you can get it right.”

I do as he says, and he’s right. They are definitely not perfect, but once I fill them in with the lipstick, which is more red than orange, they sort of look good. If I squint.

My phone buzzes. Clementine!

Hannah: Nothing yet.

I hit Clem’s name in my phonebook, but my call goes straight to voice mail. I normally never leave voice mails, but tonight calls for a voice mail. “Clem, I, uh, wanted to see where you are.” And then quietly, so that hopefully Nick can’t hear me over the music, “I’m really nervous. It would mean a lot to have you here. But also, please be careful. Call me.”

“Here,” says Nick after rooting through his bag. “Take this. It’s always good to have a prop. There’s nothing worse than not knowing what to do with your hands.”

He hands me a pink fan with scalloped edges. I open it to look it over carefully. “I’ll give it back as soon as I’m done.”

“Nah,” he says. “Keep it. You know how to snap one of these things open?”

I laugh nervously.

Nick leans over and positions my thumb along the stem of the fan. “There ya go. Now flick your wrist, and voilà.”

I do as he says and the fan spreads, making a satisfying noise. “So dramatic,” I say. “You didn’t have to do all this for me.”

“Nah, I’m on last tonight. I’ve got time to kill. Knock ’em dead,” he says.

A girl with a buzzed head and a cat-ear headband pokes in through the curtain. “Pumpkin?”

I raise my fan in the air.

“Two more ahead of you and then you’re on,” she says.

I nod and attempt to swallow, but my throat is too dry. At least I’m lip-synching tonight.

It’s nice to have Nick here. But I don’t know Nick. And Nick isn’t Clementine . . . or Tucker.

Filling my lungs, I take a deep breath in and remind myself that for some ridiculous reason, this is something I want. Something I think I might love, actually. I love drag. I love doing drag—what little I’ve done so far, at least. Admitting that, even to myself, is terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I remember what Willowdean said in the car about being scared to go and scared to stay. I feel that to my bones.

Clem, I type, are you almost here? I go on in a few minutes.

Please say you’re on your way.

Or that this is just bad cell service and you’re actually parking right this minute.

And please don’t be dead. Because if you’re dead and I’m freaking out because you’re not here to see me perform, I’ll feel like a real asshole.

You’d tell me if you were dead, right?

I’d know because the whole twin thing, right?

I’m trying so hard not to freak out right now.

“You’re up!” says the hairless cat girl.

“Break a leg!” calls Nick, who is halfway through his Peppa Roni transformation in his wig cap and half-baked face.

I step through the curtain and immediately see all of my friends clustered together, chanting, “Pumpkin, Pumpkin, Pumpkin!”

“People, folks, y’all,” says Lee from her barstool perch on the far end of the stage, “it is my great pleasure to welcome to the stage for her Hideaway debut, Miss Pumpkin Patch!”

My heart beats through my chest, and I wobble on my heels, steadying myself on a stranger’s chair. Well, I wouldn’t call them heels. They’re sandals with a kitten heel that I found at the thrift store, and my toes hang out of the front. Surely all baby drag queens are as big of a mess as I am.

I allow myself a quick glance across the room, and sitting there at the bar is Tucker.

He smiles, and I don’t have the mental capacity to play games or pretend I’m not happy to see him. My lips twitch into a brief smile back at him, and I take the stage.