I sit down at my desk after school, intending to cram for my Precalc test, but I can’t concentrate. I have a date on Saturday night. I mean, I think it’s a date. My face heats up at the thought of standing next to Bec in some dimly lit club—and I get out of my chair and start pacing my room. Will I have to dance? What should I wear? I curse, wishing I had someone to call who could give me advice about these things.
And then I remember my blog followers. Statistically speaking, at least one of them has to have been in a situation like this before.
I drop into my desk chair, open my laptop, and start to log in to Bloglr—but my fingers pause above the keyboard, and I remember why I haven’t logged in since Sunday: the trans girl at the train station. I have a sinking feeling that my advice didn’t help—and that, if I log in, I’ll find out she hasn’t replied. And I’ll know it’s because she jumped onto the tracks after all.
And then I remember the anonymous hate message, and the cold smile from Vickers. Are they connected? Will another message—an even worse one—be waiting for me when I log in?
I stare at the Bloglr home screen, watching the little green frog logo catch animated flies with its long, pink tongue. Am I one of those flies? If I log back in, will I get caught and eaten?
I can’t hide forever. Like Solo said, there will always be haters, but I can’t let them stop me from doing what I want. And, if I’m too scared to look, I might as well delete my blog.
No longer feeling remotely like asking for dating advice, I log in and bring up my dash. My reply to the trans girl has gone viral. More than a thousand users have liked, commented on, or reblogged my reply to her call for help. I click on the post and scroll through the comments.
DZboy: Stay strong girl! We’re with you.
Anonymous: Hang on, sweetie. It gets better :
shy-town-refugee: if ur in Chicago u can come crash w us. msg me!
They go on and on, an outpouring of love, support, and resources for the girl at the train station. My heart beats faster—I still haven’t seen anything from the girl herself. Is she still alive? In the hopes that she’s sent me another message, I click on my inbox and start reading.
MustangGrl96: Please tell anon I went thru the same thing. She can msg me.
Expecto_Patron: So brave. Please tell her we love her!
There are dozens like this, and as I scroll through them, my fear dissipates. The impact of one anonymous hate message seems insignificant compared with this demonstration of support.
Finally, I come to this message, sent in the early hours of Monday morning:
wak1ng-up: Hi Alix. I’m the trans girl who wrote you from the train station. I just wanted to say thank you so much for your reply. You made me feel like I’m not so alone. When the flood of responses came in, I totally started crying. I called one of the hotlines and they told me about a safe house nearby, but I think I am just going to go home. I think if I don’t, it will only make things worse with my parents. Anyway thanks again. You kind of saved me.
I put my hands over my face. My shoulders shake once, then once more. Two hard sobs, and I think there will be more, but they taper off. Relief surges through me. I wipe my eyes and read the message again, and then I reply.
Alix: Thank you so much for writing back. I’m glad you decided to stay. Please message me if you want to talk more. Hang in there.
It doesn’t feel like I’m saying enough, but I don’t know what else to say. I click Send.
There’s one more message in my inbox.
MiMi_Q: Hi Alix. My name is Mike/Michelle Weston. I’m the curator of QueerAlliance.org, and I’ve messaged you once before. I don’t know where in the world you are, or whether you’re interested, but we can always use contributors to QueerAlliance, or “the Q,” as we call it around here. Send me a message if that interests you—or, if you’re near Los Angeles, you could always visit the center. Check the website for address and hours.
By the way—in case you haven’t realized it yet: I believe you’ve found your cause.
—Mike/Michelle
My shoulders shake one more time—in a sob or a laugh, I honestly can’t tell. I sit back and stare at the screen.
I’ve found my cause.
CHAPTER 17
THE NEXT COUPLE OF SCHOOL days are the best so far: talking music with Solo before English, laughing with Bec on the ramp at lunch. I doubt I’ll make the prom ballot, but I do feel like I’m finally settling in at Park Hills High; I practice speaking French with Casey Reese, and I even exchange civil nods with Erik. I have a couple more fluctuations at school—two on Thursday alone—but I’m less self-conscious about them, and I don’t have any more panic attacks. I may not be “blending in”—but if I’m standing out, at least I feel like I’ve found a place to stand. Knowing that I have my blog community—even though it’s anonymous and online—makes me feel like I belong, like I have a purpose, and that gives me confidence as I walk through the halls. I still endure occasional looks as I’m heading to my locker or standing in line for food, but for the most part, the people who don’t like me just leave me alone.
At lunch on Friday I stop by the admin building to drop off the last of my transfer paperwork. When I walk in, I spot Jim Vickers seated outside the counselor’s office. The sight of him elevates my heart rate instantaneously, and I almost turn and walk right back out—but then I notice that he’s slumped in the chair, his shoulders hunched, his jaw propped in one hand. He looks defeated. He glances up as I approach the counter, and I can tell he recognizes me—but he just looks away.
The office door opens, and a tall man in a beige sports coat emerges. His resemblance to Jim is unmistakable—this has to be his dad. He shoots Jim a sharp look, and then heads for the exit. As he turns, I notice that he’s wearing a white clerical collar, similar to the ones the priests at Immaculate Heart wore. Jim stands hastily and follows him out, looking like a dog who just had his nose rubbed in his own poop. I wonder what he did to earn that sharp look, let alone a trip the office; whatever it was, he probably deserved it. As I wait for the registrar to find my file, another thought occurs to me: I hope my own dad never has to make an appearance on campus. Having a preacher for a dad might suck, but it can’t hold a candle to being a congressman’s kid.
By Saturday afternoon, I still haven’t worked up the courage to ask Bec if our date is actually a date—so I decide to treat it like one anyway. Just in case.
I lie on my bed and pull her note out of my messenger bag. I unfold it and read it for perhaps the tenth time since Wednesday.
Bullet Hole
12629 W. Imperial Hwy, Suite 7K
6PM. Come as you are.
I’m not sure what Bullet Hole is. I consider looking it up, but I’m kind of enjoying the mystery, and I have a feeling that’s what Bec intended. The address is on the west side of town, in an industrial area maybe ten minutes past the railroad tracks. But the final line is the reason I’ve reread the note so many times:
6PM. Come as you are.
I run my thumb across the letters, which were written hard with a ballpoint pen. Come as you are. What could that mean? Maybe it’s just her way of telling me that the club has no dress code. But something about it makes me think there’s more to it. Does she know . . . about me? The idea that she might have figured it out on her own brings me a fantastic sense of relief; but just underneath that, there’s the fear that, if she hasn’t figured it out, she’ll reject me when she finally does.
I reread Bec’s note three more times, trying in vain to find some secret meaning in the handwritten lines, some hint at what she might know about me, or about what she has planned for tonight. I glance at the clock: It’s only three. I have hours to kill before I leave to pick her up—and if I don’t distract myself, I’ll spend the whole time poring over her note like a psycho. I think about Doctor Ann telling me I’m not crazy, and I wonder what she’d think now as I press the letter to my face to see if it smells like Bec. Nope, no vanilla. J
ust notebook paper. Gah! I’ve got to get out of my own head. Think about someone else. “Engage,” as Doctor Ann would put it. Maybe she’s right about this whole “having a cause” thing.
So I stuff the note back into my pocket, roll over, and log in to Bloglr. I hit the jackpot on the very first message.
KimmieG1995: Hi Alix! I’m writing to you because I just found a box of girl clothes in my little brother’s closet. He’s sixteen. I’ve thought he was gay for a long time and I’m totally cool with it but I don’t know how to talk to him about it. Anyway I saw your “Both and Neither” post and now I think my brother might be gender fluid too. What do I do?
Tentatively, I start typing a response, referring KimmieG to a transgender allies support group—but I stop. I sort of already know what they’re going to tell her—and maybe my perspective could help this girl. So I delete my generic response and start to write what’s in my heart. After a half hour of typing and deleting and rewriting, I come up with this:
Alix: Hi Kimmie. Your brother is lucky to have such a caring sister. That said: if I were him, I would be completely weirded out if my big sis told me she had been going through my closet. So don’t start there. You don’t know how he feels about all this; he could still be trying to figure it out. He may not be ready to talk. Hell, for all we know, the clothes might belong to a secret girlfriend.
The thing is, he probably just wants to be accepted. Don’t think of him as a kid with some kind of disease or disability. Just treat him like an equal. Don’t walk on eggshells trying to figure out what’s going on. There’s no need to have “the big talk.” Maybe you could find subtle ways of letting him know you’re open-minded about gender identity stuff; mention a book, or a movie with a trans character in it. Make positive remarks. He’ll get it.
But the most important thing is—just be the kind of person he will want to turn to when he—or, she—is ready.
#genderfluid #advice
I post it, and then I have a minor panic event in which I reread it three times and almost delete it. I sound . . . stupid. Not at all as witty and charming as I sound in my own head. But I think the advice is right—and it feels good, replying. Reaching out. So good that I move on to the next message.
Anonymous: Alix, thank you for writing that apostrophe thing the other day! I was having a horrible day and I really needed that laugh. I wish I could be witty like that in real life when I get made fun of. Anyway, sometimes I get really depressed and just want to die. Reading your post made me want to hang on a little longer.
I stare at that last line. It’s hard to believe my joke made that big a difference. But there’s something undeniably honest, even raw, about the message that resonates with me. I think about my own “down” moments, and how hard I try to appear happier or less broken than I feel. That’s what this message feels like to me—the false cheeriness of a desperate person. Carefully, I type out a reply.
Alix: Dear Anon, please don’t think I’m witty IRL. I could never think of stuff like that in the moment, that’s why I post it here! Seriously, I should rename this blog “Clever S#%! I Should Have Said.”
Thank you for being brave and sharing about being depressed. I wish I could say I didn’t understand what you mean, but I do. Last week, I couldn’t walk through the cafeteria without having an anxiety attack. Some days I don’t even want to get out of bed; I just want to pull the blankets over my head and let the void suck me down into its depths.
But then I started sharing. Writing this blog. And it kind of saved me. In a way, you saved me—by reading it, and writing back and sharing yourself. All of you did.
So. There’s something to remember: we’re here for each other. We may be strangers on the internet, but we’re real. And we’re here.
If only we could all get together and form an Academy for Lost Souls*.
The art department would kick ass.
*Academy for Lost Souls is the name of my new indie rock group.
#genderfluid #depression #anxiety #suicide
I click Post, feeling gratified and, honestly, kind of fired up. Giving advice to strangers felt weird at first—but I’m starting to like it. It makes me feel like my own situation isn’t so hopeless. It makes me feel brave.
And maybe it’s because I can’t stop thinking about going out with Bec tonight, but my internal compass needle is absolutely pegged on F. Like, just the thought of wearing pants makes my legs start to feel plasticky. But I still don’t know how Bec perceives me; and while I really want to present as a girl tonight, I’m worried that if I’m too girly, I’ll turn her off. So I have to go with neutral.
On the other hand, I don’t want to pick her up while I’m in a dysphoria spiral, either, because panic attacks aren’t exactly alluring. So, feeling a little brave, I decide to do a couple of clandestine girly things. First, I go into the bathroom and dig out the crate of unused styling products my mother has bought me over the last few years in an attempt to make me conform to her repressive twentieth-century hair values. By mixing a few of them—a white waxy substance and a brownish paste—I’m able to tame the cowlick on the top of my head and shape my shaggy bangs into a more feminine sweep. It’s not a Hello Kitty barrette, but it definitely makes me feel more girly. Then, I go back into my room and grab the unopened bottle of lavender oil my mother bought from Mrs. Wells—it’s supposed to be some kind of homeopathic antianxiety thing—and dab some on my wrists and behind my ears. It’s super subtle, not too perfumey, but I absolutely love it. I press my wrist to my nose and look at myself the mirror. My face breaks into a wide smile; I feel 100 percent better. My heart is beating fast—but in a good way.
I bring up Bikini Kill’s “Rebel Girl” on my phone, plug in my earbuds, and jump around my room like an absolute freak for the next two minutes and thirty-seven seconds.
At five thirty, I head downstairs to see my parents off; they’re going to dinner with some big oil company rep. Mom is in the kitchen, packing homemade peanut-butter fudge into an enormous tin.
Dad is parked in front of the big TV, watching himself on some talking-head show. The interviewer says, “Your new education bill calls for massive budget increases. But just two years ago, you voted against a similar initiative. Can you explain that?”
On screen, Dad smiles. It’s his congressman smile, but I’ll be damned if I don’t believe it. “Absolutely, Debbie,” he says. “Since I cast that vote, I’ve visited over fifty schools in ten states. I’ve seen what’s happening on the front lines, and we’ve got to make some big changes.”
“So you changed your position?” the interviewer says.
He nods. “I know, I know. My advisers warned me against it. Said it was a bad move politically. But it was the right thing to do for our kids, and for our country.”
Debbie steeples her fingers. “This isn’t just another example of the famous Cavanaugh folksy underdog routine?”
Dad laughs. “‘Folksy underdog routine.’ That’s good. I wish my team had come up with that.” In fact, they had come up with it—I overheard that exact term being discussed during one of their late-night meetings—and now the press is using it. Watching my dad onscreen, I can see his charm working on the interviewer like it works on everybody he comes into contact with. On the one hand, it makes me wonder if he’s ever used his powers on me; on the other, I envy his charisma. Why couldn’t I have inherited that?
Dad flips off the TV and stands. “Sharon, if we don’t leave now, the Ellises are going to beat us to Angelo’s.”
As she passes me on her way to the garage, Mom looks at me and cocks her head. “Did you do something different with your hair?”
I touch it self-consciously. “Um. Sort of.”
“It looks . . . good.” She smiles.
“Thanks,” I say, wondering which word was on the tip of her tongue before she changed her mind and said “good” instead.
Once the Lincoln has pulled out of the driveway and turned the corner, I get in the minivan and
type the address Bec gave me into my phone. I follow the directions to the industrial side of town. After ten minutes, I’m as far west in Park Hills as I’ve ever been. I’m surprised and a little uneasy when my phone tells me to turn right into an industrial park that looks almost abandoned.
According to the signs mounted above the rusting roll-up doors, the complex contains a trophy manufacturer, a furniture restoration workshop, a defunct T-shirt screen-printing place, and several other now-deserted office/warehouse suites. The last building is number seven, and I pull up behind it and stop the minivan.
There’s a red logo on the door: a tattoo-style drawing of a human skull with a hole in its forehead, inscribed in a circle of text that reads “Bullet Hole Studios.” I hear a cacophony of drums and electric guitar issuing from within. I’m about to turn off the engine when the door to suite 7K opens, and a tall, stubbly-faced guy in a red flannel shirt emerges and lights a cigarette. He spots me, then pulls open the studio door and yells something inside.
A moment later Bec comes out, toting a guitar case in one hand. She’s wearing a black denim jacket over a white scoop-neck tank top, and my eyes linger a moment on the exposed skin. She sees me through the passenger window of the minivan, and her mouth turns up in that familiar smirk, sending warmth radiating through my midsection. And then the tall guy reaches out, grabs her by the hand, and pulls her into him. She goes up on her tiptoes and throws an arm around his neck. He kisses her cheek.
The warmth in my stomach goes instantly cold. Bec has a boyfriend?
After a moment, she pulls away and punches the guy playfully in the gut. He parks his cigarette back in his mouth and waves her away. She approaches the van, stows her guitar in the back, then comes around to the front and climbs in.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound normal through the knot that has now formed in the back of my throat.
“Hey.” Bec leans toward me, concern on her face. “You okay?”