JUVEN
Rapunzel
by Preston Smith
What was in a name, anyway?
As he sat on the floor of an empty bar, tequila and blood stained and lamenting his first time in drag, Ash no longer thought it mattered. He was no stranger to a happy ending, but this was far from it—cold concrete cradling him like a thicket of ivy. And still his mother was lost to the night.
There was something about the coexistence of Genesis and Revelations that entranced him. The idea that the Bible was a fairy tale and it, too, was open for interpretation. What waters did Moses actually part? Were they waters at all?
He’d worn a snaking blonde wig and a pink, sequined body suit that night, and now the flickering lights above him spotlighted each drop of blood spangling his hair. As if foretold, there was one spot for each word with which he’d fought his drag mother that night.
Ash sat with his legs in a V, white heels daggering out into empty, sweaty air. They were clean, untouched by blood or inhibition, the opposite of his face. His cheeks were plump. They always had been, except now they were a colorful playground: his midnight eyeliner had left rivers down his face, his blush botched as if splattered on with the flick of a paintbrush. His eyebrows twitched, catching light in waves.
In the beginning, there was nothing but hope and hair. “I want to get into drag for the first time before school starts,” he had said, “and I have the perfect wig.” He’d studied fairy tales since he was young, and now he wanted to live one. “I already have a name picked out.”
“Leave the rest to me,” Noah, his best friend-turned-drag-mother, had exclaimed. They’d known each other since the second grade and were about to start their senior year of college, but all that presently mattered was makeup and magic.
The night they went out, Noah positioned Ash upright in a chair in front of him in his childhood room and pulled out rose gold makeup brushes like surgical tools, eager and all at once. He stared at Ash intently, analyzing his face to best contour it. After a few quiet minutes, while he began stroking matte foundation on Ash’s face, Noah said, “Are you excited for the new episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race? I think I saw online that the challenge this week is to make fairy tale inspired couture looks!”
For a moment, their eyes met, and Ash could feel his eyes about to water, twinkle. “Of course I’m excited,” he beamed. “If I’m being honest, my favorite part of college has been that we continued our high school tradition of watching it together.”
Noah nodded and smiled, his short black-to-blonde ombre hair bouncing as he worked on Ash’s face. “I love it, too. Now let me really get to work,” he teased.
Sitting on the damp floor, Ash could only think of Noah’s final words to him before entering their small, college town bar. “Have fun tonight, okay? Don’t stay trapped in your head the whole time.” He had grabbed Ash’s hand when saying this, brightening the blush on his face.
The bar’s bouncer, seeing their hands clasp and then fall back apart as they entered the door next to him, a sight for sore eyes in a town whose cash crop was heartbreak, had grinned, and the boys had dissolved into a waft of malt and a dance beat.
According to RuPaul, everyone has an inner saboteur, but each time Ash heard this phrase creep out of RuPaul’s mouth, his anxiety assimilated into his bloodstream, his cheeks flushing and his eyebrows twitching. He could only hope that Noah never noticed.
And still his questions remained. Are romantic feelings sabotage? Who determines the consciousness or autonomy of a saboteur that can’t physically be seen?
It didn’t matter.
That night, in that bar fight, in that wig, Ash let it all down.
As he sat on the floor of an empty bar, tequila and blood stained and lamenting his first time in drag, Ash no longer thought it mattered. He was no stranger to a happy ending, but this was far from it—cold concrete cradling him like a thicket of ivy. And still his mother was lost to the night.
There was something about the coexistence of Genesis and Revelations that entranced him. The idea that the Bible was a fairy tale and it, too, was open for interpretation. What waters did Moses actually part? Were they waters at all?
He’d worn a snaking blonde wig and a pink, sequined body suit that night, and now the flickering lights above him spotlighted each drop of blood spangling his hair. As if foretold, there was one spot for each word with which he’d fought his drag mother that night.
Ash sat with his legs in a V, white heels daggering out into empty, sweaty air. They were clean, untouched by blood or inhibition, the opposite of his face. His cheeks were plump. They always had been, except now they were a colorful playground: his midnight eyeliner had left rivers down his face, his blush botched as if splattered on with the flick of a paintbrush. His eyebrows twitched, catching light in waves.
In the beginning, there was nothing but hope and hair. “I want to get into drag for the first time before school starts,” he had said, “and I have the perfect wig.” He’d studied fairy tales since he was young, and now he wanted to live one. “I already have a name picked out.”
“Leave the rest to me,” Noah, his best friend-turned-drag-mother, had exclaimed. They’d known each other since the second grade and were about to start their senior year of college, but all that presently mattered was makeup and magic.
The night they went out, Noah positioned Ash upright in a chair in front of him in his childhood room and pulled out rose gold makeup brushes like surgical tools, eager and all at once. He stared at Ash intently, analyzing his face to best contour it. After a few quiet minutes, while he began stroking matte foundation on Ash’s face, Noah said, “Are you excited for the new episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race? I think I saw online that the challenge this week is to make fairy tale inspired couture looks!”
For a moment, their eyes met, and Ash could feel his eyes about to water, twinkle. “Of course I’m excited,” he beamed. “If I’m being honest, my favorite part of college has been that we continued our high school tradition of watching it together.”
Noah nodded and smiled, his short black-to-blonde ombre hair bouncing as he worked on Ash’s face. “I love it, too. Now let me really get to work,” he teased.
Sitting on the damp floor, Ash could only think of Noah’s final words to him before entering their small, college town bar. “Have fun tonight, okay? Don’t stay trapped in your head the whole time.” He had grabbed Ash’s hand when saying this, brightening the blush on his face.
The bar’s bouncer, seeing their hands clasp and then fall back apart as they entered the door next to him, a sight for sore eyes in a town whose cash crop was heartbreak, had grinned, and the boys had dissolved into a waft of malt and a dance beat.
According to RuPaul, everyone has an inner saboteur, but each time Ash heard this phrase creep out of RuPaul’s mouth, his anxiety assimilated into his bloodstream, his cheeks flushing and his eyebrows twitching. He could only hope that Noah never noticed.
And still his questions remained. Are romantic feelings sabotage? Who determines the consciousness or autonomy of a saboteur that can’t physically be seen?
It didn’t matter.
That night, in that bar fight, in that wig, Ash let it all down.
Preston Smith (he/him) is a MA candidate in literature at Wright State University and an editor for Periwinkle Literary Journal. His debut chapbook Red Rover, Red Lover released in 2020. He is on Twitter and Instagram @psm_writes. He appears in Black Bough, Nightingale & Sparrow, and Tilde, among others.