I assumed Bodie St. James would take us to La Ventana in a truck. I don't know why. I guess I just figured that white guys who played football were precisely the demographic to drive around in a mud-splattered Toyota Tundra with the windows down and country music blasting.

So it came as a real slap in the face when I spotted a familiar black Tesla.

We'd agreed to meet in a little parking lot outside of one of the older and grungier freshmen dorms. The asphalt was littered with cigarette butts and—poetically—one old, used glow-stick bracelet. I'd run into Ryan on my way to campus. He was telling me about the time he'd broken his wrist attempting to skateboard along the edge of the fountain outside the student union, but I was a little preoccupied with glaring down our method of transportation for the evening.

Bodie stood with his back against the driver's side door, his head down as he scrolled through his phone. He'd had practice that afternoon (I knew this because Andre had complained about all the conditioning, not because I was, like, a stalker). His hair was damp from the shower and the bridge of his nose was sunburnt.

My stomach tightened, inexplicably.

It took me a solid four seconds to notice that Olivia was standing next to him, flipping through her notebook and jotting down last-minute notes.

Ryan announced our arrival with a loud and drawn out, "Let's gooo!"

Olivia looked up.

Bodie smiled and said, "Well, we're looking festive."

It was a sarcastic observation.

We'd all somehow worn black.

Olivia looked, as she always did, like she was on her way to an outdoor musical festival—just a somber one. Her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose were strobed an iridescent pearl pink, but her bell-sleeved dress and artfully scuffed ankle boots were black.

Ryan was in a black bomber jacket and jeans so tight I wondered if he had any feeling at all in his feet, which were encased in a pair of faux-alligator sneakers.

I'd just borrowed Hanna's black corduroy overall dress again. Lame.

And Bodie was in black jeans and a denim jacket—a perfectly unremarkable outfit. There was absolutely no reason for me to stare at him. None at all.

"We look like we're going to a funeral," Olivia said with a snort.

"Shotgun!" Ryan hollered.

There was also no good reason for me to want to elbow Ryan out of the way as he jogged around the car, but I tried not to think about that as Olivia and I climbed into the back seat together through the stupid falcon-wing doors. The leather seats were soft as butter. I wanted to cut right through them with my fingernails out of sheer anger and spite.

"Nice car," I said, my voice thick.

"It's Kyle's," Bodie said, his eyes meeting mine in the rear-view mirror.

I know, I thought as the engine turned on with a low, eco-friendly rumble. The fact that Fogarty drove an electric car made him no less of an asshole.

❖ ❖ ❖

The closer we got to Los Angeles, the worse the traffic on the 10 became.

Ryan was in charge of navigation and music selection, to the detriment of everyone's happiness. He had a flare for incredibly grating techno music and 1960s throwbacks—Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones, some Elvis Presley.

When the Beach Boys came on, I caught Bodie mouthing the words in the rear-view mirror.

It was a small relief when we finally pulled off the freeway and navigated into a more upscale neighborhood dotted with boutiques and furniture stores. We passed two burger places and a BBQ joint before we spotted La Ventana—a saturated sunset orange building with a roof made of arched clay tiles, like russet scales, and an outdoor patio in the front that was hidden behind a wall and several squat, thick-trunked palm trees.

Parking was a nightmare, naturally. We eventually settled for a spot along the narrow sidewalk bordering a soccer pitch almost five blocks from the restaurant. The field was a sharp neon green—turf, probably—and corralled by high chain-linked fences coated in black rubber.

We climbed out of the car.

Out on the field, a pair of teenage boys were passing a ball around.

"Patea con el pie izquierdo, cobarde," one shouted to the other.

I snorted. Bodie glanced at me sideways.

Ryan ducked his head to read the meter and announced that it was two hours max.

"Someone can come back out and top it up later," Olivia said, already inching down the sidewalk. "Let's just go, I don't want Dulce to get there before us."

Ryan jammed in a handful of quarters, and then we were off.

I glanced over my shoulder before we turned the corner.

Something about the sight of Fogarty's Tesla parked against the curb spurred in me the sudden and violent urge to march back up to it and smash my fist down on the hood.

But I didn't, of course.

It would've shattered every frail little bone in my hand.

The four of us were hardly up the front steps and inside the front doors before a waiter in a solid black uniform greeted Olivia with a crushing hug and an exclamation that he hadn't seen her in for-ev-er.

While they caught up, I scanned the restaurant.

The square terracotta tiles on the floor were polished to a glossy shine. Painted ceramic plates and sombreros were hung on the textured walls, alongside a collection of framed and autographed photos of performers in drag—towering wigs, false eyelashes, sequined mini dresses, lipsticked smiles and fierce pouts.

Brightly colored papel picado banners were strung from the ceiling above us. They swayed and fluttered in the air conditioning.

Our waiter led us through the main dining area, down a narrow hall lined with bathroom doors, and into a mostly empty back room dominated by a low stage with a projector screen and an elaborate speaker system. It was darker than the main dining area; the windows were shuttered up and fake candles flickering on the tables.

I knew we were close to the kitchens because the scent of roasting chiles and jalapeños made my mouth and eyes water.

Olivia chose a booth on the far side of the room from the stage. She and I slid onto the padded bench against the wall while the boys took the distressed wooden chairs. As Bodie scooted forward, his knee knocked mine under the table. I pretended to be suddenly very intrigued by—and legally allowed to purchase something from—the drinks menu.

"The frozen margaritas here are really good," Olivia whispered. "Although the last time I had one I blacked out. Actually, all the drinks here are strong. The sangria might be fun. They do it by the pitcher, if we're all in the mood to get shit-faced."

Boy, did that sound tempting.

Something about Bodie St. James in artificial candlelight made me want to chug alcoholic beverages.

The football team had been practicing in the afternoons recently, and it showed—the hair on top of his head was kissed the color of whiskey and his face was developing a tan, beneath the traces of sunburn. He looked like he shaved a few hours ago, too. I wondered if his skin felt as smooth as it looked.

It was a small blessing when the fresh guacamole and tortilla chips arrived, giving me something to occupy my thoughts (and hands) with that wasn't Bodie's jawline. All conversation at the table died as we shoveled God's chosen condiment into our mouths. Even Olivia relented and put down her extensive prep notes and indulged.

It took us all of sixty seconds to empty the basket. Bodie flagged down our waiter and asked for two more. We killed those, too.

"I forgot how much I love guac," Olivia said, slumping against the bench and touching her hand to her stomach. "I need to find a Mexican place closer to campus."

"Pepito's is really good," I suggested.

That reminded me. Bodie had worn a Pepito's shirt to the Baseball House. I still wanted to ask him where he'd gotten it, but I also didn't want to clue him in to the fact that, despite being absolutely wasted on wine, I'd noticed a detail as insignificant as the logo on his t-shirt.

Olivia lurched forward, suddenly.

"Here's our girl!" she cheered.

I think I'd been expecting Dulce D'Leche to show up in drag. Which was dumb, because it wasn't like artists constantly walked around in paint-splattered smocks or doctors showed up everywhere in their white coats.

But still. It took me a second to realize that the man walking towards us was Dulce.

He was beautiful—perfectly manicured eyebrows, skin smooth and dark as midnight under the warm light of the restaurant, and teeth a brilliant, toothpaste-commercial white when he smiled at us.

"Hi Olive," said Dulce as he bent to hug her. "And friends."

We introduced ourself and shook hands, as people do. Dulce pulled up a chair from the empty table beside ours. I noticed, for the first time, that there was a peach emoji patch ironed onto the lapel of his army green jacket.

"Thank you so much for this," Olivia gushed. "You're such a superstar."

"Don't mention it," Dulce told her, reaching out to pluck a chip from the basket (our fourth, now) in the middle of the table. "Do you mind if I steal some guac? I had auditions all day, I've been living off Vitamin Water and sriracha almonds."

"Go for it," I said, pushing the stone mortar down the table.

Dulce shoveled guacamole in his mouth while Olivia gave him a brief recap of our class and the requirements for our project—the thirty-minute presentation, which we were scheduled to give in mid-October, and the fifteen-page paper, which was due two weeks after.

After this run-down, Dulce sat forward and dusted tortilla chip crumbs off his hands, turning his attention to Ryan, Bodie and me.

"Alright, so, first things first. How familiar are you with drag?" he asked us. "I don't want to condescend to you, but I don't want to throw around terminology that'll go clear over your heads, either."

I had no experience with drag, other than the time sophomore year Hanna and I had gotten the flu at the same time and had spent an entire week binging RuPaul's Drag Race and chugging DayQuil. And given the number of Spanish telenovelas I watched, I knew one show was far from a comprehensive representation of a community. It was tricky to try and appreciate a larger culture through the filter of visual media.

"We've been doing a lot of research," Bodie said.

"Have you been to any events, though?" Dulce asked. "Or met anyone who performs?"

Bodie pressed his lips together tightly.

"I saw Rocky Picture Horror Show. Does that count?" Ryan asked.

Dulce opened his mouth to answer the question.

"Wait!" Olivia interrupted, then turned to me and said very seriously, "The recordy-thingy."

I knew exactly what she meant.

"Would it be alright if we take an audio recording of this conversation?" I asked Dulce, setting my phone on the table and tipping the screen towards him so he could see the app I was using. "It's just to be sure we don't misquote you."

Dulce smiled.

"I know the drill," he said.

"You do interviews often?" I asked as I tapped open the settings on the app and adjusted the sound input.

"I do," Dulce replied. "Only in the past year, though. Nobody interviewed me until I got invited to do a panel at DragCon. After that, I got to do a bit of media stuff. Did an interview for Variety, another for LA Times. It's been a really fun year, actually."

"DragCon," I said, rolling the word around on my tongue. I'd read about it during my research. "They do that at the Convention Center downtown, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Beside me, Olivia was flipping frantically through her notebook. She'd come to dinner with a detailed gameplan. I respected her need to steer our conversation to get the information we needed rather than let it all unfold organically, so I decided to let Olivia take the wheel.

"Alright. We're recording," I announced, then asked her, "Do you want to start us off?"

Olivia beamed at me, scooted forward onto the edge of the bench, and clicked the end of her pen.

_________________

I'd like to take a second to shout out all the comments on this book. I don't know how I got so lucky, but the community of people following this story has to be one of the most positive and fun groups I've encountered on Wattpad. I'm constantly impressed by how open-minded, thoughtful, and hilarious y'all are. Thank you for being you. Thank you for helping me fall in love with this book all over again every time I post (it makes writing so much more rewarding).

Alright, I'm done being a sappy bitch. See you Friday for more drag shenanigans!

(I'd like to note that I've yet to attend a drag show, so all I know about the community is from lots of television and some research. If you've been to any kind of drag event, please share the highlights! First-hand accounts make for richer details.)

Your friendly author,

Kate