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