Dragging it Out, by  Beyond the Cheap Colored Lights

Summary: Hi. I'm Halyn la Toan. I'm 16. I just moved to a new town. I'm about to go into my junior year of high school. And I... am a drag queen. This is my story.

Fiction Rating: T

Legnth: 1 chapter

Chapter 1

The slam of the stall door echoed in my ears as I slid the flat bolt quickly across. Pressing my ear to the door, I listened closely. No sound but the loud, speedy thumping in my ears. Wait… this is stupid! I berated myself, pulling away from the door. Even if someone were to come in, they couldn’t see that I’m in the ‘wrong’ bathroom!
Rolling my eyes at my own paranoia, I stepped back from the door and fought to calm myself. No one could see me through the stall door; now that I was in, I was safe.
I flipped open the top of my tote and wormed my arm past the mass of textbooks and binder and pencil case, ignoring the sharp corner of something that was pressing into my arm painfully as I dug through. Suddenly, the texture under my fingers changed from the rough tote bag material to a softer, silkier feeling. I felt a triumphant grin twitch at my lips, and I closed my hand and gently tugged the cloth past all the other school crap in my bag.
A couple more dives into the bag and I had everything I needed. Careful not to accidentally drop anything in the toilet, I quickly swapped my clothes.
As I stuffed the T-shirt, baggy jeans, and sneakers back into my bag, I grabbed my make-up kit. Throwing the strap of my tote bag over my shoulder, I took a deep breath, my heart beginning to pound again, and slid the bolt back, stepping out of the door.
“Woah…” I breathed. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the mirror in front of me. It took me almost a minute to recognize myself, the young, clumsy, awkward Latino boy, in this shy, refined-looking Latina teen. Reaching up, I fingered the strands of my long black wig, much the same color as my own hair, running my fingers through the long locks, marveling at the fact that they reached several inches beneath my shoulders. For the first time ever, I was grateful to Uncle Harry for making me keep my hair cut so short; the inch-or-so buzz cut was easy to conceal under the wig.
My eyes traveled down on the mirror image to the form-fitting soft brown shirt, which was strangely well suited to my scrawny form. And below that, the knee length black skirt, black tights, and then my high-heeled pumps (which I’d been terrified would break under the pressure from my school books).
And even more than my drastic change in physical appearance, was the difference I could see in how I held myself. I was much more comfortable and balanced in these three inch heels and skirt than I’d ever been in my jeans and sneakers. There was none of that awkward, out of place feeling I’d always felt before.
I watched in fascination as the girl in the mirror smiled, her hands fiddling with the catch on the little black makeup kit. My heels clacked gently on the ground as I took a step forwards, watching the girl’s face draw nearer as well.
Finally I tore my eyes away from my reflection, blushing despite the fact that no one else was there, and popped open my makeup kit. Selecting some eye shadow, I went to work.
I set the last brush back into the case, the click of the latch as it closed echoing in the silent bathroom. Twirling a strand around my finger, I admired myself in the mirror. My cheekbones skillfully and subtly highlighted, my eyelids tinted ever so slightly with dark eye shadow, I could barely pick out the face I was used to seeing in the mirror.
Shooting one last smile at myself in the mirror and flipping my hair, I practically danced out the bathroom door. I slipped the makeup kit back into my bag, dropping the flap over it. As I passed the cashier, a (rather cute, I noted) teenager of about 19, probably just out of high school, he grinned at me.
“Hey there, cutie,” he smirked at me and winked, “I didn’t see you come in.”
I giggled and blushed. I noticed his eyes were glued to my rear, and figured he must not have noticed my total lack of a chest. Then, he was probably rather desperate; not many girls would come to a grungy little gas station like this, especially not at 7:10 on a Monday morning. But it was that exact reason why I came here, so I would not be caught going into the wrong bathroom.
Giving him a shy pinky wave, I bounced out the door and onto the sidewalk. I turned to go down the street, unable to shake the grin on my face. Pretending to ignore the wolf-whistle that echoed from the other side of the street, a blush nonetheless stole over my cheeks. Still, I couldn’t help the fact that, deep down, I could feel a cold dread. Surely people at school would notice, wouldn’t they? Out of all those people, someone had to notice…
Someone’s gonna notice… Someone’s gonna notice… Someone’s gonna notice… I clenched my hands to stop their nervous shaking, stumbling back a step as a younger teen—a freshman, perhaps?—cut in front of me, darting through the school’s front doors in an oddly eager way.
I was pleasantly surprised when the person behind me grabbed my arm to help me balance. “Hey, you okay?” A female voice spoke loudly right next to my ear.
I flashed a split second smile over my shoulder. “I’m fine, thanks.” Practically tearing my arm out of her grip, I hurried forwards. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest again, threatening to leap out of my skin at any moment.
Room 206… I reminded myself, picturing the laughably official looking letter my uncle had shown me yesterday. My heels clacked unbearably loudly on the stairs, beating out a fast rhythm. Turning left as I came out into the hall, I counted aloud; “200, 202, 204, 206!”
I poked my head into the room, struggling not to let my voice waver as I asked, my oddly high voice sounding unbelievably low for a girl, “Is this Mr. Thompson’s room?”
I was reassured by the kindly tone of the man’s voice as he answered, “Indeed it is. You’re a bit early, the first one here!” I looked to the left, to the source of the voice, and saw a man, about in his fifties I’d guess, smiling at me from next to the white board that stretched the whole front of the room. He turned back to the board and wrote ‘on’, then put down the marker and walked towards me.
He didn’t seem to notice my fingers playing in the folds of my skirt. “I’m Mr. Thompson.” His voice fit his appearance; deep and rich, but in a gentle way. He offered his hand, and I tentatively reached forwards and shook it, grateful for my small hands and slender fingers. “You’ve got a nice firm handshake; I like it! What’s your name, dear?”
I finally looked at him, my heels putting my gaze on a level with his. “Uh… Halyn la Toan.”
He smiled widely, showing slightly uneven but white teeth. “Ah, nice to meet you Halyn. A lovely name, indeed, and very unique.”
I blushed, reclaiming my hand and twirling a strand of hair around a finger. “Thank you, sir.”
“No need for the sir, I’m just Mr. Thompson.” He looked like he was about to say more, but another student entered the room and I stepped aside to let him greet them.
I dropped my tote next to a desk, sliding into the seat and letting out a relieved sigh. So far, so good. Suddenly, BRRIIIINNNNNG!!!! I nearly fell out of my chair at the loud noise; luckily, it seemed to have shocked a couple of other new students as well, so not all of the snickers I heard were directed at me.
“Good morning, folks, I’m Mr. Thompson.” He pointed to the writing on the board with a marker. “Welcome to—“
“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE A BOY!”