A familiar mix of anger and shame floods me. Mom reamed the Bailey principal a new one after Camille posted the video she’d secretly taken of Tyler and those jerks jumping me. When Dad heard about it, he was mad those kids had bullied me, but he also told me it wouldn’t have happened in the first place if I’d stayed one consistent gender. If I hadn’t behaved in a way that made Tyler feel lied to. Which, ugh, he’s right about. “It just seems like you’re sort of saying I should be the one to change, instead of saying other people should stop being jerks,” I say.
His expression softens. “I wish it weren’t that way, kiddo. I really do. Other people should not be jerks. But in the real world—not the ‘ideal’ one your mom lives in—there will always be jerks. No matter what. I want you to be safe in the real world.”
“And safe means hiding who I am.”
He grimaces like he doesn’t like my logic. “No. It means finally figuring out which gender you identify most with. And being consistent. Your life will be infinitely easier.” He starts crimping the Styrofoam again.
I’m pretty sure he means Other people will find you easier to be around, not You’ll be happy and fulfilled. I steel myself and ask the question I’ve wanted to ask for a long time: “When did you decide you were a guy?”
He cracks through the Styrofoam. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I just don’t understand how you can say you’re a trans ally if you only support, like, full-time trans people. And not . . . part-time ones.” Is that what I am, maybe? Part-time trans?
“Don’t invent new identities. And don’t put words in my mouth. I’m fine with trans people. They make a full commitment to one gender, unlike you.”
“I don’t know if that’s true for all trans—”
“You’re a naive child who doesn’t understand the concept of trans,” Dad snaps. He sighs and rubs his forehead. “I’ve looked into it. Believe me. I had to arm myself for the fights your mom always wanted to have about it. I’ve done the research on the terminology. You”—he points like he wishes his index finger were a stick he could jab me with—“are young and impulsive. And she, for whatever reason, just goes along with it. All I can do is try not to care so much that your friendships at Bailey got so screwed up over your switching that your mom had to move you to a new district. Which means my child support checks are now going toward rent on your unnecessarily expensive new apartment.” He wads up his napkin and drops it on my empty plate. “If you’ll excuse me.” He edges out of the booth and stalks off toward the bathrooms.
I wipe away angry tears. A retort circles my brain, too late to use: Wow, Dad, I bet all the trans people in the world are so relieved that you’re “totally fine” with them.
I can’t even imagine saying that to him. He’d have some comeback about switching and airports and inconsistency.
The waiter stops by to refill my lemonade. “Everything okay?”
I keep my face down and nod.
“Do you need help?”
I shake my head.
He hovers for a moment, then goes to another table, looking over his shoulder at me. A few moments later, he sets the bill at the end of the table. I scrape my pulverized tortilla chip into my palm and dump the crumbs into the basket. Maybe I could use a pile of disassembled tortilla chips for my rule-of-thirds assignment. It’s an accurate reflection of my mental state.
By the time Dad comes back, I’ve calmed down and I’m folding my napkin into a rose. Dad puts his credit card on the folder with the bill. The waiter comes to get it right away. He gives Dad a once-over while he collects our empty plates, then glances at me. I fake a smile.
While we wait for the receipt, Dad spends a few minutes mansplaining the plot twist in that old Bruce Willis movie about dead people like it’s even remotely relevant to my life. I nod in the right places. The waiter comes back, Dad signs the receipt and leaves a stingy 10 percent tip, and we slide out of the booth. I grab the pen and write Thank You on the napkin rose’s petals while Dad pockets his wallet and digs out his keys.
It takes a hundred years to decide what to wear to Zoey’s punk-band practice. Punk is guy music to me, but Zoey reads me as a girl. I don’t want to rock the boat before it even leaves the dock. I’m feeling gun-shy of boat rocking after that lousy lunch.
I turn my thoughts to Daniel. I still can’t believe I kissed him. Like boom, jump in like a dude, Ash! Don’t wait till you’re sure he likes you, or till he knows you’re not always a girl! Don’t be smart about it!
I doodled the shape of that mwah a thousand times when I got home. I drew stick figures of us too, what we looked like—two people standing together—and what it felt like. Two people rising up from the ground. Falling through the sky. Dancing the tango. I drew the one I’m afraid of, where Daniel stays on the ground and I grow wings and float up without him.
I pull on my vintage Ramones shirt and look in the mirror. Guy-me wants to wear it. But I need to hold on to the fast-fading girl feeling. Because Zoey thinks I’m a girl. Because I’m gonna need to feel like a girl tomorrow when I spend hours with Daniel.
Maybe wearing a skirt will help. I put on a layered fall-colors one I got at Goodwill with Mom a few weeks ago.
It feels so freaking wrong. So not-me.
Mom
