Thankfully, I shaved this morning, so my face is smooth at the very least. I start with foundation, and what I’m working with is not nearly as effective as what I’ve seen queens use on TV and online. I don’t have any sponges or brushes, so I use what the Lord gave me and apply it with my fingers. I do the same with blush, and decide that more is more. I’m going for drag. Not Monday morning real estate agent at the office.

Outside my room, the floorboards creak as Mom knocks on my door. “Waylon? Darling?”

I gasp, and begin to choke. Is it possible to swallow your Adam’s apple?

“Waylon?”

“I’m fine!” I rasp out.

My mother has caught me in a fair amount of unfortunate circumstances. Crusty socks. Crusty boxers. Crusty sheets. (I have since learned how to do my own laundry, thank you very much.) Scandalous videos on sketchy websites. The list goes on. And it’s not like she doesn’t know I’m gay, but makeup is a whole new level of queer that my mother, who has only left Texas enough times to count on one hand, might find . . . alarming.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes?” I call back in a deep voice. “Yes!” I try again in my normal voice.

She chortles. “I’m heading to bed, baby.”

“Okay, good night!”

“How’d Mimi do?” she asks.

My pounding heart slows. It doesn’t matter what it is. If we are interested, so is Mom. (Bless her for downloading Pokémon Go the summer Clem and I were absolutely consumed by that addictive little game.) “Ruby took the crown!”

“Ah, well, maybe Mimi will make the Hall of Fame season?”

“All-Stars, Mom! It’s called All-Stars.”

“Ahh, yes. That’s right. Well, good night, baby. Your sister already asleep?”

I could rat on that jerk and get her in real trouble. But then I’d probably have to account for this half face of makeup. “Yes, ma’am!” I say.

“Love you, baby! Night!”

She pads down the hallway to her and Dad’s room, and once I hear the door close behind her, I exhale.

I continue on, tracing some version of eyebrows, covering my lids in sparkly green eye shadow, lining my lips, filling them in with an orangey-red lipstick. Lastly, I attempt mascara. There’s lots of eye watering and blinking, but eventually I get some color on my nearly translucent lashes, which are actually sort of long. Because I’m feeling exceptionally brave, I scoot to the edge of my chair and try my hand at the eyelash curler I found at the bottom of the makeup kit.

A sharp pinch tugs at my eyelid. “Ow! Shit!”

I detangle myself from the curler and try once more. I feel actual fear as the metal closes around my lashes, but when I feel nothing, I press a little harder.