She reaches up to part her hair to rebraid it, but I swat her hands away. “The head of creative did not approve your Wednesday Addams braids.”

She pouts. “But I can feel my hairrrrrr.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s part of the whole having-hair thing.”

She wiggles like her follicles are growing worms. “Okay, fine.”

I nod. “You look, like, really cool. Like, I don’t want to sound super Podunk or anything, but you could easily be going out to some kind of indie-band show in New York City or something. Austin at the very least.”

She looks down at her dress. “I feel ridiculous, but I guess I like it.”

We sit down on the ground in front of each other with her pile of unused makeup. “You should know I’ve only done makeup the one time.”

“Well, you should know that I never wear makeup, so I won’t be able to tell the difference.”

I dig through our spread and come up with a silver eyeliner and use it to draw little stars in the corners of her eyes before handing her the mirror and letting her apply her own mascara. I top it off with a black lipstick from a few Halloweens ago, and then I lean back to appreciate my work.

“You look stupid good. Okay, I gotta get ready. Wear those combat boots.” I point out the black ones with the neon-blue shoelaces sitting in the corner.

“Those are Hannah’s,” she says.

“Nothing says high school lesbians in love like wearing each other’s combat boots.”

“Well, that’s accurate,” she admits.

I throw up my best spirit fingers in an attempt to curb my nerves at the thought of attending MY. FIRST. GAY. BAR. “And now I must transform.”

Sixteen

It feels really fucking good to dig into the side of my closet I’ve preserved for future Waylon adventures. I might not be living my post–high school dreams just yet, but it feels like for one night only, the future is here. Or at least a preview of it.

With my fingers, I swipe a translucent shimmery eyeshadow over my cheekbones and use a clear gloss on my lips. I salvaged my new boots that fell prey to mud earlier this week and pair them with black leggings I stole from my mom and never gave back and a black T-shirt with a velvet robe Grammy was donating that “fell out” of the bag before I dropped the rest of the items off at Our Lady of Peace Women’s Shelter.

Outside, as we’re getting in the truck, Hannah says, “Whoa, y’all look like—”

“We’re old pros who have been to a million gay bars and aren’t even a little bit nervous,” finishes Clem.

“I was going to say like people who googled ‘what to wear to da club,’ but sure, that too.”