Free Drag Teen by Jeffery Self

bucks, she’d probably teach you everything you need to know. To be honest, for twenty bucks I’m pretty sure Bambi would do anything you asked her to do.”
    Bambi looked a lot older than my parents; she wasn’t fat, but she was nowhere near thin. She wore an unflattering hot-pink pantsuit with a blond wig that was so much bigger than her head that I genuinely wondered how she was able to keep it up there, gravity being what it is. One thing was clear, though—she knew drag inside and out, and it showed. Her makeup was flawless, the contouring and shading giving her face a striking movie-star look. Plus, she maneuvered on heels like they were a pair of Crocs.
    “Oh, I don’t want to bother her,” I said. “It looks like she’s getting ready to do a show or something.”
    I’ve always sucked at talking to strangers, especially when they’re in fifty-pound blond wigs.
    “Oh, don’t be silly, JT!” Seth started pushing me over to her. “You should talk to her about the pageant. Ask her about how to do the makeup shading and stuff. Look at her—she clearly knows what she’s doing. Seriously, go over there!”
    Now I was embarrassed, since I was beginning to look like a clingy weirdo in front of this Alex guy if I didn’t go over there. Besides, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could listen to him ask my boyfriend about his athletic prowess anyway, so I awkwardly wandered over.
    Bambi was focused on the sound equipment and I was immediately impressed to notice she could do all this manual labor in press-on pink nails. As I walked over, she glanced up at me.
    “Sorry. Karaoke doesn’t start for another thirty minutes, hon.”
    “Oh. No. I just wanted to say hi. I’m sorry, you’re busy.” I began stuttering. “I-I’ll leave you alone.”
    “Darling, I’m a forty-year-old drag queen in the dregs of South Carolina—how busy do you actually think I am?” she asked, throwing me quite a curveball with the “forty-year-old” part. The last time Bambi would have passed for forty very well might have been forty years ago.
    “Um. Alex, that guy over there, said you might show me how to do proper drag makeup if I give you twenty bucks.” I began vomiting up my life story. “We’re visiting from Florida. See, I’m driving up to New York for this pageant … it’s a drag pageant, for teens, the Miss Drag Teen Pageant. He said I should talk to you because you’re drag royalty. Last time I tried drag, I was so excited, but then it went really badly. I didn’t know how to do the makeup and my wig sucked and I—”
    Bambi held up her hand for me to stop.
    “If I show you what to do, will you shut up?”
    I motioned zipping my lips, which when you really think about it would be horrific and unforgettably painful.
    “Fine. Follow me.”
    She parted the curtain behind the makeshift stage and I followed her into the tiny backstage area. The room was clearly meant to be a janitor’s closet, but Bambi had turned it into a star dressing room, or as close to a star dressing room as a janitor’s closet could get. The walls were covered in old glamour shots of actresses, models, and a much younger-looking Bambi. A small vanity was wedged in the corner, the counter of which was covered in makeup pencils, brushes, sponges, and endless rows of fake eyelashes. Towering over us were three shelves filled with wigs in a rainbow of colors on Styrofoam heads. The whole place smelled like hair spray, cigarettes, bleach, and showbiz. I was home.
    Bambi turned the knob on a box of wine wedged between two impressively tall go-go boots, filling a coffee cup to the brim.
    “Want a drink?” she offered.
    “I’m seventeen.”
    “And your point is?”
    “Naw, I don’t drink.”
    She squinted her eyes at me and shook her head. “Kids these days. Sit down.”
    She directed me to the little stool in front of the vanity. As I sat down, she clicked on the little lightbulbs surrounding the mirror, nearly blinding me. Then she