“Good. I’m making new friends.”
“Glad to hear it, kiddo. Oakmont seems like a big change from Bailey. More accepting.”
“It is. And it’s more diverse, which I like.” I wish he’d use my name instead of kiddo.
“Have you joined any clubs yet? Your mom said they’re big on extracurriculars.”
I open my mouth to say Rainbow Alliance, but quickly change my mind. “Not yet. But I got invited to this girl Zoey’s band practice tonight. I’m sort of hoping they’ll invite me to join.” Even if they suck, I’ve always wanted to be in a band.
Dad gives me a genuine smile. “I’m sure once they realize how talented you are, you’ll be a shoo-in.”
“Thanks. I hope so.” His words make me feel good. But if Mom were here, she’d say calling me talented robs me of the credit I deserve for putting in the work to get skilled. “How are things at the doctor’s office?” He’s a medical technician at a cardiologist’s office and does EKGs all day.
“Same old.” A smile quirks at the corner of his mouth, like he’s having a private thought he doesn’t want to share.
“Have you seen any interesting cases lately?”
“People aren’t cases,” he says, straightening his collar. “Every heart is different. Like every person is different.”
Uh-oh, here we go. “But . . . hearts behave in predictable ways, right? Like unhealthy choices make your heart unhealthy?”
“Sometimes. If you want to reduce it that way.” He twists in the booth to make his back crack. It used to drive Mom nuts.
The waiter brings our drinks and takes our orders. Dad says he’ll have the tilapia tacos and I ask for the deluxe vegetarian burrito. While we wait, Dad tells me about a book he’s reading on the Boston Tea Party, a topic that’s always fascinated him and bored me to tears.
The food arrives. My burrito is cheesy-gooey-excellent, but it’s hard to enjoy it when Dad keeps glancing at his watch and then looking at me like there’s something he wants to bring up. He finishes his tacos and asks the waiter for a box for my leftovers, even though I’m not done. When the guy brings it, Dad boxes up my food like I’m a child incapable of doing it myself.
I break a tortilla chip into tiny bits. He’s about to drop a “fatherly wisdom” bomb on me in the vein of If you don’t take my criticism with gratitude, you’re an immature child.
He puts the box on his side of the table and looks out the window. “Have you been presenting as a consistent gender at school so far?”
My lungs try to suck in a steadying breath. I keep my shoulders still to hide it. “Girl.”
“Your mom mentioned there’s a school dance coming up.”
I’m not sure what he wants me to say. “I saw a poster for it.”
“Are you thinking of asking anyone?”
I go on high alert. “Um . . . sort of?” I was just kissing a cute guy two hours ago . . .
Dad studies my blush like he knows what I’m thinking about. “Well. Keep in mind that usually it’s the guy who asks the girl. Not the other way around.”
My blush deepens. What would he say if he knew I started the kiss with Daniel? “I’m pretty sure girls can ask guys—”
“They can. But they normally don’t. If you want to be consistently perceived as a girl, you need to act feminine. Not just dress that way. Remember when I told you boys don’t usually giggle at My Little Pony? And girls don’t get obsessed with Fortnite? Same concept.”
“But I mean . . . they can do those things.”
He flicks his straw in irritation. “I’m telling you how kids usually behave, since that seems to elude you. You can’t put on khakis and a baseball hat and say you’re a boy, or a dress and say you’re a girl, if you’re not consistently coding your behavior accordingly.”
He’s going all big-words on me to show he’s smarter than me. “Why does it matter?”
He closes his eyes like I’m totally dense. “I’ll simplify it. Would you put on a boy outfit and ask a new guy friend to watch Frozen with you?”
“I guess not.” It would depend on the guy. Griffey loves Frozen.
“Would you put on a dress and ask a new female friend to, I don’t know, play baseball? Or football?”
I stay silent. He knows I’ve never played either of those in my life.
“That’s all I’m saying. If you insist on switching, at least do people the courtesy of acting like the gender you say you are. It’ll make it easier for them to know how to interact with you.”
“But—”
“It’s all about consistency. This is something you should’ve figured out by now. You’d be in eighth grade already if you hadn’t failed sixth.”
Ouch. “I know, thanks.”
“Consistency is especially important given your . . . unusual thinking. Have you really not thought about changing your behavior along with your outfits? Come on.”
“My thinking’s not unusual,” I mumble. I mean, Sam and Mara exist. “Mom thinks it’s fine.”
“I’m not saying gender roles aren’t baloney. I don’t go around preaching that women belong in the kitchen, for pity’s sake. But your mom disregards the negative consequences your switching has with your peers. She doesn’t necessarily have your best interests at heart.”
I slump in my seat. “I didn’t choose to be like this.”
“You choose every day what you feel like doing. I’ve told you over and over how inconvenient that is for people. If you expect your new friends to change how they interact with you based on whatever your whim of the day is, you need to make it easier for them. That’s why I’m explaining to you about being consistent with behaving like a girl and not just dressing like one.” His voice is infuriatingly calm, but he’s crimping an angry pattern in my Styrofoam leftover box with his thumbnail. “And honestly, you could avoid this whole mess if you’d finally get around to picking one gender and sticking to it. I’d
