I hit Clem’s name in my phonebook, but my call goes straight to voice mail. I normally never leave voice mails, but tonight calls for a voice mail. “Clem, I, uh, wanted to see where you are.” And then quietly, so that hopefully Nick can’t hear me over the music, “I’m really nervous. It would mean a lot to have you here. But also, please be careful. Call me.”

“Here,” says Nick after rooting through his bag. “Take this. It’s always good to have a prop. There’s nothing worse than not knowing what to do with your hands.”

He hands me a pink fan with scalloped edges. I open it to look it over carefully. “I’ll give it back as soon as I’m done.”

“Nah,” he says. “Keep it. You know how to snap one of these things open?”

I laugh nervously.

Nick leans over and positions my thumb along the stem of the fan. “There ya go. Now flick your wrist, and voilà.”

I do as he says and the fan spreads, making a satisfying noise. “So dramatic,” I say. “You didn’t have to do all this for me.”

“Nah, I’m on last tonight. I’ve got time to kill. Knock ’em dead,” he says.

A girl with a buzzed head and a cat-ear headband pokes in through the curtain. “Pumpkin?”

I raise my fan in the air.

“Two more ahead of you and then you’re on,” she says.

I nod and attempt to swallow, but my throat is too dry. At least I’m lip-synching tonight.

It’s nice to have Nick here. But I don’t know Nick. And Nick isn’t Clementine . . . or Tucker.

Filling my lungs, I take a deep breath in and remind myself that for some ridiculous reason, this is something I want. Something I think I might love, actually. I love drag. I love doing drag—what little I’ve done so far, at least. Admitting that, even to myself, is terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I remember what Willowdean said in the car about being scared to go and scared to stay. I feel that to my bones.

Clem, I type, are you almost here? I go on in a few minutes.

Please say you’re on your way.

Or that this is just bad cell service and you’re actually parking right this minute.

And please don’t be dead. Because if you’re dead and I’m freaking out because you’re not here to see me perform, I’ll feel like a real asshole.

You’d tell me if you were dead, right?

I’d know because the whole twin thing, right?

I’m trying so hard not to freak out right now.

“You’re up!” says the hairless cat girl.

“Break a leg!” calls Nick, who is halfway through his Peppa Roni transformation in his wig cap and half-baked face.