Freak Show

There was a gasp of surprise as I strolled onto the stage in my new Prada pin-striped men’s suit (that Dad was ALL TOO HAPPY to buy me). My hair was scraped back into a prim and respectable bun. How’s that for a change? Why, I was positively demure! Like somebody’s secretary!

AND LOOK! NO MAKEUP! NONE! Well, a little base. And some bronzer. And blush. And lip pencil. And light eyeliner—but that’s all STAGE MAKEUP.

Mary Jane made the right call. She knew that being normal was the most shocking thing I could do. (“Always keep your enemy guessing! Never become predictable!”—from The 48 Laws of Power.)

I approached the podium brimming with poise and self-confidence, and stood for a moment, drinking in the attention of my beloved subjects.

“Gosh, how to follow THAT?” I said, and applauded as Lynnette left the stage. “Thank you, Lynnette, for that gracious set-up. ‘Queen of Hell,’ indeed! HEY: with FRANZ like these, who needs ENEMIES, right?”

“Now, my appearance today might come to many of you as a shock, I know. I look positively respectable, eh? And what’s THAT all about, right? Sure, I COULD have worn a real showstopper of an outfit and made a big, ugly scene which is what I’m sure you were all expecting.

“And I could stand here and talk smack about Lynnette and tell you why she IS SO WRONG FOR THE POSITION, that rewarding ignorance with prestige is a slippery slope that can only end with the dreaded phrase: ‘Academy Award winner Paris Hilton.’ But that’s unsportsmanlike. And Billy don’t swing like that.

“Why, I even had another whole speech prepared where I went for the hard sell, saying: VOTE FOR ME, I’M AN EXPERIENCED TIARA-WEARER, ha-ha-ha, and tried to pass myself off as the spunky underdog with the heart of gold. I could have even played the guilt card by reminding you all that you DID try and kill me, AHEM, so maybe you OWE me this vote to clear your conscience—

“Instead, I stand before you today, barefaced and unadorned, stripped of all the usual homo-signifiers you’ve come to expect. No glitter, no gloss. No lipstick or lashes. Just a fresh-scrubbed face to show you that underneath the artifice, I am perhaps not so different from you.

“But I’m here today to say that deep down, we are all freaks. Yes! Alone in our rooms at night, we are all weirdos and outcasts and losers. That is what being a teenager is all about! Whether you admit it or not, you are all worried that the others won’t accept you, that if they knew the real you, they would recoil in horror. Each of us carries with us a secret shame that we think is somehow unique.

“Maybe somewhere out there sits a beauty queen in adult diapers. (And here, LittleAnne Swafford looked guiltily at the ground.) Or perhaps there is a debutante who is addicted to suppositories. (And here, Baba Deschler started to say something, then thought better of it and looked at the ground.) Or maybe there’s a young ‘cutter’ out there who cuts herself in the name of her lord. Or a popular student council member who is secretly manorexic.

“Maybe some of you have a secret double life. Maybe you spent time in juvie for shoplifting a Jones New York blazer, and hope to God nobody ever finds out. . . .”

(And by now, everyone was looking wildly indignant, and terribly guilty—but nobody moved, and nobody dared speak up.)

I paused for a moment to let my words sink in. Then I continued, in a bright and sunny tone: “I mean, can you imagine what it would be like to have any of those problems?

“We are freaks, because we’re teenagers! We are, by nature, oily, throbbing, mutating, misshapen space aliens. We have zits the size of matzo balls and strange patches of fur sprouting daily. Yes, yes, WE ARE ALL FREAKS! IT’S WHO WE ARE! IT’S WHAT WE DO!

“I’m asking you all to look inside yourselves—look into that secret place—confront your own inner freak. Don’t turn away in shame. Stare it down, really examine it, inside and out, and then maybe you’ll believe me when I say to you again that I am not so different from you.

“Yes, yes—gay, bulimic, chronic masturbator, beauty queen with smelly feet, debutante strung out on Ex-Lax . . . It’s all the same.

“Now, I don’t want you all to think that the meaning of homecoming is lost on me. It’s about school tradition and honoring the school’s legacy.

“I know I haven’t been here long enough to have been a part of your traditions yet, but this is my home now. And they say when you move into a new home, you should start a new tradition.

“You call me a freak, and I accept that. But I say that I am not so different from you. And if we are, each of us, freaks—then can’t we accept what’s different in each other and move on?

One by one, the shadow students stood and applauded. Others joined in, slowly at first, but quickly, gathering momentum.

Onstage, Bo-Bo Peterson held his Scarlet F up high, prompting several shadow students in the bleachers to hold up theirs.

Is this OPPOSITE DAY? Have we fallen into an anti-universe? Is it snowing in hell, perchance?

“WHY WOULD BIB . . . ?” “DOESN’T HE REALIZE WHAT THAT . . . ?” “WHAT’S HE THINKING . . . ?”

I walked to the edge of the stage and bowed deeply to the crowd, like a magician who had just pulled off his greatest trick. I gestured to Bib, still obediently holding his F of support, as if to say: “Behold the power of BILLY BEYONDO!”

“WELL, IF BIB OBERMAN SUPPORTS HIM!” “I DIDN’T KNOW THAT BIB LIKES HIM NOW. . . .” “CAN’T BE AS BAD AS LYNNETTE CLAIMS. . . .”

It was another major victory on my part, and I was SKY-HIGH! YES! OVER THE MOON! SKIPPING THROUGH STAR CLUSTERS! SURFING ON A COMET’S TAIL!