Page 147 of The Black Flamingo

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“No, that would defeat the point,” I say.

“But whatisthe point?” she asks

bluntly—it doesn’t feel offensive.

“You don’t seem to want to change

much about yourself for the show,”

she says. “You want to keep the beard

but still pretend to be Beyoncé?”

“That’s not it,” I reply. “I don’t want to

pretend to be anyone, not anymore.”

“So whoisThe Black Flamingo?”

asks Katy, with genuine curiosity.

I reply,

“He is me, who I have been,

who I am, who I hope to become.

Someone fabulous, wild, and strong.

With or without a costume on.”

Katy’s wardrobe is full of color;

it reminds me of Camden Market.

I look down at my gray sweater

and navy jeans and think about

the rest of my wardrobe. This is

my uniform. I have left school,

but look at how I still conform.

The only bright thing I own is the

pink shirt that Mum bought me.

A pink faux fur coat catches my eye.

I ask, “Can I borrow this as well?”

“Yeah, of course,” says Katy. “There’s

a matching handbag, if you want it.”

It’s coming together, I think.All I need

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