Page 101 of Born to be Wilder

I looked at the widows. Marge was grinning like the Cheshire cat. Doris just nodded, sipping her Hurricane.

“Alice,” Sylvie whispered, “do it.”

I looked at the float in all its impressive, glittery wonder, and imagined being up on it. Imagined the people in the crowd screaming. Getting to feel that rush once again.

I turned back to Diamond. “I’ll do it, but only if my widows can join.”

“Done!” Diamond clapped, and the other queens squealed with joy.

Ten minutes later, I was strapped into a fabulous showgirl outfit—a little too large, so it was pulled tight together with pins as Doris quickly sewed me in.

After the outfit was fitted, Ruby handed me a headdress—pink and gold and trailing feathers that fluttered in the breeze. When it settled onto my head, it made me feel like I was reclaiming something that had always been mine.

I looked at myself in the small mirror Coco produced.

The woman looking back was magnificent.

Not despite being over seventy. Not in a remarkable-for-her-age way that had always been the most condescending possible compliment. Just magnificent.

Period.

“Well,” Marge said from behind my reflection, her voice slightly rougher than usual, “there she is. Our showgirl.”

“There she is,” Sylvie agreed softly.

Doris simply pressed her hands to her mouth and said nothing, which said everything.

They remained in their street clothes but were draped in boas and sparkly crowns, and we all climbed up onto that float just before the massive thing surged forward.

“Places, everyone!” Diamond called out as we headed toward the street. The queens all raced to their spots, poses struck as they waited.

“Where should I go?” I asked.

Diamond just smiled. “Right there in the center where you belong. Slay it, queen.”

My heart ignited as I stepped into the center of the float, the widows on either side by the rail with their buckets of beads and matching grins.

We turned onto the main parade route, and the world exploded. Thousands of people—a sea of faces, all looking up, all screaming for beads, for life, for a moment of the magic we were carrying. The roars and cheers erupting as we started down the street were the kind of noise you didn’t just hear but felt in the center of your chest.

I stood in the center and let New Orleans come at me, the wind catching my pink feathers.

The queens burst out into their routine, high heels flying through the air as they kicked and spun. I realized instantly it was my routine from Gammy, and my own little feet fell right into that old rhythm, my body moving without thought as the music moved through me.

Beside me, the widows were having the time of their lives. Marge was launching beads like a pro athlete, whooping and revving up the crowd, who roared back at her like lions in a pride. Doris, in her cardigan and sensible shoes, waved from a Mardi Gras float like the queen of the hometown parade. Sylvie danced like she’d finally let go of every burden she’d ever carried.

And as I looked around me at this incredible world so full of life and laughter and joy, and I looked at those widows who would be by my side through anything, who were my whole world, the answer to my question settled into me with such certainty it nearly stole my breath away.

Twenty-five percent.

Was I really ready to risk a twenty-five percent chance of going through this again? Of losing this battle?

A twenty-five percent chance of missing years of this life with them?

Years of these ridiculous, outrageous, incredible moments we shared?

A twenty-five percent chance of leaving the love of my life early when I’d only just found him?

A twenty-five percent chance of leaving my daughter without a mother?