Is that not a type of artifice, trying to be something or someone I’m not?
And then the universe shook me up.
After a few more acts, Queen Bee and Fifi leave to check on Hugo.
Ten minutes later, Hugo takes the seat she vacated. But it’s not Hugo anymore. He’s wearing a brassy blonde wig, the red dress, and fake eyelashes. I almost don’t recognize him, but he smiles sadly at me and he’s still over six feet tall and hard to mistake.
“Did Harry show up?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No.”
I wince. “I’m sorry, Hugo.”
“Dolly.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Dolly is your drag name?”
She nods. “Dolly Hardon. Bee named me. She’s my drag mother. You like it?”
I laugh. “It’s wonderful.”
She smiles but then the smile wavers and falls and her head droops. “I can’t cry because it will ruin my makeup.”
“It really sucks he ruined this for you.”
She laughs, the sound watery. “It’s not him. It’s me. He left because of me. It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself for other people and their bad behavior.”
“All right people, the call-back list is up. If your name’s not there, better luck next time, and if you’re on the list, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
Dolly and I sit together as people crowd the back of the stage where they’ve put up the list of names. Laugher, whoops, tears, and loud conversation buzz through the auditorium as people find out whether they’re coming back or not.
Queen Bee waves at us from the stage, holding her hand up to block the light and then shoots a thumbs-up in our direction.
“Looks like they made it,” I say.
“I’m so,” sniff, “happy for them.” She dabs at her face with a tissue.
My brows lift.
“I am,” she insists. “I’m a crier. I can’t help it. I cry when I’m happy. I cry when I’m sad. I cry when I’m angry. I understand it’s annoying. It was too much for Harry to deal with. Hence the barista.”
“It’s not annoying. And as for Harry, that’s not an excuse. If he couldn’t deal, then he should have broken it off with you before the barista.”
“That might be true.” She nods and pats at her face again.
Queen Bee and Fifi want to go out for drinks to celebrate, and they attempt to cajole us to come out with them. But Dolly’s not in the mood and I don’t want to leave her alone, so we drive back to Emeryville together.
We go back to the apartment, mostly in silence, each consumed in our own thoughts.
We part ways and say goodnight. Dolly’s eyes are sad.
Later that night, when I crawl into bed, once again the sobs leak through the wall.
There has to be something I can do. I can make this day better. If not for me, then for someone else.
Chapter Fifteen
I make plans for Hugo.
Maybe I shouldn’t bother. Maybe this is just me, doing what I do, avoiding my own problems and instead obsessing over something else, a futile attempt to regain control of the uncontrollable, but it’s better than obsessing over Alex, or my dozens of failed attempts to keep my crappy day job.
Perhaps getting Hugo to stop crying won’t make the date tick over to the eighth, but at least someone can end this day with joy, even if it’s not me. So I go back to Hugo’s and the new goal is to find a way to make Hugo happy. I have all the time in the world to figure this out, right? So I think and stew and plan and come up with something to help Dolly.
“What if Dolly had one of those, like, half-man, half-woman costumes? Then she could do both parts, right?” I ask Queen Bee when she comes out and sits next to me during the audition.
“I saw Glamamore do a performance like that once and it was fantastic. But baby, Dolly would need an appropriate costume and she’s six seven. That means finding a seamstress three weeks ago. There’s no way to craft one in ten minutes unless you’ve got some magic fingers.”
No magic fingers, but I do have a magic closet. I stew on it until Hugo appears later and I throw the same question at him.
He shakes his head sadly. “It’s too late for all that.”
“What if you could go back in time and have the perfect outfit to perform the song alone? Would you consider it?”
“Of course I would. I know both parts, but there’s no point. I would need an entire costume put together in my size, plus a custom-made wig. The makeup I could manage in a day, but the rest . . . forget it. It’s impossible.”
But it isn’t.
And with that in mind, I get to work.
Day after day, I accompany Hugo to his show, even though I know what’s going to happen and I can’t stop it, at least not yet. I have to be there to offer some kind of moral support. I get to know the queens better. They are smart, crass, and beautiful, and they don’t take themselves, or anyone else, too seriously. They really put it all out there, without fear. Or, as Bee tells me, with fear but also like a boss bitch who shows fear she can shove a size twelve stiletto up its ass.
I spend every waking moment I’m not with Hugo designing a costume and keeping it in the magic closet at night so all changes and alterations don’t get lost to the universe.
It’s half suit, half dress—the cut of the dress matches the red one, tulle and all, except I use royal blue fabric. He deserves to have the color he wants. I screw it up, over and over, messing up the measurements, needing to start over, but I figure it out and keep going. I have the time.
I find a long
