“Know what?”
“What I’ve said every year? How I always say people can be better?”
Well. Jig is up. Now or never. Time for my big number. Deep breath, Randy. Like before your solo.
“Because you always said it to me. Every year,” I say.
“What?”
I stand. Revealing monologues can’t be given in a sitting position. I stand in front of him and I take both his hands and I try to look loving and sincere. This isn’t part of the plan. I was going to ease him back into it. I was going to show him all the sides of me he hadn’t seen yet and then tell him everything, when we were happy and in love. The jumpsuit was supposed to be safe, because it was a costume, a preview, but not something he would take so seriously. I don’t know if he’s still in love with me—I think so—but right now, we’re not happy. Not like we’ve been before. And I haven’t eased him into anything.
“My name is Randall Kapplehoff.”
“I know,” he says, looking confused.
“And this is my fifth year at Camp Outland.”
He pulls his hands back. “What?”
“Every other year, I went by Randy,” I say, walking a little away from him, then back. “I looked different, too. I had longer hair, I was chubbier. And I was in the show every year. I’ve always been a cabin seven kid. Last year, I was Domina in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.”
He looks up at me, brow furrowed, and I can see the recognition pass over his eyes. And then pain.
“Why?” he asks.
“For you.” I step closer to him and kneel in front of him. “Every year, being around you, the way you talked to us—even if it was just a crowd during color wars—made me feel … special. Like stars inside me, galaxies. You said we could be anything, and I believed you, even if you didn’t mean it the way I thought you did …” I pause, wondering for a moment as I say it if that means everything I loved was a lie, and I only really knew him, really fell in love with him this summer. “It made me feel like I could do anything. You made me feel that way. And … I wanted to do the same for you. I wanted to be with you. So I …”
He stands up and walks away, anxious footsteps, his back turned to me. “So you lied?” he asks.
“No,” I say quickly, standing and going to him. “No. I changed my hair, my clothes, lost some weight, and I did different activities this summer. But I never lied. I just … didn’t show you everything about me.”
“You lied,” he says again, not a question this time. His eyes are wide, looking at everything but me.
“No,” I say. “Hudson. I’m still the same guy. I really liked the obstacle course. I like being color wars captain, I like sports and hiking … it surprised me that I liked them, but I do. I just also like musical theater and dancing and singing and wearing makeup and nail polish. And I love you.” I reach out for both his hands but he pulls them away.
“So this,” he says, pointing at my outfit, his hand moving up and down in disgust. “This is the real you.”
“Yes,” I say. “But it’s still the same person you know and love.”
“No.” He shakes his head, backs away from me. “I don’t know who this is. And you’ve been lying to me all summer. From the moment we met and I asked if you were new. Lying. Does anyone else know?”
I can feel the tears starting. They stream down my face as I nod. This isn’t going to work. This was never going to work.
“Who else? Brad? People in my cabin? I mean … who doesn’t know?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
“Everyone has been laughing at me this whole summer? Tricked by … by some theater kid in makeup. Role of a lifetime, I guess.”
He’s crying too now, but he wipes it away with the back of his clenched fists.
“I’m still the same,” I tell him, though I know it’s pointless now. “I’m the guy you fell in love with.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You’re what my mom would call a faggot.”
The word shoots out of him like a bullet and hits what was left of my heart, and just like that, it’s gone. I don’t feel sadness anymore. The waterfall ache of our relationship collapsing in front of me like a glacier refreezes. Everything freezes. I can see it on his face, too, how this instant is being etched into our brains, how neither of us can even breathe in it.
And then it ends.
And I walk away.
“Del, wait,” he says, coming after me. “I didn’t mean to use that word.”
I turn around. “It’s not about the word. You think I haven’t been called that before? Heard it whispered about me by girls in the hall at school, or just hurled at me by guys on the street? Hell, Montgomery calls people faggot as a term of endearment sometimes. I know that word, Hudson. I know what it means, and I know what you meant when you said it. Even if you hadn’t used that word, you would have found a way to say it. Because it’s what you think, isn’t it? We can be better. You said you meant it as be less of a stereotype. Act more like the straight people. You thought I was better. Just like you—special. I am special, Hudson. I am better. And I am a faggot.”
“Del, I’m sorry, I was angry, I don’t know who you are, and—”
“Yes, you do,” I say, turning my back on him. “And my name is Randy.”
I find Mark at the egg races, still playing the Bye Bye Birdie soundtrack.
“Where were you?” Mark asks. “Blue needs some cheer power. Oh, your makeup is running. Are you okay?”
“Can I come back to theater?” I ask. My voice sounds hollow, so I try to smile, make it seem better. “I know I can’t audition. I’ll work backstage, make sets, run the prop table, whatever. I just want to come back.”
“Are you okay?” he repeats. He looks sad.
“Just … please, can I come back?”
He gives me a hug suddenly, arms wrapped so tight around me, and me crying blue makeup onto his shirt.
“Of course you can. You can always come back.”
TWENTY-TWO
Last Summer
The lights are so bright, I can feel myself sweat under the makeup and my toga the moment I set foot onstage. The audience’s energy is eager, but not anxious. It’s the top of act two, and it’s been a good show so far, so they’re willing to go along with what happens next.
And what happens next is my big number.
Mark and Crystal have crafted quite a dance for me, as if booming and holding the notes and the tongue-twisting lyrics weren’t enough. The stage is an amphitheater, a coliseum, steps all around me as I walk onto the stage, look out at the audience, and sing.
The great thing about “That Dirty Old Man” is that it’s a song I can go super dramatic on, and Mark has encouraged this. “Golden Age of Hollywood Elder-Diva,” he said. “Think Norma in Sunset, Davis in All About Eve.” And so I’ve mastered the slight head tilt back, the wide eyes. I’m not in drag, but we put false eyelashes on me anyway, just to get that vibe. And now I have to keep it all while singing about the man I love—who is the worst, and I know it—and how he cheats on me, and how victimized I am, and how I don’t know if I want to kill him or kiss him.