He laughed. “How could you forget to breathe?”

  “Not regular breathing,” I huffed. “There are techniques to help me relax through the contractions.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. It’s called medication.”

  “If I’m on drugs, the baby is, too. I don’t want Casey to arrive all doped up. She won’t nurse right.”

  I’ve done tons of research, obviously. Jason couldn’t care less, though. “Nurse? You want to breast-feed and wreck those pretty titties?”

  “Jason, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve discussed this with you.”

  “Guess I wasn’t listening.”

  I had to work hard to quell the anger rising up inside of me. I already had the arguments in place, however. “First of all, it might be the only time I ever have big breasts. You’ll enjoy them. And second, formula is expensive. Breast milk is free, not to mention healthier for the baby. It will also help me lose weight more quickly.”

  “Well, aren’t we just the expert?” He popped a beer, slurping it loudly for effect.

  I chose to lower my voice, and my blood pressure. “I’m no expert, Jason. That’s why I’m asking for your help. You’re all I have here at Fort Hood, and you know that. Please promise you’ll be there for me.”

  He got drunk and passed out without promising, but he did go to a couple of Lamaze classes. Together we learned the stages of labor. Practiced relaxed breathing techniques: in through the nose, out through the mouth, pretending to sink into beach sand beneath a blanket of September sunshine. Deeper. Deeper. Relax. Relax. The more you tense, fighting the cramping of contractions, the harder they’ll fight back.

  After three sessions, Jason claimed he’d learned all he needed to know. But he never even heard about transition, let alone how to help me push when the doctor tells me it’s time. That’s okay. I’ve managed to make it this far mostly on my own.

  Why change anything up now?

  Except . . .

  What I’m determined to change is family dynamics, at least where my child is concerned. Though I lived in my mother’s house until recently, she’s been missing from my life for years.

  I’m not sure what kind of mother I can be, but I swear I’ll never desert my baby, or keep secrets from her.

  I bought a new journal today, and I’ll write this one for Casey, so she’ll always know her mommy has nothing to hide.

  Ariel

  Altered

  Changed.

  Different.

  Transformed.

  Irrevocably.

  Irreversibly.

  Permanently.

  Forever.

  Trinity.

  Troika.

  Triad.

  Trio.

  Triangle.

  Monica.

  Gabe.

  Me.

  I’m Desperately Trying

  To maneuver this territory—

  the landscape of three.

  But it doesn’t show up

  on a GPS, and there are no

  maps, no guidebooks.

  Not only that, but the terrain

  is uneven, the trail unbroken.

  The travel might be smooth

  for a while, but eventually

  I’ll trip on a half-buried rock

  or step in a pothole, and once

  in a while a veritable sinkhole

  opens up and it’s all I can do

  not to get swallowed. The weird

  thing is, the longer I journey,

  the less important right or left

  seems. And that’s what confuses

  me. Shouldn’t one path make

  more sense than the other?

  If I keep walking in separate

  directions, won’t I split in two?

  It’s not that I can’t accept the fact

  that I’m bi. I can. The problem

  I keep returning to is commitment.

  Shouldn’t that be part of my identity?

  Until Recently

  Identity wasn’t something

  I thought much about, at least

  not anything beyond the concept

  of a name. I mean, I always felt

  like a girl, and not just because

  Dad was very clear that’s what I was.

  (And not a dyke, like my mother.)

  When I was little, he wanted me

  to wear dresses, and keep

  my hair long, though I hated

  brushing through it every

  morning and again before bed.

  But even after I was old enough

  to choose my own wardrobe

  and cut my hair if that’s what

  I wanted, I felt right in my body.

  As for attraction, I thought some

  girls were prettier than others,

  and ditto for good-looking boys,

  but didn’t everyone think that way?

  With sexual awareness came new

  understanding, but that arrived

  relatively late, and not only

  because moving so much prevented

  any real connection, but there

  also seemed to be physiological

  reasons for that. I never even had

  a period until I was almost fifteen.

  When I talked to my health teacher

  about it, she suggested I see a doctor.

  That took some convincing for Dad

  to finally let me go to Planned

  Parenthood, which was the only

  place we could afford. PP did a whole

  workup, and the ob-gyn told me

  the delay was probably because of

  a lack of early nutrition. Thanks

  so much, Father-of-the-Decade.

  At least it wasn’t a true hormonal

  problem, something my height

  and decent breast development

  denied. I was ecstatic to know

  things were mostly right with

  my body. Not like I ever had anyone

  I could really talk to about things

  like periods. Dad, of course, would

  swear otherwise, insist I could discuss

  anything with him. Yeah, right.

  A Few Years Ago

  Just about the time

  I first really noticed

  there was a difference

  between boys and girls,

  we were living with

  Jewel, the only one

  of Dad’s women who

  had kids of her own

  in the same house.

  Debra was younger

  than I was, but Shayla

  was three years older,

  and had a boyfriend

  who came over once

  in a while, mostly when

  Dad and Jewel were out.

  One time I made

  the mistake of telling

  Dad I thought Carlos

  was kind of cute.

  Cute! he roared. Boys

  are not cute, they’re wild

  animals, and I’d better

  not ever catch you with

  a Mexican, understand

  me, missy? He shook me

  hard for emphasis.

  I heard, but even with

  the jaw-snapping reminder,

  didn’t understand.

  What I took away

  from the experience

  was the message that

  I should never bring up

  anything about boys

  to my dad. Especially

  not Mexican boys, or

  Mexican anything.

  So the time Debra and

  I were playing hide-and-

  seek, and I burst into

  Shayla’s room while

  she and Carlos were

  doing some naked thing

  together, I kept my mouth

  sealed. And when she

  wound up pregnant at

  the tender age of fourteen,
/>
  I barely knew enough

  to put the two things

  together. And only later

  did I realize had I said

  something sooner, Shayla

  might’ve escaped that fate.

  So, No

  Dad is totally unavailable

  to in-need-of-a-confessor,

  completely confused me.

  Can’t talk to Monica

  about Gabe, and

  though Gabe claims

  an open mind about

  my thing with Monica,

  in-depth conversation

  about it would feel

  all wrong. The only other

  person I can maybe discuss

  it with is Syrah, except

  she’s not the most

  discreet girl in the world.

  For now, I guess,

  I’ll keep dissecting

  it internally and hope

  the process doesn’t

  devour me alive,

  from the inside out.

  Even Beyond the Triad

  Something primitive,

  feral, really,

  has taken possession

  of me.

  Sometimes

  it feels like a superpower.

  Sometimes

  it feels like an Achilles’ heel.

  At school, when I cruise

  the hallways,

  I view people through

  a new lens.

  It’s not just are they cute,

  or do they smile

  at me. It’s how they make

  me feel.

  Turned off?

  Turned on? More and more

  it’s the latter.

  Guys. Girls. Doesn’t matter.

  That both intrigues and scares

  the hell out of me.

  What’s truly terrifying

  is they notice it.

  That Transparency

  Is beyond my ability to control.

  It’s like living inside one of those dreams

  where you’re naked in a public place,

  except skinned in plastic wrap.

  People can see your heartbeat

  quicken or the way your breath falls

  shallow inside the draw of your lungs,

  or the acceleration of your brain’s

  electric impulses which signals

  an unexpected blush of desire.

  Sometimes they look away.

  Sometimes they stop and gaze.

  Once in a while the person

  you catch staring puts you straight

  on edge. Yesterday on my way

  to the gym, I felt eyes laser in,

  and when I glanced around

  in search of them, it was Garrett

  I found studying me, intently,

  as if finding something new.

  I expected an ugly remark

  or a flipped middle finger, maybe

  two. Instead, he smiled, creeping

  me out with his undisguised interest.

  Today Is Gobbler Day

  As Dad likes to call Thanksgiving.

  I’ll be spending it with Gabe, doing

  most of the cooking at Zelda’s. She has

  a big oven and all the pots, pans, and

  various utensils we need. Dad and I

  have never cooked an actual turkey

  ourselves, on our own. In the past

  we either went out or relied on whoever

  we were living with to provide dinner.

  I’m thankful for the chance to try not

  to ruin a turkey myself this year. Gabe

  swears he’s helped his mom roast one

  in the past, and it’s not as hard as people

  make it out to be. Last night I went over

  to Zelda’s and watched him brine the bird.

  He claims it “infuses the white meat with

  flavor and juiciness.” I have no clue if it

  works or not, but I can’t stand dry turkey,

  so I’m hopeful I’ll be thankful about that,

  too. Truthfully, I have much to be grateful

  for. Friends. Relationships. A decent home.

  Good grades. A brilliant basketball team

  to be part of. Coach Booker says we’ll kill

  the league this year, and she could be right.

  We’re hard-core, even without Hillary,

  who’ll have to sit the season out.

  And, hey, I’ve got a car. Dad decided to let

  me keep it, though he still hasn’t agreed

  to take me in for the driving test that’ll

  net the coveted license. With me behind

  the wheel of the Focus this morning,

  I figure I’ll give him a nudge. “So, Dad.

  I was thinking. Basketball season

  starts soon. With practices and games,

  transportation could be a problem.

  I thought maybe one day

  next week we could meet at the DMV

  after school and work. Coach’ll let

  me take off a little early if I give her

  a heads-up. I’ll make the appointment.”

  He Grunts

  Which is his way of saying

  he’s considering it, and

  that’s better than a straight

  no, so I nudge, “California

  is strict about teen drivers,

  and I can’t drive with any

  of my friends in the car for

  a year, you won’t have to

  worry about me doing bad

  things, especially since if

  I do I’ll lose my license

  until I turn eighteen, and—”

  Okay, I get it. It’s just, kids

  die in accidents all the time.

  If I lost you it would kill me, too.

  Is that what he’s worried

  about? “Oh, Dad. I’ll be very

  careful. I promise. Please?”

  Best I can give you right

  now is a definite maybe.

  Still better than a straight no.

  At Zelda’s

  Gabe and I go directly to work

  in the kitchen while the so-called

  adults disappear, ostensibly to

  watch at least most of the Macy’s

  Parade. If that’s really what they’re

  up to, it’s a definite first for Dad.

  Has Zelda domesticated the man?

  Gabe attempts to domesticate

  me, giving instructions on how

  much celery and onion to chop

  and sauté for the stuffing while

  he rinses the turkey and pats

  it dry so the skin will crisp.

  His expertise soon becomes evident.

  “You’ll make some woman

  a very good wife,” I kid. “In fact,

  will you marry me? I could use one

  of those.” That was totally off

  the wall, and he wastes little time

  pouncing on the obvious.

  Thought you wanted a female wife.

  I absorb the remark, consider

  its implications. Rather than respond

  right away, I watch Gabe lift the stuffed,

  trussed bird into the oven, admiring

  both his culinary talent and the muscle

  required to heft eighteen pounds of poultry.

  “I’m not interested in matrimony.”

  I realize there’s truth in the statement.

  With the rare exception of Monica’s

  parents, I’ve never seen marriage work.

  I’ve witnessed divorce. Widowhood.

  Spinsterhood. Remarriage, and failure

  repeated. Oh, and of course, desertion.

  “Anyway, what if you flip me straight?”

  That almost sounds like a challenge,

  doesn’t it? Not surprisingly, he takes

  it that
way, and I appreciate that.

  He crosses the kitchen in two long

  strides, pulls me into his arms, kisses

  me in a decisively masculine way.

  I’m willing to give it a try if you are.

  We’ve Been Borderline

  A time or two, but still

  haven’t gone all the way,

  mostly because I’m scared.

  Scared it will hurt.

  Scared it will define me.

  Scared I might like it too much.

  Pressed tightly together,

  heart rates rising in sync,

  I can feel him grow rigid

  against me and it would be

  a lie if I said it didn’t excite

  me, and in a completely

  different way than Monica

  did. If we were somewhere

  private, I’d give him the chance,

  despite my trepidation, to try

  and flip me right this minute.

  But that isn’t the case, so we

  cool things off, mutually satisfied

  that a wordless promise was just

  exchanged between the two of us.

  For Now

  We pour eggnogs, discuss

  spiking them, decide to wait

  until later for alcohol, if we

  choose to imbibe at all.

  We carry drinks into the living

  room, which is empty except

  for the giant balloons floating

  along a New York City avenue

  twenty-five hundred miles away,

  yet visible right here in California,

  thanks to technology. We sit

  to watch the end of the parade

  and eventually Dad and Zelda

  escape her bedroom, and head

  outside for a smoke. I’m not sure

  if it’s Gabe’s regular presence here

  or mine once in a while, but

  Zelda’s house never seems to wear

  the intolerable scent of tobacco.

  She’s a polite smoker by choice.

  Eggnog, huh? Dad stops on

  the way by, lifts my glass, and

  sniffs. It’s no good without booze.

  Pretty sure I’m glad it’s virgin.

  Apparently Brining Works

  Because the turkey is juicy

  and flavorful, and the stuffing

  absorbs much deliciousness.

  I skip the mashed potatoes,

  reach instead for yams, not

  candied but simply baked

  and dripping melted butter.

  “This is the most I’ve ever

  eaten in one sitting by far!”