Carlos Duarte knows that he's fabulous. He's got a better sense of style than half the fashionistas in New York City, and he can definitely apply makeup like nobody's business. He may only be in high school, but when he lands the job of his dreams--makeup artist at the FeatureFace counter in Macy's--he's sure that he's finally on his way to great things. But the makeup artist world is competitive and cutthroat, and for Carlos to reach his dreams, he'll have to believe in himself more than ever. " Wright gives voice, complexity, and heart to the kind of character often relegated to a cliché sidekick role...[Carlos is] a walking example of the inner strength teens need--regardless of their sexuality." -- Publishers Weekly "Wright’s occasionally flashy but mostly straightforward...prose should work equally well for bookish and non-bookish readers."-- Kirkus Reviews "Readers will simultaneously root for and marvel at this fascinating character."-- School Library Journal "There's a whole lot going on in Wright’s novel, but it’s handled deftly and, for the most part, believably. Best of all, Carlos is not completely defined by his homosexuality. It is an important part of him, yes, but so are his ambition, his concern for his sister, and his capacity for friendship."-- Booklist "A fast-paced and humorous chick-lit read, Carlos is sure of himself and yet willing to acknowledge when he makes mistakes. His loyalty to friends and family and grace under pressure come through as he overcomes stereotyping to achieve his goal."-- Library Media Connection Bil Wright is an award-winning novelist and playwright. His novels include Putting Makeup on the Fat Boy (Lambda Literary Award and American Library Association Stonewall Book Award), the highly acclaimed When the Black Girl Sings (Junior Library Guild selection), and the critically acclaimed Sunday You Learn How to Box . His plays include Bloodsummer Rituals , based on the life of poet Audre Lorde (Jerome Fellowship), and Leave Me a Message (San Diego Human Rights Festival premiere). He is the Librettist for This One Girl’s Story (GLAAD nominee) and the winner of a LAMI (La Mama Playwriting Award). An associate professor of English at CUNY, Bil Wright lives in New York City. Visit him at BilWright.com. Putting Makeup on the Fat Boy W hen I was twelve, I convinced my mother to let me do her makeup for Parents’ Night. When I was finished, my sister, Rosalia, who was fifteen, said, “Ma, aren’t ya even gonna say anything?” Ma said to me, “All right, so it looks nice, Carlos. But I don’t think I should be encouraging something like this. I’m not gonna go to your school and tell your teacher, ‘See my face! Isn’t it pretty? My son did my makeup. Didn’t he do an excellent job?” Rosalia asked, “Why not?” Ma said, “You know why not! Don’t make me say it.” Rosalia put her hands on her hips. “You know what, Ma? Carlos is talented, that’s what he is. He’s probably gonna be famous one day for being so talented, and you should be happy he can do something this good so young!” After Ma went to Parents’ Night, Rosalia and I went to McDonald’s. Rosalia told me again she thought I was talented and that I was gonna be famous. I asked her to buy me an extra bag of chocolate chip cookies and an all-chocolate sundae to prove she really meant it. • • • By the time I got to Sojourner Truth/John F. Kennedy Freedom High School, I knew if other people could get paid as makeup artists, I could too. I already had a job after school being an assistant to all the teachers in a day care program. I didn’t love my job, but I did love being able to go shopping for makeup at Little Ricky’s on Thirteenth Street, where they had the wildest stuff. I’d run home, lock my bedroom door, and try it out immediately. Sitting on the side of my bed, studying my face in my two-sided makeup mirror (one for normal view, one for super-close-up) was like school after school. It was me practicing the thing that I knew would make me famous someday. No matter what any of them said, the girls at school had to admit I was an expert. And the boys who got away with eyeliner because they were supposedly rockers even asked me for tips on how to put it on straight. I was really happy to tell them, because crooked eyeliner is so whack, it makes me nuts. My friend Angie suggested, “Carlos, now that you’re sixteen, you should come to Macy’s and try to get a part-time job at a makeup counter.” She worked there on Saturdays and she bugged me from the beginning of school in September. “You have to go and apply for a job before the holidays. That’s when they need all the help they can get. I bet you could work for any company you wanted—Chanel, Bobbi Brown, Dolce & Gabbana. Any of them.” I know it sounds like I’m exaggerating, but the idea of it made me stop breathing for . . . well, a few seconds at least. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it first. I guess I’d only pictured doing Mary J. Blig