My makeup isn’t great. It’s a little too everyday, but like drunk-girl everyday, so it’s all a bit smudged. But still, there’s something different about me. I’ve transformed into someone else. Someone who wasn’t dumped and abandoned. Someone who might even have a few secrets of their own. Every time I glance in the mirror, I feel a fluttering in my chest.
I stand and open the bottom drawer of my dresser, where I keep swimsuits and discarded Halloween costumes. I’ve got a feather boa from the year I went as Hulk Hogan, and then there’s the black wig from the year I went as Tina from Bob’s Burgers. (Mimi Mee once said that Halloween is a drag queen testing ground.)
There’s a tickle of excitement in my fingers as I open my closet and reach for my Waylon Stage Three Wardrobe. Like my life, my clothing is clearly divided into phases, and for years, I’ve been stocking up on clothing that I’ll wear after high school when Clem and I are living our truth in Austin. Sometimes when I’m feeling brave, I’ll bust out a piece or two for a night at home or dinner at Grammy’s, but for the most part, this half of my closet remains untouched. A shrine to the person who I will soon become. Leggings, skinny jeans, dramatic robes, capes, Elton John–style sunglasses, and an incredible shoe collection. I either bought it with my own money earned working for Dad over the summer or it was passed down from Grammy. One day, I’ll wear it all, and I’ll wear it with intention.
For tonight, I reach for a hot-pink embroidered silk robe and use my Hulk Hogan feather boa to fashion a collar to hide my wisps of chest hair.
At my desk, I sit down and open my laptop, turning on the camera. It takes some effort to tug the wig over my orange curls. The black really doesn’t suit me, but it’s all I have to work with for now. I try a few different poses, pouting my lips and squinting a bit as I prop a hand under my chin.
“Yes, honey,” I say to myself. “Darling,” I drawl.
I hit the red record button, and for a moment the wind is sucked right out of me, like I’ve just been hit square in the chest with a dodgeball—a reality I’m all too familiar with. I gasp a little, but then force my pulse to slow as I clear my throat.
Everyone wants to leave me? I’ll show them what they’re missing.
I wave into the camera, my fingers fanning up and down. I really should have painted my nails, but that doesn’t matter. No one will notice my nails if I give them plenty of other things to notice.
“Good evening, y’all. I’m Pumpkin, but you can call me Miss Patch.”
Five
“Incoming!” Clem warns as she slams her body down onto my bed.
“Nope,” I moan and bury my face into my pillow.
My face! Shit, shit, shit.
“It’s almost noon,” she says. “Mom told me to tell you that if you want to sleep this late, you can start working overnights with Dad.”
“Well, then go, so I can get out of bed. I require privacy.”
She groans. “Guys are gross, you know that?”
“I’m not telling you to go because of that,” I say. Though, honestly, it’s always best to give me a few minutes to collect myself and Clem knows that. It’s biology, okay?
But that’s not the issue this morning. The issue is my face. I slept hard last night after trying to scrub my face with a bar of soap and warm water. (I keep thinking about getting into skin care, but it just hasn’t happened yet, so sue me.) I ended up making more of a mess than I started with and went to bed looking like a melted clown. Judging by the crusty sensation around my eyes and mouth, I don’t look much better now than I did last night.
Clem rips the pillow from my hands. “What are you hiding from me? Did you get a face tatt—ooooh,” she finishes as she sees my clown mug. “Are those . . . is that . . . lipstick? On your chin? . . . and your ear?”
I reach past her for my phone and open the reverse camera to examine the damage. Lipstick smeared down my chin and mascara and eyeshadow blended into a storm around and under my eyes. The blush and foundation, though, have managed to mysteriously evaporate