Chapter 31
Two Months Later
It was a Friday night in Birmingham, and as had become a norm for Will in the months since moving back in with Margo and Dylan, everybody had plans but him. He lay on Margo’s bed, watching her do her hair, and for just a moment he could almost imagine that the last twenty years hadn’t happened yet, that he was a little boy watching this difficult, impossibly glamorous creature getting dolled up for a night out. He had once gazed so longingly, so transparently, at Margo’s makeup that she had groaned and tossed him an eyeliner.
“You should try a cat eye,” she’d told him. “You’ve the coloring for it. Just don’t go mad or you’ll end up looking like Amy Winehouse.”
In retrospect, Margo was probably to thank for him falling in love with drag. Or to blame, depending on how you looked at it.
“You look nice,” he said now, somewhat pitifully. “Where are you going, again?”
“Just dinner with The Girls,” she said.
Margo still thought that Will believed her when she said she was going out with The Girls, but he knew she found them basic and boring, and had simply been using them as an alibi: By Will’s count, she had been out with Owen three times in the last two weeks. (If Margo really wanted to cover her tracks, she’d have insisted Owen drop her off around the corner and not right outside the house, where they could be observed from the landing window.)
At first, Will had been uncertain how he felt about this apparent rekindling: He had been witness to the first theatrical run of their relationship, and it had ended in a nine-hour labor and lots of foul language. But Owen seemed to have gotten his shit together in the years since. God knew Margo was a different woman now. An incredible one. She’d raised a headstrong, annoying, weird, and brilliant kid. She’d practically raised Will, too. Good for her, he reckoned. At least one person in this family deserves to be happy.
“Mind if I tag along?” he asked, curious to know if he could call her bluff.
“And have you dripping your misery all over my evening?” Margo tsked. “Absolutely not.”
“Ouch.”
“I already have one moody teenager to contend with, and they are at a mate’s house. Which means it is my night off. If you want company, call one of your friends.”
“April’s busy.”
“You might be at a low ebb right now, but I know even you have more than one friend.”
“I’m not talking to him,” said Will.
“I’m not talking to him,” Margo parroted in a high-pitched, petulant tone. “Honestly, Will, it’s knackering enough parenting Dylan. Grow up.”
“I…” Will fidgeted with one of the many tasseled cushions on Margo’s bed. “I was really harsh to him. What if he doesn’t want to talk to me?”
“He might not.”
“So—”
“But you’ll never know if you don’t cowgirl up and reach out.” Margo finally turned away from her reflection to face Will fully. “Jordan might be a pretty-boy twerp with more followers than sense, but real friends are a rarity, Will. And far, far more important than whatever men might come in and out of your life. You know I know what I’m talking about.”
Will fidgeted with the pillow in his lap. “I do,” he said.
“Right. So, are you going to be a big boy and call your friend? Or are you going to lie in bed reading The Song of Achilles for the sixth time?”
Will grimaced. “Patroclus is a nause. I should really call Jordan.”
Margo smiled. “Good. Anyway. I’m off.” She gave her hair one more playful ruffle in the mirror for good measure, picked up a glittery clutch, and headed for the door.
“Don’t wait up,” she said. “Oh, and Will?”
“Yeah?”
“Get out of my room.”
Will was certain that he would have worked up the courage to contact Jordan eventually. But the little bitch called him first.
“Are you coming?” he said as soon as Will picked up.
“Jordan?” Will asked, and he could practically hear him rolling his eyes.
“No, it’s the tooth fairy,” came the reply. “Now are you coming or not?”
“Coming where?” Will asked. “Jordan, I’ve been meaning to call you. I just want to say—”
“No time for that now,” Jordan said, his voice brisk. “I’ve just texted you the details.”
Will’s phone chirped, and he glanced down at what Jordan had just sent him:
Anti-Anti-Drag Gathering.
Starts outside the Village. Saturday 12pm.
Category is: Dressed to protest.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
“Good,” said Jordan. “Don’t be late.” He hung up before Will could say anything else.
The next day, Will arrived at the Village at twenty to twelve to find half of Birmingham’s queens already lining the pavement. Faye Runaway and Tamil Nitrate were among them, along with Sadie Chatterley, Elle Fire, Lexa Kimbo, Paris Social, Izzy Uno, Hennessy Williams, Auntie Dot, Evelyn Carnate, Julie Madly Deeply, Alicia Tryed, Raina Shine, and Gaia Gender, all seemingly dressed up with nowhere to go.
Will spotted other familiar faces: punters he recognized from the Village, a handful of bartenders from other gay venues on Hurst Street, some guys he only identified from their profiles on Grindr. Ry waved awkwardly from the crowd. There was no sign of his new boyfriend, and Will determined that it was a sign of personal growth that he felt nothing, not even the slightest pang of Schadenfreude, at this observation.
“Well, there’s a bloody turn-up for the books,” somebody commented beside Will. Somebody whose platinum blond hair and Bleu de Chanel scent, even in his wig- and lash-obscured peripheral vision, were instantly familiar.
“Jordan,” he said, turning, “I’m glad to see you.”
“I think this might be the first time you’ve ever been on time for anything,” Jordan remarked. “Let alone early. I suppose we should be honored.”
He wasn’t forgiven, then. Will wasn’t surprised. Had not expected to be.
“This is a good turnout,” he said, nodding to the growing mass outside the bar.
“Well, it’s important,” said Jordan. “People care. This idea that drag queens aren’t safe to be around children, that they’re predators…it’s the same shit they used to say in the ’80s. When you see history repeating itself, you have to do something.”
“Safe for children.” Will tsked. “What does that even mean? We’re reading them Peter Pan, not American Psycho. It drives me mad. The number of straight comedians who’ve been absolutely filthy in their stand-up, have been known and celebrated for it, then gone on to voice an animated bunny or play the dad in some Disney film, it’s fucking infuriating.” He clutched his vape tightly, thumb worrying over the button like a rosary.
“It’s absolutely clapped,” Jordan agreed, seemingly forgetting that he had yet to absolve Will. They shared a look, and Will found himself momentarily grateful for the bigoted little shits who had brought them back together.
“I am still very angry with you,” said Jordan, reading his mind. “Don’t think I’m just going to let you off the hook. You said some really fucked up things to me.”
“I know, and I’m so—”
“But I still fucking love you and that won’t change just because you’ve been a heinous idiot. So you will simply have to make it up to me later.”
“I know. I will, I promise. But just for the record…”
“Yeah?”
“There’s nobody else I’d rather ride into battle with.”
Jordan pouted. “I mean, obviously same,” he said, just as Faye stepped onto an upturned beer crate, which was, both at her age and in those heels, probably an unwise thing to do.
“Oh my days,” Will whispered. “Who gave Faye a megaphone?”
“She brought it from home,” said Jordan. “You know these old girls come prepared.”
“Thank god for her, honestly,” Will said, but Jordan was already shushing him, holding up his phone ready to stream Faye’s address.
“Raise your hand, clack your fan, make some noise,” she began, “if you have ever been called a name, some disgusting word, for no reason other than simply being who you are.”
The crowd around Will and Jordan clicked, clacked, snapped, stamped, and whooped around them.
“Let’s hear some of those names,” said Faye.
“Puff,” somebody called out.
“Bender,” said another.
“Bummer!”
“Dyke!”
“Fag!”
“Fudgepacker!” This one elicited a few awkward laughs, and precipitated a cacophony of the silliest, stupidest slang that Will had been hearing since primary school.
Shirtlifter! Nancy boy! Pansy! Limp wrist! Flamer! Willy woofter! Fairy!
“Fairy!” At Faye’s interjection, the crowd fell silent again. “Imagine thinking that calling somebody a fairy was an insult,” she said. “Fairies used to be feared and revered. People would make offerings to them to appease their moods, and heaven forbid if you were to meet one at a crossroads. The word ‘homophobia’ supposedly means they’re afraid of us, but I think they’ve forgotten who they’re dealing with. They’re trying to push us back into the margins, throwing grains of rice on the ground so the fae will be distracted and forget what we’re owed. Talking about us like we’re not real, so we waste our precious time on this earth arguing for our own existence, proving how good and meek and mild we can be.
“I have spent the better part of fifty years being the bigger person,” Faye continued. “And let me tell you something: I am bloody sick and tired of it. Going high when they go low. Trying to fool myself into thinking that if we’re nice enough, and quiet enough, and don’t rub it in people’s faces too much, contort our gay asses into knots so that they are not made remotely uncomfortable, then maybe, just maybe, they’ll stop hating us. So that something as simple as holding hands won’t be the reason I end up in hospital or on a slab. Or worse: with eggshell in my wig.”
“You’ve got to lead with love,” said Gaia.
“I don’t love those cunts!” yelled Will. “I love us.”
“Yes, bitch!” Tammy howled, waggling ten dangerously pointy nails in hearty agreement.
“Too bloody right, sweetheart,” Faye boomed into the megaphone. “Now we’re going to make our way through this city and share our fabulousness with the world. We’re going to prove that no matter how much they try, they can’t scare us into hiding. We’re going to march, or should I say mince, right up to those ugly little souls and let them know that the library is now, and will forever stay, OPEN!”
“Yes!” Will screamed, and he heard everyone around him do the same. “Yes!!”
Tammy mounted a portable speaker onto her broad shoulder, and with a yell of “Let’s go, girls!” they departed.
Will would later wonder what the rest of Birmingham thought when they saw this small army of goddesses stomping and sashaying from Hurst Street all the way up to Centenary Square, stopping traffic as they went. “I Am What I Am” blared from Tammy’s speaker; it could just as well have been “Ride of the Valkyries.”
They arrived in front of the library a little before one, and Will didn’t recognize any of the homophobic protestors individually—how could he, the sea of ill-fitting jeans and waterproof jackets that they were—but the awkward phrasing of the placards was proof enough. This was the same group of people who had been staging that horrible display the last time. The ones who had tried to humiliate Faye.
The queens shimmied in single file between the protestors and the library; then Julie Madly Deeply and Auntie Dot split off from the group and headed inside for that day’s story time. The rest of them would stay here, a sequined line of defense between the Rainbow Room and the hatred outside.
“You make me sick,” one of the sign holders shouted.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” another sneered.
“Guys, guys, calm down, it’s all right!” Tammy called out to them. “All is well!”
“Why is she trying to reason with them?” Jordan asked, but Will, who had got ready for many a Pride brunch with Tammy before, broke into a grin.
“Have you heard the good news?” Tammy bellowed. “Praise be! The Vengabus! It cometh!”
Right on cue, the sound of honking blared from the speaker at such a volume that Will wondered how many of them would have full use of their ears by the end of the day.
“We. Like. To party,” the queens all chanted in unison, and Will joined in like a knight pledging allegiance to crown and country. Some of the protestors still wore that generic mask of outrage and disgust, but as the queens broke out one ’90s banger after another—with accompanying dance routines—more and more of them began to look, well, baffled.
That was the thing about queer joy. So much of it was so inherently, deeply silly. Will pranced and jumped around to “5, 6, 7, 8” and “Wannabe” with Faye and Tammy and Gaia and so many others and felt impossibly grateful for this unhinged sisterhood he had been welcomed into. And sad for anyone who didn’t have this, either because they couldn’t reach it, or because they’d rejected it outright. This was their community, their family, at its dumbest and its mightiest, and Will’s heart could almost burst at the glory of being right here in the middle of it all. It was the best time he could remember having since a certain actor left town, and Will could tell he wasn’t the only one having fun: Some of the kids arriving at the library with their parents were so enraptured by the pantomime taking place outside that they didn’t want to go inside for story time.
Leave it to the far right to get all book-burny about the concept of fun. Frankly, Will thought, anybody who felt even remotely threatened by a bunch of gays doing the “YMCA” was a fucking idiot.
Story time was almost over by the time the cops showed up. Whoever called them had probably been hoping they’d show up in riot gear with batons and water cannons to disperse the deviants. As it was, Will almost pitied the pair of bobbies who approached the queens mid-cancan.
“Hello, Officers,” Tammy purred. “What can we do you for?”
“We received word that there was a violent protest occurring in the square,” one of them said.
“Violent?” Will looked to his left and then his right. “Does any of this look violent to you, sir?”
The policeman cast a slightly baffled look around the gathering, and before he could answer, Will continued: “They are staging a protest.” He pointed to the crowd of beige facing them, then gestured at himself and the other queens. “This…is a flash mob.”
“A flash mob.” The second officer did not appear convinced.
“You might want to go and investigate some of the hate speech on those placards, though,” Jordan said, a helpful smile on his face.
“I’d be careful,” said Faye. “They may be carrying.”
“Carrying?”
“Eggs. Concealed cholesterol. Probably not even free-range. In fact, talking of violence, Officer…” Faye stepped just close enough that she towered over the pair of them, but not so close that it might be deemed intimidating. “I reported being harassed and assaulted by this very group of people several weeks ago, and as far as I am aware, sweet diddly-squat has been done about it.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” said Jordan, holding up his phone. “That’s a bad look indeed, Officer…I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch your names?”
The two policemen exchanged a glance, and then the first one spoke again.
“You’re going to need to wrap this up soon,” he said. “It’s Saturday, Broad Street is going to be full of drunks soon enough, and we don’t want any of them harassing you ladies.”
“No bother,” said Faye sweetly. “Story hour is almost over.” She cast a cold look over the cop’s shoulder at the protestors. “I’m more than happy to close the book on this.”
“Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen,” said Jordan, still filming. “You both look very dashing, by the way. Not everyone could pull off those neon vest thingies.”
The officers gave them a cursory nod, and ambled slowly over to the protestors, presumably to give them the same marching orders. It was hardly a barnstorming triumph, Will thought. The war, if that’s what they were calling it, was not won.
But this felt enough like a victory that he couldn’t stop smiling.
The queens did not, in fact, disperse as requested so much as funnel their numbers back the way they came, Faye leading the way, the others following their fairy queen home toward the gay quarter.
“Oh my days, did you see their reaction when we started doing the Macarena?” Jordan cackled. “Their faces!”
“What is the Macarena,” said Will, “if not voguing on the lowest difficulty setting?”
“Voguing for beginners,” Jordan agreed. “And you still fumbled the moves once or twice, don’t think I didn’t see you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Save it for Los del Río.”
“No, Jordan, I’m sorry.” Will touched his wrist, and they both stopped, moving aside as Faye marshaled the other girls into the Village. “All of those things I said, I didn’t mean them. I was angry and upset at Patrick, and I took it out on you because you were there. Which is the story of my life, isn’t it. You’re always there, and I take it for granted, especially lately. I’m sorry.”
“Good,” Jordan said, expressionless. “I’m glad you’re aware of what a bitch you were being.”
“I am, trust me.”
“Fine.” Jordan pouted. “And I suppose I could have been a bit more understanding. You were in an impossible situation, and I expected you to act like you weren’t. It’s easy to have all kinds of principles when you’re preaching into the front-facing camera. Bit harder when you’re in love.”
“You ended up being right, though. I know how much you enjoy that.”
“I didn’t want to be, Will. I wanted Patrick to do right by you. I was rooting for that fucker.”
Will smiled weakly. “Me too.”
“I guess we’re the lucky ones,” said Jordan. “We stopped wasting time resenting ourselves for being different a long time ago.”
“Exactly.” Will nodded. “If I could step through a portal into any strand of the multiverse, another life where I would be straight, I don’t think I could do it. What would that life even look like?”
“The most clapped timeline.”
“I wouldn’t have met you. Can you imagine! My best friend, erased, just like that,” Will continued, caught up in his own thought experiment. “I wouldn’t have found drag either. Who would I even be?”
“I can see straight you now,” said Jordan. “All tribal tattoos and missionary.” He shuddered emphatically.
“Couldn’t be me,” said Will. “I would always choose this life. The frocks and glitter and poppers and Kylie and, yes, the crying and the fighting, too. I’d choose all of it. I love all of it. Why rob myself of that? I like myself enough to know I deserve that much.”
“It’s the least of what you deserve,” said Jordan. “Everyone makes out like being queer makes your life harder. What are they on about? It makes it better. I’m just going to say it. We’re better.”
Jordan took the vape from Will’s hand and inhaled on it deeply. It was a small, intimate act, but when he released the cloud from his mouth, it felt like all of the tension between them dissipated with it. Will pulled him into a hug, ignoring Jordan’s protests about his hair, and marveled at the simple joy he felt in holding his friend. No wonder people were always mistaking them for a couple. They were soulmates, in their own way.
“I love you,” he said. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Bit dramatic,” Jordan sniffed.
“I’m a drag queen. I reserve the right to be dramatic.”
He felt Jordan relax into him, like a spring uncurling, and Will thought: Maybe this is enough. A good man loves me after all.
“Just think,” said Jordan, still mid-embrace. “If you hadn’t been such a crap shag all those years ago, we never would have become best friends.”
“You were just as crap, my love,” Will laughed. “And yes, we would. Some things are written in the stars.”
They stayed like that for who even knew how long, the tallest woman and the prettiest boy, clutching each other in the doorway to a gay bar like sweethearts on a dance floor who didn’t ever want the night to end.