Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [125]
seventy-seven
Here’s another story. One I started—but couldn’t finish—from the Care. Okay? party:
“…Eurocock,” said Cinthia.
“Who’s having Eurocock for supper?” boomed a voice from behind. And before I could turn around, I was attacked by a flock of wild purple ostriches.
“Dah-ling! It’s you!”
“Royalle G. Biv!” I spluttered, spitting his boa out of my mouth.
“Where’s the Buddhist?” the drag queen asked, readjusting his spangled cleavage. If the average anorexic starlet got a boost in her bra from those silicone chicken-cutlet inserts, Royalle G. Biv must use two Perdue Oven Stuffer Roasters.
“Not here,” I said. “And he’s not a Buddhist. He’s a Deist who practices Vipassana meditation.”
“Say no more!” he said, making an exaggerated lip-zipping gesture, which was funny because it was a perfectly appropriate gesture for describing your practice.
“Royalle G. Biv!” Dexy shrieked. “I love you! I’m your biggest fan!”
“Not possible,” he said. “I’m my biggest fan!” He waited for the laugh, then said, “Listen, doll, I’d love to tawk, but I’ve got to bring down the howse.”
And he pranced away as only a seven-foot drag queen can prance.
“This should be good,” Dexy said.
“Get ready to cry yer eyes out,” Royalle warned the crowd, pulling a chiffon scarf from his ballgown for effect.
And right before the background track started up, I thought about how phenomenal it would be if Royalle broke out into a Barry Manilow song. You were returning in less than forty-eight hours, and I wasn’t any closer to knowing what I’d say to you when I saw you again.
I needed a Sign. I was begging for a Sign. I was willing to shed twenty-two years of agnostic skepticism if God or a higher power came through with a Sign. This was His moment to wow me, win me over. I would spend the rest of my life as a missionary turning doubters into the devoted with my astonishing conversion story.
“And then when I had lost all faith, I got a Sign, and that’s when I knew I had to say yes….”
I pressed my palms together under the table, praying a seven-foot drag queen named Royalle G. Biv would act as the voice box of a higher power, spreading His message of hope and love by performing a number by none other than Barry Manilow. Perhaps the appropriately titled “Could It Be Magic”:
Baby, I love you, come, come, come into my arms
Let me know the wonder of all of you
Or “Daybreak”:
We’ve been runnin’ around, year after year
Blinded with pride, blinded with fear
Or even “Copacabana,” for Christ’s sake:
They were young and they had each other
Who could ask for more?
But, alas, Royalle opened his huge red mouth and began to sing a power ballad I didn’t recognize until it built up to the torrid chorus.
“I WAH-NT yoooooou, I NEED yoooooooou,” Royalle belted. “But there ain’t no way I’m EVAH GONNA LOVE you….”
Not Manilow, but another overwrought late-seventies balladeer. Meat Loaf.
And as much as I hate to admit it, Royalle’s diva delivery of this over-the-top song hit me where it hurts. It was a performance for the ages, and I was mesmerized. Granted, at that point I had worked up to a solid drunk, and I was certainly susceptible to the boo-hoo-hooze. But Royalle’s performance, though not a Sign of the divine, was a smashing success on another level. His melodramatic lament beamed a spotlight on my own version of this troublesome triangulation, which I will come right out and reveal right now. And it is this:
I love you.
And I want you, too.
But.
However.
Unfortunately…
seventy-eight
Of course, I got your message, too, which came after Len’s. It was so strange to hear your voice.
According to your message, the kiddies are calling you Rodney. That’s a pretty clever nickname, but if those Princeton Tigers really wanted to impress me, they would have called you Thornton, which is the senior-citizen college freshman character Rodney Dangerfield plays in the movie Back to School. But Rodney is a pretty solid nickname. Solid. A nickname like that could very well stick for the next four years. I knew I’d be right