I scowl at my reflection. My shirt and skirt do not go together. I pull off the shirt, put on a plain black tee and grab the purple purse Mom cross-stitched with I am Groot under a picture of Baby Groot doing the Rosie the Riveter pose. Fiona would like it. “Ready.”
In the car, I pick at my chipped nail polish. I feel like a dude in a skirt. I keep thinking about Sam at Rainbow Alliance, who said pronouns aren’t important to them, and Mara, who looks like a girl but uses he/him pronouns.
I want to be as laid-back about gender as they are. But I’m not laid-back at all, thanks to Dad. I’m Ashley or I’m Asher and that’s that. While I’m switching, for that week or so, everything feels gross and inside out and bass-ackward until I can settle into what I’m switching to. That “identify as airport” thing Dad said was icky, but it also hit the nail on the head. I hate being in between. It’s like when a lousy radio DJ doesn’t know how to fade one song into another. That few seconds when both songs are playing but the beats aren’t blending and you’re like, Oh my god, go back to DJ school.
It makes no sense to me how anyone can hang out in between. Or be so comfortable with looking the opposite of how they feel that they’re like, This is who I am.
Mom gives me a sideways glance at a stoplight. “Everything okay?”
“Fine.” The car does the screeeee—ping! sound that always makes me worry a wheel’s gonna fall off. Mom likes to joke that her car is old enough to legally vote.
“You’ve seemed a little . . . conflicted. Since lunch.” She lets the silence stretch till the light turns green. “You really don’t have to pick—”
“Yes, I do.” We’ve had this argument so many times. “My life would be so much easier.”
“Your dad wants you to see things as black-and-white, like he does. But life’s not like that. You’re not like that. No one is.”
“Can we not talk about Dad?”
She makes a face. “I know. Puts me right off my tea and crumpets too. It just makes me sad that he tries to cram all his faulty thinking down your throat.”
I keep my face aimed out the window. It’s hard to consider Dad’s thinking entirely faulty when there are so many things he’s right about: that I wouldn’t have gotten bullied if I’d been consistent. That Tyler felt lied to. That it’s a pain for other people to keep up with my changing gender. That my problems are my own fault. You can’t insist to everyone at school that you’re a girl one week and a boy the next, and switch it over and over, without picking up a nasty nickname and more than a few bruises.
I just don’t know any other way to be. I’ve wished on every birthday candle since I was eight that I could stop switching. Kids at school would quit calling me names and shouldering me out of group projects and ignoring me at recess. Dad would quit yelling at Mom that all the switching was driving him nuts and I’d stop bringing this mess down on my head if I’d just pick one and stick to it. He said it was impossible to parent a wishy-washy kid like me.
Mom says the divorce wasn’t my fault. That they had a ton of other problems that had built up over time. That the “current political climate” that “discourages rational discourse” didn’t help matters.
But it is my fault. Because when I was in sixth grade round one, I begged and begged Mom to legally change my name to Ash, which is totally different from my very gendered birth name. Dad was against changing it because he said I was too young to decide something so important—which, hello, does not jive at all with him saying I’m too old to not know what I am.
Mom changed my name without telling him. Dad was arguing with a doctor after my appendicitis surgery about the wrong name being on my chart when Mom told him. By the time I got home from the hospital, he’d moved out.
I’m still not sure if he went on his own or if Mom kicked him out.
When we get to Zoey’s huge house, she’s in the open three-car garage. One corner of it is full of musical equipment and has posters of dinosaurs all over the walls. Zoey’s plugging a cherry-red Fender into an amp. She introduces the two other girls there as Olivia and Jordan. Olivia’s a skinny redhead with glasses and freckles and Jordan is a tall girl with amber-brown skin, nearly shorn hair, and black fingernails with white skulls on them. “Together we’re Tyrannosaurus Rocks, the baddest band to rock Oakmont Middle,” Zoey finishes theatrically.
“Emphasis on the ‘bad,’” Jordan snickers. “Especially you.”
“Bite me,” Zoey says. “You only know like five notes.”
Rex comes over wagging his tail and noses my hand so I’ll pet him. Mom asks if I’m good, and leaves when I give her a nod.
Jordan grins at Zoey. “At least Olivia has a boyfriend.”
“Guys are garbage.” Zoey pops her gum. “Every single one makes eye contact with my boobs before they look at my face.”
“If you hate your boobs so much, donate some to me,” Olivia says. “I need major help in that department.”
“Me too,” I say quickly. Rex sits at my feet and looks adoringly up at Zoey.
“Trust me, this is a problem you do not want. Every guy looks at me like I’m a piece of meat.” Zoey pushes a wheeled stool over to me and tells me about meeting Olivia and Jordan in sixth grade, about how the three of them became best friends immediately since they all like punk and hate country music and they all have a younger sister and an older brother and they’re all good
