Traffick

  I’m familiar with many of the faces,

  but some are new to me, and some

  interest me for whatever reasons.

  There’s a butch girl who can’t be

  more than twelve. Surely she’s not

  homeless, right? Surely she has family

  somewhere who cares? I asterisk

  a mental note to ask Charlie about her.

  Ditto the girl, maybe a year younger

  than me, coming through the door now.

  She’s pretty enough to model, except

  she looks so scared. Not sure there’s

  a market for that. Oh, but wait. What is it

  about her? She’s lanky, and wearing heels

  that make her even taller. Is that why her gait

  is awkward? I nudge Charlie. “Who’s that?”

  Pippa. Born Philip. You should talk

  to her. She could use a friend like you.

  Born Philip

  That explains a lot. But transitioning,

  or just cross-dressing? Only one way

  to find out, at least if she feels like

  sharing the information with me.

  Once dinner is on the table, I make

  sure to take the seat next to Pippa.

  It isn’t hard. No one else has chosen

  it. “Hi. I’m Seth. Mind if I sit?”

  She looks at me nervously, with dark

  eyes enhanced with expert makeup.

  Uh . . . No. I mean, I guess so. If you

  want to. Her gentle voice is more

  male than female, but it belongs

  to a boy, not a man. “I’d like to . . . ?”

  She understands the implied question.

  Philippa, but you can call me Pippa.

  She passes a big bowl of cranberry

  sauce, skips it herself. You work here?

  “Volunteer,” I correct. “I haven’t seen

  you here before. Are you new to Vegas?”

  Not really, but kind of new to YouCenter.

  I ran into Charlie downtown. She told me

  about it. It’s nice to be around people

  who don’t think you’re a freak, you know?

  “I do know. So, where you from?

  I mean, if you want to tell me. Oh,

  and please pass the gravy.” I notice

  she skips it. “What? Don’t like gravy?”

  Love it. But I’m watching my weight.

  I’m from Provo, which explains why

  I’m in Vegas. Other than Salt Lake City,

  which is more open-minded than most

  people realize, Utah isn’t exactly trans-

  friendly. Las Vegas was a cheap ticket.

  We take a few minutes to stuff food

  into our mouths. “Man, Charlie, you can

  cook for me anytime!” Everyone nods

  and murmurs agreement, and Charlie

  beams. You ain’t seen nothing yet,

  she replies. Wait till you taste the pie.

  Pippa Skips the Pie, Too

  But seems content enough watching

  me devour pumpkin cheesecake.

  Afterward, everyone helps clear

  the tables, and a few step forward to

  wash the dishes. Pippa and I grab cups

  of coffee and wander outside to sit

  on a bench haloed by the duskish light.

  “The days are short. Almost December.”

  I hear they’ve already had snow

  in Utah. It definitely fell early.

  “I used to like the snow, but we only got

  four or five inches a year in Perry County.

  Sure did get cold, though. Not like here,

  where they think fifty degrees is cool.

  So, anyone missing you in Provo? Do

  your parents know where you are?”

  Incredulity spikes her laugh. They

  couldn’t give two fucks about where

  I am. They stopped worrying about

  me years ago, when I wouldn’t quit

  insisting God put me in the wrong

  body. My mother says God doesn’t make

  mistakes, but I identified at three. All

  I wanted was to play with my sister’s

  Barbies. All my father wanted was to

  beat the girl out of me. Couldn’t do it.

  Different fathers. Different states. Different

  religions, I’m guessing. Similar attitudes.

  “My dad didn’t beat me when I came

  out, but he completely disowned me.

  I can’t imagine what he might have

  done if I’d told him I was a girl in

  a boy’s body. Gender dysphoria is not

  in his vocabulary. Are you transitioning?”

  Pippa nods. Started hormones, and

  I’ve done a few rounds of electrolysis,

  but that’s so expensive. I want to go

  all the way at some point, though.

  A girl doesn’t need a penis. In fact,

  it’s counterintuitive to who I’m becoming.

  “Do you have a safe place to live?

  How are you supporting yourself?”

  Let alone affording estrogen

  supplements and facial hair removal.

  I have a little studio, yes. Not much,

  but it’s cozy and clean enough. As for

  how I pay my bills, you can probably

  guess. No back alley blowjobs, not

  anymore. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve

  no other way to make that kind of money,

  and I’m saving up for procedures.

  Besides . . . She smiles. What better

  excuse to shop for pretty clothes?

  I’ll quit someday, once I’ve become

  the woman I was meant to be. In

  the meantime, I’m surviving. But mark

  my words. Philippa Young will make

  something special of herself one day.

  “I believe you. Until then, never

  apologize for doing what you have to.”

  I Don’t Mention

  My personal connection to “doing

  what you have to do,” but I do offer

  Pippa my friendship. “Anytime you

  need to talk, you can call me, okay?

  Be really careful out there. This city

  is crawling with creeps, and some

  of them are dangerous.” I take time

  to study her face really closely.

  “You’re lucky. You have amazing

  bone structure. You won’t need

  surgery there. In fact, you could

  model. Have you considered it?”

  What girl hasn’t? Actually, I’d love to

  find work dancing. The one real gift

  my parents gave me was dance classes,

  and my teachers told me I have talent.

  “Believe it or not, I might have an in

  for you. And not pole dancing, either.”

  She smiles. I’d do that, too, except . . .

  Yet another reason I don’t want a dick.

  But I’d give my left nut for a chance

  to dance. Nah. I’d give both of them.

  Which cracks me up. “I can’t promise

  anything, of course. But I do know

  some people.” I don’t mention names,

  nor my living arrangement. “I should

  go. You’ve got my number.” I head

  on inside to say goodbye to everyone,

  then call for David’s driver to pick

  me up around the corner. No one here

  knows where I live, or with whom.

  Once we’re on our way home—scratch

  that, back to David’s house—I call

  Micah, careful not to say too much

  within earshot of Percy. “Hey. Hope

  you’ve had a great Thanksgiving.

  Would lo
ve to hear from you. Please

  call me later.” Way to be ambiguous

  when what I really want to be is in

  his face, followed by him in mine.

  And what I wish is I was on my way

  back to a home Micah and I share.

  Home

  I check the time. Six p.m. here in the Pacific

  zone, two hours later in Indiana. Dad will

  probably still be awake. Hands shaking,

  I dial the number I committed to memory

  years ago. One ring. Two. Three. On four,

  a machine answers. Can’t answer the phone

  right now. Please leave a message. Dad’s

  voice. Strong. Clear. Loved. Now, the beep.

  “Hi, Dad. Happy Thanksgiving. Hope you

  spent it with Aunt Kate or someone. Sure

  do miss you. How did the harvest go?

  So you know, I’m thinking about going

  back to school. Maybe getting a degree

  in culinary arts. Las Vegas is in dire need

  of decent venison sausage. Love you.” Huh.

  Aunt Kate. Dad’s sister. Haven’t thought

  about her in a while, but she always was

  decent. Kind. Wonder if she’d talk to me.

  As we pull into the driveway, I make a

  note to track down a way to reconnect.

  A Poem by Renée Lang

  Reconnection

  How do you glue

  back together

  a relationship torn into

  scraps like paper?

  Where do you find

  trust

  buried in a stinking heap

  of epic past failure?

  Losing a child

  to illness or accident

  is

  a bitter tonic to swallow,

  but losing one

  to personal indifference

  would be too

  hard

  to reconcile, and I’ve come

  much too close—

  within the width

  of an eyelash—

  to

  doing exactly that.

  I’ve been given a second

  chance with my Whitney.

  But how do I

  rebuild

  her faith in me?

  How do I prove my love?

  Whitney

  Free

  From the confines of rehab, and

  scared through and through

  to be without overseers, unless

  you count my family. Yeah,

  and how did that work out

  last time? Okay, they’re doing

  a good job of pretending

  to care about how I’m feeling.

  Well, Mom and Dad are, anyway.

  Kyra acts like I’m a dark cloud—

  something to draw the blinds

  against. She’s probably said

  two dozen words to me over

  the past two days, and those

  she barked. Don’t talk

  with your mouth full.

  Get out of the bathroom.

  Put some decent clothes on.

  God, look at your arms.

  How could you?

  Except for that, nothing.

  I’m glad she’s flying back

  to Vassar on Sunday.

  Long-distance silence

  is preferable to

  the in-your-face kind.

  My Arms Are Tattooed

  With long silver scars—damage

  from shooting up over and over

  in the same general location, once

  I forgot to care about hiding it.

  What did I know? Not like drug

  programs teach you how not to inject,

  when they’re warning you about

  using at all. Not like I thought

  I’d ignore that advice and go walking

  with the Lady. She calls to me,

  and I’m terrified. I’m weak.

  I didn’t take that second oxy

  back in rehab, not because I

  tried to be strong, but because

  I lost it somewhere, and figured

  that must have been a sign.

  It made me take a long look

  at myself, and I hated the view.

  Once a junkie, always a junkie,

  that’s what I keep hearing.

  But the dope doesn’t have to win.

  And I can reclaim my body,

  abused and broken as it might

  be, I can take ownership of it.

  Dana thought it was hers for

  the price of two pills—pharms

  that would slide me back into

  the arms of the Lady. Instead,

  I pulled away. That time.

  It’s Weird

  Being back in my room.

  My room, but not like I left

  it. Apparently, Mom thought

  I needed a fresh start, so she had

  it painted a pale lilac with purple-

  and-crimson paisley borders.

  It’s pretty enough, but not

  something I’d choose. Given

  free rein, I’d likely pick black,

  to match my mood. It’s hard

  to come home, be confronted

  with rules, most of them meant

  to keep me from making the same

  mistakes that almost killed me.

  I understand the need for them,

  but they’re suffocating me, and

  I’ve only been here a few days.

  Yesterday was Thanksgiving.

  Talk about strange.

  Mom did do the cooking,

  and did ask for help from

  my sister and me. Way back

  when I was just a little kid

  we worked in the kitchen together.

  But it’s been years, and since

  then holiday meals have either

  been prepared by hired help

  or, more often, eaten out.

  So, the Turkey Was Dry

  The dressing was bland.

  And the rolls were underdone.

  The best thing was the pies,

  apple and pumpkin,

  and they came in a box from

  our favorite bakery—

  Dad’s contribution.

  Hey, at least he was here,

  not hiding out in San Francisco,

  his Turkey Day habit

  for the past couple of years.

  He was even nice at dinner,

  and managed the entire meal

  with only two glasses of wine.

  Mom needed three, but

  stayed pleasant enough.

  It’s like my parents decided

  the only way to save me

  was to save themselves.

  Not that I’m at all sure

  it’s possible for their marriage

  to be resurrected. It was dead

  and buried before I left.

  Sobering thought.

  Maybe that’s how

  they should’ve left

  it. If it all nose-dives

  again, will that be on me?

  Today Is Black Friday

  A day when any sane person

  stays holed up at home, or goes

  to the gym to work off a few

  calories. But not the Lang clan!

  We’re going to the mall, and

  calling it an adventure.

  At least, that’s what Mom’s

  calling it. Dad, who’s driving,

  says, You realize this is insanity?

  Look at this parking lot. How

  far are you ladies willing to walk?

  Kyra (speaking to the family

  in general, not to me specifically)

  claims, This is a total nightmare.

  I bet Coach is already sold out.

  Me? I’m just going along

  for the ride, and because
r />   they’re scared to leave me

  alone in the house, not

  that I blame them.

  The stores opened early,

  but none of us is the type

  to rise before dawn so we

  can stand in mega-lines,

  just to fight the inevitable

  crowd, which might actually

  thin out later in the day.

  We did skip breakfast

  instead of working out

  to make up for calories

  consumed yesterday. Fueled

  only by coffee, we hit the mall

  a little after ten, including

  a six-minute walk in from

  the far edge of the parking lot.

  Dad was right. This is insane.

  The sheer number of people,

  all in one place, threatens

  to overwhelm me. It’s like Vegas

  on steroids, only for all its nasty

  underbelly, Sin City’s facade

  is beautiful. Nothing particularly

  attractive about Capitola Mall

  even without all the jostling.

  A guy walking by turns to stare

  with eyes that don’t quite track

  and suddenly I’m carried back

  to another day here. I came with

  Paige, and we went on a weirdo

  watch—that’s what we called it—

  and ran into one hot creeper

  loitering outside the Gap, looking

  for stupid girls like me to recruit

  into his stable. Wonder how many

  pimps are hanging out here today.

  I Spot a Possible Few

  As we push and shove

  our way into the throng,

  a determined Kyra carving

  a path to Coach, I’m pulling

  in air as if through a pillow.

  “Mom,” I try, but it’s a weak

  attempt, and she can’t hear it

  above the clamor. “Mom!”

  It’s Dad who falls back,

  takes a long look at me.

  What’s the matter? Now

  he grabs my hand, and his

  skin is hot and I can’t stand

  the touch of a man—any man,

  really, but especially not this Vegas

  wolf, who rushes me and I feel his grasp

  at my throat, and he’s telling

  me that he doesn’t pay for sex

  and now he’s cursing,

  Fight, you goddamn whore!

  Fight or I’ll kill you.

  “Leave me alone!” I scream,

  and even above the din,

  people hear. People stare.

  People think Dad is hurting

  me. Dad. The realization

  of what just occurred punches