“I’m sure you will be great.”
He huffs. “If Harry even shows. I’ve been trying to reach him since yesterday, and he’s not returning my calls.” He frowns, tossing me a worried glance. “What if he doesn’t show?”
I have no idea how to answer that question. “Um. Could someone else step in?”
“No. We practiced this for weeks. No one but the two of us know all the moves.”
“Oh, right. Well, I’m sure he’ll show. He wouldn’t want to give up this opportunity either, right?”
“I really hope so.”
We end up in the Mission District, where Hugo somehow manages to parallel park us between a VW bus and a Mercedes and I have to shut my eyes because I’m sure we won’t fit and he’s going to hit something, despite the amoeba-sized car we’re in. But somehow, he makes it work.
I help him gather his supplies out of the tiny trunk and back seat, the makeup, wig box, and the dress.
I follow him down the street. We pass three vintage clothing stores and a vegan ice cream shop, and then I get distracted by a brick building splashed in vibrant art, a giant mural of swirling colors and faces of various ages and ethnicities, a sky- and mountainscape in the background.
“Jane, come on!” Hugo yells from down the block.
I race to catch up, following him into a back alley. He knocks on a rough metal door.
From there, we’re led into the back stage of the venue, down a darkened quiet hallway and into the chaos of thirty-plus men putting on makeup and wigs.
Mirrors and lights line all four walls, and the middle of the room is pandemonium. Talking, laughter, half-dressed bodies, the air heavy with hair product and perfume.
Hugo points to a hook on the wall by a mirror and I hang up the dress up and turn back around. “I can wait outside?” I glance around at the chaos, the colorful dresses being tugged on, the elaborate makeup being applied, and then I look down at my jeans and T-shirt. I am so out of place.
He ignores my question. “Harry’s not here.” His eyes search the space. “But there’s Queen Bee. Bee!” he shouts into the chaos, waving a hand in the air.
His phone rings and he turns to face me with wide eyes. “Maybe that’s Harry.” He picks it up and heads toward the door.
“Wait!”
But he escapes into the hall, leaving me alone. I stand there, invisible amid the chaos.
“Hey, where did Hugo run off to?” This must be Queen Bee, her torso encased in a gorgeous silvery bustier with fringe fluttering around her hips. A bouffant purple wig hangs down to her waist, complementing her dark honey skin and expressive brown eyes laced with purple shadow.
“He’s taking a call.”
“It better be Harry on the phone or I will whoop his bony ass.” She shakes her head, the vibrant purple locks twitching with the motion and then sticks out one manicured hand. “I’m Queen Bee.”
I shake it. “I’m Jane. I’m . . . I was helping Hugo with his dress. It had a tear and I sewed it and then he wanted me to come here and, um. I helped him carry stuff.” I run out of reasons to be standing here in the dressing room with dozens of half-naked people.
Queen’s perfectly manicured eyebrows lift. Then she laughs. “Girl, that was the perfect speech. You may as well have carried a watermelon. Does Hugo know you’re stealing his part?”
My stomach drops. “Oh no, I’m not doing that, I could never—”
Hugo steps back into the room.
Bee lifts both of her arms into the air. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Was that Harry calling? Begging for you to come back to his no-good cheating ass?”
Hugo shakes his head, eyes sheening.
“He’s a giant bag of dicks,” Queen Bee says.
“Is that supposed to be an insult? A bag of dicks doesn’t sound like a bad time,” says another queen, this one with a cap on her head, wearing just a bra and panty hose and tugging a yellow dress over her head.
“Will you zip this?” she asks, giving me her back.
“Um. Yeah. Sure.” I slide the zipper up for her.
“Have you heard from Harry?” Hugo asks Yellow Dress.
“Nope. Haven’t seen him. Sorry, sweetie. He’ll show, it’s early yet. He’s a twat but he wouldn’t leave you hanging like this. Not even Harry. I’ll string him up myself if he does. Who’s your friend?”
“This is my neighbor Jane. She’s a seamstress.”
“Lovely to meet you. I’m Fifi LaRue.”
“I love your dress.” It hugs the lines of her body like a second skin. A closer look reveals delicate sequins sewn into the fabric, twinkling under the lights, making her shimmer.
How clever. The fabric must be something flexible to move with her body, and incorporating the sequins is going to look fantastic under the stage lights. It makes me want to run home and bust out my sewing kit and make something myself.
“Thanks, baby doll. I think I need some bigger chicken cutlets to make it work.” She squeezes her chest.
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod along in agreement.
They chatter among themselves, and I listen in silence, my gaze moving around the room, scattering, unable to focus on any one thing because there is so much noise and activity, bright and inventive clothing, not to mention the makeup and vivid wigs.
After a minute, I do a quick self-check. I should be panicking. I’m in a room full of strangers, most of whom are half naked, but when I do an internal assessment, I’m . . . fine. Normal. Is this what other people feel like in strange situations all the time? Maybe it’s because no one is paying attention to me. Plus the outfits and hum of activity are distracting, setting my mind buzzing over creating my own dresses, experimenting with colors
