For the first time ever while the Shangri-La is open, I walk down the hallway to the main room. The music is deafening, and I don’t have time to worry about anything before Farrah leads me right into the middle of the dance floor.

  Instantly, people are looking at me. Besides Farrah, Paloma, and Lola, there are no other drag queens here, so a new face gets everyone’s attention. I freeze, gripping Farrah’s hand so tightly that I’m sure I’m breaking her fingers. She squeezes back. Then she leans over and whispers one word in my ear: “Dance.”

  And I do. Madonna has been replaced by Nick Jonas. I move my body to the music. Actually, I move Kandy’s body, because I’m dancing in a way that Sam never would. It’s as if I’ve been taken over by a different personality. Possessed. But in a good way. Not a head-spinning-around-and-hurling-green-slime way.

  I dance to one song after another: Ariana Grande, Kylie Minogue, Scissor Sisters, Mika. When I finally slow down because I’m thirsty, I go to the bar. That’s when I get nervous again. Toby, the bartender, has known me ever since I started coming to the Shangri-La. But when he smiles at me and asks me what I want to drink, I realize that he has no clue who I am underneath the makeup.

  “Just a Coke,” I tell him, my heart still thumping in my chest.

  He pours a drink for me and slides it across the bar. That’s when I realize that I don’t have any money on me. I start to stammer an apology, but then I hear Kandy say, “I seem to have left my purse in the limo.”

  Toby laughs. “No worries,” he tells me. “It’s on the house. Happy Pride.”

  I feel Kandy smile and wink at him. “Aren’t you a sweetheart,” she says. “Happy Pride!”

  I turn and walk away, sipping on my drink. Across the room, I see Farrah and Paloma watching me. Farrah says something to Paloma, and Paloma’s hand goes to her mouth. Then she gives me a big thumbs-up. I blow them both a kiss, which makes them laugh hysterically.

  I dance for the rest of the night, sometimes by myself and sometimes with other people. It turns out Kandy is good at making friends. She’s also a big flirt, and more than one guy gives her a kiss on the cheek after she tells him how cute he is. I can’t believe how easy it is being her, how unafraid I feel, and how free.

  Then the DJ plays an old song, Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family.” I’m surprised, because this means it’s already two o’clock in the morning. Closing time. It’s the song we always play to let everyone know that this is it—one last dance, one last chance to talk to the guy you’ve been checking out all night. I can’t believe I’ve danced for so long. I’m disappointed, because this means it’s over.

  But I’m also deliriously happy. Then Paloma and Farrah are with me. Each of them takes one of my hands, and we’re dancing together, singing along with the words of the song. “I’ve got all my sisters with me!” I shout in unison with them. Around us, everyone joins in.

  When the song ends, my friends lead me back to the dressing room. I feel like I could keep dancing all night, but it’s way past my curfew, and I have to get home. Just like Cinderella, my time at the ball is over, and I have to turn back into a pumpkin.

  “Gurl, you were fierce,” Paloma tells me as I start removing Kandy’s face from my own.

  “It was all Farrah’s doing,” I tell her.

  Farrah shakes her head. “Uh-uh,” she says. “I just did the painting. You brought her to life.”

  “So, is this the new you?” a voice asks.

  I turn to see Lola standing in the doorway. My heart sinks.

  “I should tell you to get out and not come back until you’re twenty-one,” she says. “You know damn well I could lose my license for letting you be out there.”

  “It was all my idea,” Farrah says.

  “I said I should tell you to get out,” Lola continues, ignoring her. “But I’m not. Today’s a special day. Besides, no one out there knew who the hell you were.”

  Farrah and I high-five.

  “Don’t push it,” Lola says. “Do it again and I will eighty-six you.”

  I’m already super late getting home, so I don’t rush getting out of drag. At one point, when I have one half of my face cleaned off and the other still made up as Kandy, I sit and look at my reflection in the mirror. My familiar Sam half looks happy but tired. My Kandy side looks ready to keep on going.

  “You going to keep her around?” Paloma asks me.

  I tilt my head, looking at what remains of Kandy. “I don’t think she’s quite who I am,” I tell Paloma. “I’m really glad she came to visit, though.”

  “I went through a bunch of different faces before I found the right one,” Paloma says. “You’ll find the one that fits soon enough.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being Princess Langwidere,” Lola says.

  “Princes Whatsis?” says Paloma.

  “Langwidere,” Lola repeats. “From the book Ozma of Oz. She had a collection of heads, and would wear different ones depending on her mood.”

  “Well, you should know all about Oz, Glinda,” Farrah jokes.

  “Just because you don’t read,” Lola says. “Doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t.”

  “Oh, I read, all right,” Farrah shoots back. “I’ll read that pink-prom-dress good-witch drag of yours right now if you’re not careful.”

  “Begone,” Lola says, flicking her wand at Farrah. “Before somebody drops a house on you.”

  “It would be nice to have different heads,” I say. “I like that idea. I could be somebody else every day.”

  I remove the rest of Kandy’s face, then step out of the jumpsuit and put my own clothes back on. My jeans and T-shirt feel both familiar and like they belong to somebody else. It’s as if I’ve just shed a skin.

  “All this talk about the big gay wedding this weekend,” Farrah says as she undresses. “Got me thinking. Which of us is going to get married first?”

  “I need to get a boyfriend before I can get a husband,” Paloma says.

  “What about you, Lola?” Farrah asks. “Think anyone will make you an honest woman?”

  “Not in this lifetime,” she answers. “You’re the one with all the men.”

  “That’s right,” Farrah says. “And I’m having too much fun being a single lady to settle down with just one.”

  “Looks like it’s up to you, Sammy,” Paloma tells me. “You got anyone special in your life yet?”

  I think about Tom Swift. “No,” I reply.

  “Not likely you’ll find one hanging around this little town,” Farrah says. “You need to get yourself someplace big. New York, maybe, or San Francisco.”

  “Right now where I need to get is home,” I say. I hug Farrah. “Thank you,” I tell her.

  “Anytime, baby,” she says.

  I hug Paloma and Lola as well, wish everyone a happy Pride one more time, then head out to my truck. There are a lot of people still hanging around, not wanting the night to end. I can feel their elation like an electric buzz, and it makes me excited to be part of something like what’s happening this weekend. I think about the same thing happening in bars all across the country, in backyards and big city streets. Everywhere, people are celebrating being who we are.

  When I get home at a little after three in the morning, the Grands are sitting the kitchen, playing cards. When I come in, Hank raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask where I’ve been. I don’t offer an explanation. Instead, looking at the cards, I ask a question.

  “What do the king, queen, and jack cards mean in a reading?”

  Hank’s eyebrow goes up again. “Been doing readings for someone?” she asks.

  “Just curious,” I say. I sit down at the table across from her. Clodine and Starletta are on the other two sides. They set their cards down.

  “Depends on the suit,” Starletta says.

  I try to remember my father’s reading from yesterday. “Let’s say the jack of hearts,” I say.

  “Young man,” Starletta says. “Or girl, since there’s only the one jack in a suit. Usually a good friend. Hearts are about emotional relationships. Love. So could be someone the person you’re reading for is in love with.”

  “Or wants to be in love with,” Clodine adds.

  “And the jack of clubs?”

  “Also a friend,” Hank explains. “But you can’t trust him. Or if it’s you, you can’t be trusted.”

  I’m not sure I want to know any more, but I’ve already started, so I keep going. “King of clubs?”

  “A good man,” Clodine says. “Someone like Wild Ruckus.”

  “Or your father,” Hank says. She looks at me. “Who’s next?”

  “Queen of spades,” I tell her.

  All three of them kind of suck in their breath.

  “She’s a tough one,” Hank says.

  “Bad?” I ask.

  “Not so much bad as troublesome,” says Clodine. “Unpredictable. She can go either way, depending on how you approach her.”

  I don’t entirely understand. I need an example. “Okay, so if Wild Ruckus is the king of clubs, who would be the queen of spades?”

  Starletta looks at Clodine, then says, “Livvie Comstock.”

  I hear myself gasp. I can’t believe my great-grandmother has said that name. Livvie Comstock. Former best friend of my great-great-great-grandmother Viola Weyward.

  The woman responsible for the Weyward Curse.

  Ten

  When Tom Swift’s father shakes my hand, I think for a moment that he might be trying to break it. He crushes my fingers as he pumps my arm and says, “Jennifer has told us a lot about you.”

  I wish I knew what Tom has told them. I haven’t seen him yet. His grandmother answered the door when I knocked, and she barely said a word to me as she led me into the backyard. Now I’m standing in front of the whole family and wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.

  “Jennifer says your father owns an ice-cream stand,” Mr. McCracken says. He makes it sound like my dad sits on a corner peddling Popsicles, like those kids who set up card tables and sell lemonade in paper cups for a quarter.

  “Actually, we sell all kinds of food,” I say. I’m trying not to be defensive, but I already don’t like this man. He looks at me as if he’s sizing me up. Which he is.

  Mr. McCracken is wearing blue shorts and a tucked-in white polo shirt with the buttons all done up. He also has on boat shoes without socks, and I notice that the hair on his legs ends about six inches above his ankles, as if it’s been worn away from years of wearing socks that are too tight. His skin is all the same pale white, so where the hair stops it looks like a tree line on a snowy hillside.

  “It must be nice living out here in the country,” Mrs. McCracken says. She’s small and thin and jittery, like a worried bird. Her hair is blond, but I can tell from the grown-out roots that her natural color is dark brown. She’s wearing a sundress with yellow flowers on it, and her eyes are the same color as Tom’s.

  “It would make me nuts,” Tom’s father says before I can answer. “Too quiet. I bet you can’t wait to get to a city when you graduate.”

  I can see Mrs. McCracken’s smile falter for a moment, and I wait to see if she’ll contradict her husband. She doesn’t. I can tell she’s had a lot of practice not saying what she’s thinking.

  “It might be interesting to live somewhere bigger,” I say. “New York could be fun.”

  “Too many weirdos there,” Mr. McCracken informs me.

  Clearly, this is a trap. I get the feeling that no matter what I say, it will be the wrong thing. Tom’s father is looking at me with a smug expression, as if he’s just won a point in a tennis match.

  “Would you like a soda?” Tom’s mother says, throwing me a lifeline. “They’re in the refrigerator. In the kitchen,” she adds, as if I might not know where people keep their fridges. Because I’m a country bumpkin and all. She probably thinks we have an outhouse.

  “Thanks,” I say, and retreat into the house.

  As I’m looking in the refrigerator and trying to decide between ginger ale and root beer, Tom comes in.

  “Wow,” I say when I get a look at him.

  “Too much?” he asks.

  He’s wearing makeup. A lot of makeup. He has a ton of blue eye shadow on, some horrible bright pink lipstick, and two blotches of blush on his cheeks. He’s tried to use eyeliner, but it looks more like the eye black that football players put on to help with sun glare.

  “Wow,” I say again.

  He groans. “I tried to copy a picture in a magazine,” he tells me. “But I don’t know how to do this. I look like a clown, don’t I?”

  “Come on,” I say, taking his hand. “We can fix it. Where’s your room?”

  He leads me down the hallway and into a tiny bedroom. The striped Hudson’s Bay point blanket on the twin bed is covered with discarded makeup packaging, and a copy of a magazine is lying open to a picture of a girl whose face looks absolutely nothing like Tom Swift’s.

  “It’s so hard,” Tom moans.

  I start by removing what he’s already glopped onto his face. Of course he doesn’t have anything like cold cream, so I have to use plain old soap and water from the bathroom. The washcloth looks like a paint rag when I’m done.

  “Now hold still,” I tell him as I apply just a little bit of brownish-gold eye shadow. I follow it with a nude lipstick I find among the pile on the bed, then add a hint of blush. A thin line of eyeliner on the lower lid finishes the job. When I’m done, I sit back and look at him.

  “How do I look?” he asks.

  “Hunky-dory,” I say.

  He laughs. “You sound like my grandmother,” he teases.

  “No,” I say. “You look like David Bowie on the Hunky Dory album cover. It’s number six on Ilona’s list.”

  What I don’t say is that I have a massive crush on Hunky Dory David Bowie. Not only is the music on the album unlike anything else that had come out before it, Bowie is absolutely gorgeous. He has this androgynous look that’s part alien and part angel. The first time I took the album out of the box, I sat and stared at it for probably an hour before I even put the record on the turntable. Once I actually heard him sing, I fell in love.

  And Tom Swift looks an awful lot like him right now.

  “So I look like a guy?” Tom Swift says.

  I shake my head. “You look great,” I say. “I’ll show you the album later. Go take a look in the mirror.”

  He gets up and goes into the bathroom. When he comes back a minute later, he’s smiling. “How did you do this?” he asks.

  “I’m a fairy godmother,” I say. I point the eyeliner pencil at him like it’s a wand and shake it. “But it wears off at midnight.”

  “We should get back out there,” Tom says. “My father will wonder what we’re doing in here.”

  “I don’t think he likes me,” I inform Tom as we walk down the hallway.

  “He doesn’t like anybody,” Tom says. “I don’t think he even likes himself.”

  When we open the door and step into the backyard, everyone turns to look at us. Actually, they all look at Tom Swift. I glance over at his father to see if I can tell what he thinks of Tom’s new look, but I can’t really read his expression. Tom’s mother, though, is all smiles. She comes over and touches Tom’s face.

  “You look beautiful,” she says. “I told you if you only tried a little makeup you would like it. Now you just have to grow your hair out.” She looks at me. “Wouldn’t she be gorgeous with long hair?”

  “I think she’s gorgeous now,” I say. I feel horrible using she, but I can’t think of any way around it. I take Tom Swift’s hand and squeeze it so that he knows I’m sorry.

  “And it’s so well done,” his mother remarks. She bends in close and stares at Tom’s eyes. “You must have been practicing. I still can’t get my eyeliner on that nicely, and I’ve been doing it for years.”

  Tom shrugs. “It’s not that hard,” he says, and I try not to laugh.

  “Well, you’ll have to show me your tricks later,” his mother says.

  Then the focus shifts to eating. Normally, this would be great. But Mr. McCracken puts himself in charge of the grill, which isn’t a surprise. He cooks everything until it’s either completely black (he calls this “charbroiled”) or so chewy it’s like trying to eat a shoe (he calls this “well-done”). Everyone pretends to love it, and maybe they do. I eat one chicken leg and part of a hamburger, wishing it was my father doing the cooking instead of Tom’s. When no one is looking, I toss the rest of the hamburger into some bushes and hope it won’t make whatever raccoon finds it and eats it sick.

  As soon as we’re done eating, Tom’s father says, “Let’s go swimming.” It’s like there’s a schedule that only he knows about, and it’s his job to keep us on it.

  “Aren’t we supposed to wait an hour?” Tom says. He sounds nervous, and I don’t know why. I know he loves to swim. “Besides, Sam doesn’t have a suit.”

  Mr. McCracken looks at me. “He can swim in his shorts.”

  I don’t like him telling me what I can do, so I probably sound a little smart-assy when I say, “Actually, I have a swimsuit in my truck. In case of emergencies.” He doesn’t say anything, though, so maybe my sarcasm isn’t as obvious as I think it is.

  “Thanks a lot,” Tom says under his breath. At first I think he’s angry with his father. But then I realize that he’s kind of glaring at me.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. I assume he’s upset that I was mouthy to his dad. But before I can say anything else, he gets up and walks into the house.

  I go to my truck and retrieve my suit, which is under the seat. It’s kind of sandy from the last time I wore it, but I shake it out and it’s fine. I think about going inside to change, but I’m still a little annoyed at Mr. McCracken, so I just change behind the open door of the truck. It takes all of ten seconds anyway. I just slip off my shorts and boxers and pull the bathing suit on. Then I go back through the house and into the backyard.

  I can see everyone else already down on the beach. Everyone except Tom. I walk to where Mrs. McCracken is spreading out a towel to sit on. Tom’s grandparents are in lawn chairs in the shade, and his father is waist-deep in the water. He’s taken off his shirt, and is standing with his hands on his hips, looking out across the lake like he’s scouting for pirates.