Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Introduction
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
IX.V
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
Strange Interlude - COMA THOUGHTS
I
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
Part Two - THE BLOOMING OF FLIP KELLY
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
Entr’acte
I
Part Three - HERE COMES SUPERFREAK!
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLI
XLII
XLIII
XLIV
XLV
XLVI
XLVII
Epilogue
I’m going to teach you to be fabulous.
I always find the hardest part about getting ready for a big imaginary event is simply finding the energy it takes to face the mirror. I suggest a few hours of bed rest before starting ANYTHING (preferably with a big bowl of mashed potatoes and the latest issues of Soap Opera Weekly). Two hours in bed is ideal. Two hours UNDER the bed is even better. Don’t even think about what you’re going to wear during this rest period. For now, you must clear your mind of everything.
Now get up—slowly—and go to the full-length mirror. Take off all your clothes and look at yourself—Really look at yourself.
Now go have a good cry. God is cruel, I know, I know.
That was to let you know what you’re up against: reality.
Your goal is to do away with reality. Reality is for poor people. It’s for ugly people with no imagination and no hope.
Reality is for everybody else.
OTHER BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY
SPEAK
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Dutton Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2007
Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008
Copyright © James St. James, 2007
All rights reserved
Excerpt from “Evergreen: Love theme from A Star Is Born,” words by Paul Williams; music by Barbra Streisand.
© 1976 Warner Brothers Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.
Excerpt from “Annie’s Song,” words and music by John Denver. © 1974 Cherry Lane Music Company.
All rights reserved.
Excerpt from “(Love Is) Thicker Than Water,” words and music by Andy Gibb and Barry Gibb.
© 1979 Andy Gibb Music, Brothers Gibb, B. V. All rights reserved.
All paraphrased excerpts appear on page 68
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DUTTON EDITION AS FOLLOWS
St. James, James.
Freak show / James St. James.
p. cm.
Summary: Having faced teasing that turned into a brutal attack, Christianity expressed as persecution,
and the loss of his only real friend when he could no longer keep his crush under wraps, seventeen-year-old Billy Bloom,
a drag queen, decides the only way to become fabulous again is to run for Homecoming Queen at his elite,
private school near Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
eISBN : 978-1-440-65155-7
http://us.penguingroup.com
Oh! Oh! Wait! Wait! I need to thank people. You HAVE TO THANK PEOPLE!!!!!!!! Of course, everyone at Dutton, Mark McVeigh (my Yoda), Elece Blumberg, and Christian Füenfhausen.
Everybody at World of Wonder, the WOW REPORT, and WOWTV, especially Randy Barbato, Fenton Bailey, Stephen Saban, Tom Wolf, Moye Ishimoto, Steven Corfe, Thairin, Chris, Nicole Flowers, Jim Galasso, and Kristin Rasmussin.
I need to give a big shout out to my posse of online freaks: Alex Allendorf, Christian Ellerman, Suze Rat, Dani Darko, Molly SweetDoxy, Skillz, Melissa Chauvin, and everybody connected with the James boards, and omg I can’t forget Bret Clemmant! You all give me such bliss.
Oh! Oh! I need to thank Austin Young for the fab photos, and Eva Posey for holding the light juuuuuuust riiiiiiiiight THERE!
ALSO: THESE PEOPLE SHOULD CALL ME: John Witherspoon, Doris Kloster, Gabriel Rotello, Julie Vychulbaum, Maryann Hagerty, Xeon, and Pepe.
Introduction
HERE WE GO!
Being fabulous, being relentlessly fabulous, is damned hard, hard work, I can tell you that much. It requires more than just, you know, platform boots and an ironic tee to cut it in today’s marketplace. Yes, fashion is important, and Belgian fashion is MAJORLY important, but it requires more.
Dedication, yes! Perseverance, yes! And a keen eye for details. . . .
For those of you who choose
this path—who crave the glamour and attention—and dare to scale those mountains to reach those lyrical heights, I salute you.
I understand, of course. It is a noble pursuit. I plan to dedicate my life to it. I, too, pray that I will someday experience that magical moment when the hair, the outfit, and the party all come together in one glorious explosion of energy. When suddenly it’s just you and Diddy and the Queen of England alone in the VVIP room, oh, I don’t know, comparing ring tones and whatnot. I have goose bumps just thinking about it. Don’t you?
But there is a dark side. One mismatched accessory and your whole night—NAY, your whole life—can fall apart.
That, Momma says, is when the runner stumbles.
I can only imagine the holy horror.
Perhaps your belt is too wide or your shoes are too pointy. Maybe your breath smells of goat cheese, or you got a twitchy batch of Botox, and your eyes are vibrating. That’s when the waitress at (insert hot restaurant here) will sneer at your failed attempt to be hip and pronounce your look “very November.” Suddenly, you’ve been exposed to everyone as the nerd in biology class who got pelted with spit wads every goddamned day.
It’s not a pretty picture.
That’s why I’m here.
I’m going to teach you how to be fabulous. It’s true.
Now pretend we’re going to a big event. Something real ra-sha-sha.
I always find the hardest part about getting ready for a big imaginary event is simply finding the energy it takes to face the mirror. I suggest a few hours of bed rest before starting ANYTHING (preferably with a big bowl of mashed potatoes and the latest issue of Soap Opera Weekly). Two hours in bed is ideal. Two hours UNDER the bed is even better. Don’t even think about what you’re going to wear during this rest period. For now, you must clear your mind of everything.
Now get up—slowly—and go to the full-length mirror. Take off all your clothes and look at yourself—Really look at yourself.
Now go have a good cry. God is cruel, I know, I know.
That was to let you know what you’re up against: reality.
Your goal is to do away with reality. Reality is for poor people. It’s for ugly people with no imagination and no hope.
Reality is for everybody else.
You’re ready.
Free your mind of doubt.
Here we go.
THE APPLICATION OF THE MAQUILLAGE:
Your face? White! Yes—Look-At-Me White. White like Elmer’s glue! White like an electric snowball! Think Bozo the Clown! Edward Scissorhands! So strong is my conviction, I will not dilute it with warm beiges and soft ivories. If you don’t look like a frozen corpse or the underbelly of a trout, then you’ve done it wrong.
The foundation must be thick and oily—the worse it is for your skin, the better it will look. Pile on pound after pound of it. Slather it on with a spatula—it should be two or three inches deep. I want to see bird tracks in there by morning.
Now the powder. White, too, of course. Baby powder will do the job. It’s very absorbent, and you know what a sweaty pig you are.
Close your eyes and let the spirit lift you up and take you away. Feel the rhythm of the powder puff. Darling, you’re doing fine. Now, BEAT THAT FACE, GODDAMNIT! Be generous! Be liberal! Throw it in the air and run through the cloud! Put it in a flour sifter and grind it onto your face. More! More!
Your face is a canvas now, blank except for two eyes and two nostrils.
Now for the liquid eyeliner. Start at the inner corner and let it sweep majestically across your lid. Again, to lengthen and thicken it. Lift it higher, take it to your temples. Think Maria Callas! Martha Graham! Divine! Don’t know who they are? We have a lot of work to do, darling. But no mind! Tonight you could be a go-go geisha, a glittering Vegas showgirl, or perhaps a fashion model from Mars. Let it rip!
Fake eyelashes? Of course! Three or fourteen pairs. Sometimes, darling, more is more. Now here’s something new! Fake eyebrows! Start a new trend—cut them out of felt or fake fur. Make them sparkle with glitter.
Oh, you’re cookin’ now, baby.
Your lips—a slash! A gash of red, blood red—raw like a wound. There’s no time for lip liners; that’s for sissies. Just do it now.
On the cheeks? Around the eyes? Perhaps a little color?
Technicolor, darling!
And perfume—lots of it. Bathe in it. Make it loud. Make it cheap. Let them know you’re there!
Tonight you’re a temptress, a siren. You are the lusty Lorelei, luring sailors to their watery graves. Tonight you are a renegade mermaid, a rock ’n’ roll fish-mistress with a patent leather fish tail and tangle of Sargasso-green seaweed hair. Anything goes! The sky’s the limit!
See how easy it is?
Now. Look at yourself. You . . . are . . . FABULOUS!
If only we had someplace to go!
I
THE SLIPPERY SLOPE OF DESPAIR
Monday:
There are days that start off just fine. God is in his place and all is right with the world. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and your hair is feathering just so. You look like Paris Hilton at the MVAs or Farrah Fawcett in her prehag days.
A little blush.
A little gloss.
And you’re good to go.
Then it happens. Something goes wrong. Maybe an eyelash won’t go on right. Or your mascara clumps. You turn on the TV and you see Star Jones clutching a bloated stick figure, asking you to help fight world hunger, and you start to cry. Your whole world crumbles. Suddenly, you find yourself thinking about ozone depletion, chiggers, and dead babies. You break out in a rash. Your hair goes limp.
And before you know it, you’re hiding under the sink. Oh, it always happens.
Just like that.
On those really depressing days when nothing seems to go right and the world is caving in on me, I climb into the cupboard underneath the sink and drift into a peaceful daydream. I dream that I’m Mary Hart.
Now there’s a happy girl, I think. If I were Mary Hart, my life would be complete. I could dress in crisp white linen suits, hang out on the red carpet, date movie stars and billionaires, and still successfully juggle a career, a home life, and the occasional spot on Letterman.
Sometimes I make believe that I’m married to Alex Trebek and the two of us hold court on the Jeopardy! set. We are to the twenty-first century what Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller were to the twentieth. I lend the show an air of elegance, and Alex introduces me to the wonderful world of seventeenth-century literature, famous phrases, and White House trivia. Sometimes I go off and make movies. Other times I just stand around over subway grates. Either way, I’m happy, pretty, and loved—and that’s all that matters.
Have I mentioned yet? I may be a little manic. You know: up and down. On the ceiling, under the bed. Shit happens. Of course, some days are darker than others.
Like today. I knew it from the moment I woke up.
You know that feeling—that terrible, awful feeling—that things just . . . aren’t . . . right? That supercreepy feeling that something, somewhere, is horribly, horribly wrong?
Is there a dragon in the doorway? An elephant in the living room that no one will talk about? Are there accidental shadows on your walls at night—and what could that even mean?
Try and ask. Try and find out. But while the experts hem and haw, the monsters grapple and claw, and in the heat of the night, you are still alone with your fears.
What to do? What to do?
It’s back under the sink for me, where, with any luck, I can stay hidden all day.
KNOCK KNOCK
Oh, dear.
I’ve been discovered.
It’s the maid, Flossie. “Billy, get out of the cupboard. You don’t want to be late for your first day of school. And wash off that mascara before your father sees you and has kittens. OUT. NOW.”
I scowled loudly and stomped off to my room. I heard her yell after me: “And lose the purple blush. This ain�
��t no disco, kid. It’s Fort Lauderdale. You’re in the red states now.” And oh, how she chuckled at that.
II
So there you have it. TA-DA! The big reveal: I’m a guy, technically speaking. Didn’t see that coming, huh? Well, of course you did. You read the jacket sleeve. And even if you didn’t, my rather unrestrained approach to makeup might have tipped you off.
So let me just float you the vital stats and we can get on with it.
Name: Billy Bloom.
Seventeen years old. Fabulous beyond fabulous. Total future icon. Gifted, yes, but just short of genius. Mad verbal skills, though. I watch a lot of Gilmore Girls.
What else? I’m a sultry redhead with sissy-soft features and a voice like a mink foghorn, I don’t know what that could mean either. Just keep it moving, kid. I’m just a wee slip of a thing—118 pounds—and about as sporty as a soufflé. Weak as a kitten. Check out these scrawny chicken wings. Even Mary-Kate Olsen makes fun of them. As a young drag-queen-in-training, my looks are perfect for size four Chanel suits and turquoise eye shadow, but not so perfect for blending with the locals, if the locals are, you know, of the mulleted persuasion. . . .
Which brings me to . . .
FLORIDA. The reddest of the red states.
Florida—where 98 percent of the population are ugly, and the other 2 percent are out of your league.
Florida—Satan’s strip mall, where even the crustiest crack whore is a registered Republican, and Gloria Estefan is inexplicably the biggest star in the world.
There it is. Here I am. Every once in a while I just have to stop and let the cold, hard truth wash over me again. I’M IN HELL!
(I’m from Darien, Connecticut, you see, birthplace of Chloë Sevigny, so you can IMAGINE my anguish.)
What am I doing here?