chapter 4

Izzy Wells fromBroken Bush, Oregon, stood on the stage of the dilapidated Roosevelt Theater, which she had bought because she was an idiot. No. She’d bought it to give Portland’s diverse performers a place to share their talents without fear, a community space where people could throw off the shackles of society and… but she was still an idiot. A second mortgage on her house to pay the down payment? When had that been a good idea? And the repairs she was going to do because she was soooo handy? She could replace a set of steps. She could reupholster a seat. She could not abate black mold or fix the leaking roof.

She took a deep breath, trying not to breathe in the smell of impending financial ruin. She smiled down at a hundred-plus people in the yet-to-be-reupholstered seats. There were the members of her no-audition burlesque troupe, Velveteen Crush, their friends, family, and fans. There were her four closest friends, the founding members of the troupe, the most talented. Not that Izzy ranked people by talent, because Velveteen Crush was about expressing your true self, and if that meant reading poetry while writhing on the stage in a sleeping bag, then that was your truth. But the founding members—Axel, Tock, Sarah, Arabella, and Izzy—were pretty effing amazing. These beautiful people were the reason she’d been an idiot. These people were why Izzy stood in front of the largest TV she’d been able to borrow. Behind her the two cheerful hosts of The Great American Talent Show bantered in front of a flashing column with the words STAR MAKER emblazoned on it. A clock mounted atop the column counted down like New Year’s Eve.

“In just a few minutes, we’re going to find out which ten teams made it to round two of The Great American Talent Show,” one of the hosts exclaimed for the hundredth time.

In just a few minutes, Izzy would know. Would she and her four best friends drop everything, move into an apartment with all the other contestants, and show the TV-viewing world inclusivity and body positivity? Did she have a chance at prize money that would save the theater, her house, and her chance of ever buying anything on credit again? Or were they going to listen as the hosts read the list of winners, sit in deflated silence, and then say a bunch of upbeat stuff about how they didn’t need a TV show to spread their message? There were ten teams and nine challenges between them and the prize. Long shot didn’t begin to describe it. But if they didn’t see their name on the screen tonight, Bank of America would reclaim a vintage theater with black mold, a leaking roof, possibly Izzy’s house, and definitely Izzy’s dreams.

“Speech, speech,” someone called from the audience.

Oh yeah. That was why she was standing on the stage.

Izzy closed her eyes, trying to center herself, not spiral. When you spiraled, you were at the center? Yes, but it was the wrong center. It was just a metaphor. She took a deep breath. What was centering? The ocean? Those tabletop Zen gardens people put on their desks? Izzy’s mind flashed back to the woman at the Neptune. A few times since that night, Izzy had thought about the woman—Lillian—when she was panicking, and the thought had calmed her. That was odd. The woman was just a memory. Still, she was probably the most beautiful woman Izzy had ever slept with, so maybe it made sense that Lillian’s memory could erase the Roosevelt Theater’s mold problem. Izzy pictured her now. Her dark, luminescent skin set off by her halo of short, almost-shaved, platinum blond hair, like the essence of a dandelion puff without the extraneous fluff. And her clarity. A shooting star. I don’t cuddle. Lillian was centered. And there was something else Izzy couldn’t quite name. A feeling of safety? The fact that they hadn’t just had sex, they’d had fun.

Izzy met her audience’s eyes one by one.

“Hello, you beautiful wanderers.” Izzy drawled her signature opening line, then raised her arms. “I want you to know how frickin’ proud I am of you.” Thoughts of black mold and Bank of America receded as Izzy slipped into her stage persona. She spread her arms. “We’re going to be on TV, and that means reaching the trans kid in rural Oregon who doesn’t know one other queer person. That means the girl who’s been told she can’t be sexy because she’s fat is going to see a new vision of beauty.” Izzy’s breath rode high in her chest. “Our bodies aren’t cogs in a system. We’re going to turn people on and we’re going to show them that our bodies are made for desire.” Adrenaline pumped through Izzy’s body.

The audience was hooting and whistling.

“There’s no such thing as perfect.” Izzy raised her arms higher.

Nervousness melted into the calm, hot, sensuous energy of performance. She was a mythical being with no past, no gender, no limits, no fears. (Well… there were murder hornets or getting stuck in a cave and, according to a survey she took in one of Sarah’s self-help books, the fear of abandonment, but basically no fears.) All Izzy had was the fierce, passionate love for the outcast and the stranger inside everyone.

“In our imperfection we are beautiful!”

The crowd cheered.

“But the most important thing isn’t whether we get on the show or not,” Izzy finished. “It’s that we’re all here. Together.” She looked at the countdown on the screen. They were down to seconds. Izzy felt her stage persona slipping. She pulled her shoulders back. “We can!”

There was absolutely no way they could. No way an amateur burlesque group would get on a show that promised to find the best talent in the United States. Izzy had glimpsed the other performers auditioning for the first round. They had tour buses and matching outfits.

She stepped back so everyone could see the screen.

The group chanted, “Nine. Eight…”

Why had she started this troupe?

“Seven. Six…”

Why did she buy this theater?

“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”

Virtual confetti showered the screen. The group held its collective breath. A banner read WELCOME THE NEXT SEASON OF THE GREAT AMERICAN TALENT SHOW, and below that were names.

The first row of the audience rushed to the stage to read the small font scrolling up the screen. Izzy closed her eyes.

Sarah read the names out loud. “Retroactive Silence, modern dance. Dance Magic, magician dancer. What’s that anyway? Mood of Motion, movement art. And what’s that? BetaFlight, aerial performance. Spice Angels, step.”

They would never make it.

“The Liam Ronan Irish Dance Company. The Reed-Whitmer Ballet Company. Effectz, hip-hop. Dream Team Marchers, dancing marching band. Oh! Holy shit!” Sarah squealed. “Velveteen Crush! We did it! We fucking did it!”

Suddenly everyone was crowding onto the stage. Someone turned Panic! at the Disco up to full volume. Champagne popped. Izzy considered passing out. Then she was lifted, crowd-surfing-style, by her friends and fans, everyone chanting her stage name.

“Blue Lenox! Blue Lenox!”