Miranda had been understanding, but persuasive. “I understand why you’re feeling a little skittish, Rai,” she said.
It struck Ashok as especially hilarious that his hated high school gym nickname—everybody had been hollered at by their last name because it was written on their shirts and the teacher didn’t have to make the effort to put a face to a name, but could rather holler indiscriminately as long as you were close enough that he could read your jersey—that name was now a cute little diminutive of his drag name, and he encouraged Miranda’s use of the nickname.
“But I wish you’d flip the script and let this be your chance for all of us to support you. Own your fabulousness, girl, and put it up on that stage for the rest of us to bask in its glow.”
“I don’t know…”