Lee holds her hand out for me as I take the last step. She pulls the microphone down and says, “The heels get easier, I swear. You got this, baby.”

She takes her seat like she is the queen and I’m performing for her court, which I guess is the case. I feel suddenly shy, waiting for my music to begin.

And then my song begins, the iconic intro immediately recognizable to the entire audience.

I snap my fan open like Nick taught me and hold it in front of my chest. “At first, I was afraid. I was petrified,” Gloria Gaynor sings as I mouth along. “Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side.”

I look out to the audience for a face, anyone I know. But the lights are blinding.

Up on this stage, all I have is myself. Waylon Russell Brewer, aka Miss Pumpkin Patch.

It doesn’t matter who’s in the audience or what they’re thinking or what they’re doing, because for these three minutes and eighteen seconds, the world revolves around me.

Soon, I’m stomping across the stage lip-synching “I Will Survive” while the entire club sings along. And I feel the words all the way down to my toes. I will survive.

I wish Clem could see this, but right now, this isn’t for the people watching me. This moment is for me. It’s all for me. I’ve got all my life to live. I’ve got all my love to give. I will survive.

Thirty-Four

“Clementine didn’t die. Her phone did.” I roll over onto my stomach and rest my chin in my hands as I finish telling Grammy about my very dramatic evening.

“Well,” Grammy says, “I’m determined to come see you at one of these drag night shows.” She looks down to Clementine, who is lying with her head in Grammy’s lap. “And I’m glad you’re alive.”

The phone charger in my truck wasn’t working, so once Clem left her meetup, she had two options: One, try to figure out how to get to the Hideaway without navigation, or two, drive home, charge her phone, and try to meet up with me from there.

When Clem finally got through to us on our way home, I was sure she was dead in a ditch. Hannah not so helpfully pointed out that Clem could have bought a new charger at a gas station, and I could practically see Clem’s fingers slither out from inside the phone and choke Hannah to death.

Once we got home, Clem groveled, but I was too happy she was alive and too exhilarated from my performance to even pretend to be mad.

“Big night tonight,” Grammy says.

Clementine sighs. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Ahhh. The tux.” She gently moves Clementine’s head from her lap and stands. Her purple polka-dot leggings and matching tentlike tunic perfectly coordinate with her purple headband and purple reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. “It’s not quite done.”

“You mean we’ve been lounging around here in your living room all morning and my tux isn’t even ready?”

“Well, y’all better scoot so I can finish up.” She takes my hands and pulls me to my feet. “Have a little faith in your dear old grammy. Y’all go do what you gotta do, and I’ll bring it by the house later today.”

Clem glances down at her phone. “I gotta go if I’m going to make it to this hair appointment Mom set.”

Grammy shoos us both away. “You take your sister, and”—she digs through her purse on the coffee table before handing me a crisp fifty-dollar bill—“y’all go get your nails done. Ask for my lady, Rita. Give me until about half past six.”

I nod, but she must see the anxiety in my wrinkled brow. “You’re going to look smashing,” she says, setting her hands on my shoulders. “Now, y’all run along and get pampered. Let me take care of the rest.”

Clem and I park at Mom’s hairdresser’s house. She’s a woman named Carla who converted a corner of her garage into her own little beauty shop. If you don’t mind getting your hair done alongside her husband’s work desk and riding lawn mower, she’s a steal.

While Carla fusses with Clementine’s hair, giving her a hard time about never coming in and split ends, I sit in a lawn chair next to the window AC unit and scroll through photos on my phone. After my performance, I clustered together with Alex and Kyle and everyone else for various selfies. It might be the flash or it might be the fact that my foundation is three shades too light, but all I can see are lips, eyes, and my wig. I don’t care though, because I can practically hear the joyous laughter just looking at these pictures.

Tucker: You were great last night.

My whole body tenses into a knot as the message lights up my screen. My thumb hovers over the alert as I contemplate swiping it away.

Thank you, I finally type back. Still mad at you.

Tucker: I still want to kiss you.

My jaw drops, and I can feel myself getting flustered.

“Are you okay?” Clementine asks over the blow-dryer. “You look like someone poured bleach on all your favorite clothes that you never wear.”

“I’m fine,” I shout back, and shove my phone into my messenger bag.

Clem discreetly points up to her head and makes an eek face.

“Hey, Carla,” I call. “Maybe we could scale back on the volume. I think Clementine might like something a little more . . . sleek.”

“Sneak? She wants to look sneaky?” Carla shouts.

Clem shakes her head, telling me to give up before I make it worse.

I’ll fix it later, I mouth to her.

She flashes me a thumbs-up.

Clem and I go get our nails done, and I guess Grammy must have called ahead, because her nail tech, a young Black girl who is constantly talking to someone on her Bluetooth headset but is also somehow incredibly meticulous, is ready and waiting for us. Clem gets her nails done in lavender, which is boring, but it matches her dress and she’ll probably chew off all the polish by tomorrow morning anyway.

I show Rita a picture on my phone of a black manicure that fades into gold at the tips. She wordlessly nods and begins to work her magic, which makes my nails so pretty, I swear I could work my own magic with these fingers.

Back at home, I take a quick shower and put a little bit of oil in my curls before letting them air-dry while Clem gets dressed.

The doorbell rings, and I race to answer it. I swing open the door, and—“It’s only Hannah!” I call.

“Wow. Thanks,” she says.

“Sorry. I thought you were my tux delivery. But oh my God! Your hair!”

Her brows pop up expectantly. “You like?”

“I love!” Hannah has chopped her shaggy, coarse waves into a chic look that perfectly embodies her. She has an undercut with the rest of her hair tamed into curls and cut into a short bob, all nested over to one side. “Gorge,” I declare, and twirl my finger for her to give me a spin.

Hannah holds her arms out and obliges before posing with one side of her jacket collar popped up and the kind of smooth grin that could make a whole town lock up their daughters. She wears a navy-blue tux with a matte black vest and a lavender velvet bow tie. Her pocket square is a black-and-lavender floral print, and I have to admit, I’m very proud. “Very nice,” I say. “Very dapper. Now, sit,” I command before racing back to Clem’s room.