Symptoms of Being Human

I shake my head. “No way. Not two weeks before the election. He’d have a stroke.”

  “You don’t know that’s true.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Okay. But what if this anonymous person outs you before you have the chance? Wouldn’t that be worse?”

  “I’ll delete my blog. I’ll just shut it down.”

  “You could,” she says. “But after all that publicity from the Andie Gingham article, I don’t know if that will make a difference. Besides,” she says, uncrossing her legs and leaning toward me. “I don’t think you want to delete your blog. I think you’re proud of it. Proud of yourself for writing it.” I blush furiously. Is she mocking me? But then Doctor Ann leans back in her chair and says, “I know I’m proud of you.”

  I turn even more red—but this time, it’s from embarrassment instead of anger.

  I swallow, then drop back into the chair. “So. What do I do?”

  Doctor Ann lets out another sigh. “Every therapist dreads this question.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because if it goes horribly wrong, we feel responsible.”

  “You’re not making me feel better right now.”

  “Okay, okay. Three things,” she says, ticking them off on her fingers. “One. You prepare what you want to say. Write it down, get it clear. That part should be easy for you.” I smile. “Two. Find the right time—not just before some big event, and not right after an argument. Pick a calm moment. Three, do it on neutral ground.”

  “What’s neutral ground?”

  “Not in public. Someplace you feel safe. We could even do it here, if you want.”

  I nod, then let out a long exhale. The feeling starts to come back to my fingers. “How will I know when I’m ready?”

  Doctor Ann folds her hands, smiles. “You’ll know.”

  CHAPTER 27

  TUESDAY ARRIVES WITH THE KIND of merciless velocity usually reserved for the last week of summer. The election is only two weeks away, and tonight’s dinner event is the most important of my dad’s campaign, if not his career. All day long, there’s a faint buzz of anxiety in the back of my head, but thanks to a slight alteration in my meds—not to mention the support of Solo and Bec, who stay in touch with me throughout the day by text—I’m holding it together. I even manage to pay attention in Precalc.

  It helps that I haven’t heard anything more from my anonymous stalker. Whoever it is, they’re probably just trying to scare me. Maybe they hacked my account and discovered my real name—but that doesn’t mean they know who I am. I did a little Googling and found literally dozens of Riley Cavanaughs in the US and Canada; the knowledge helps to calm my nerves.

  Still, I’m not eager for more drama—so I avoid the cafeteria, taking refuge in Miss Crane’s room instead. Solo and Bec join me, and the three of us chat with Miss Crane about books and anime while we eat.

  On the way back to class, I’m walking past my locker when a glint of something silver on the door catches my eye. I stop to look, and a cold knot forms in my chest: someone has covered the lock with duct tape. I take a step closer. The combination dial has been removed entirely.

  Someone broke into my locker.

  I look around, suddenly convinced that I’m being watched—but the hall is empty. Everyone is still at lunch or in class. I turn back to my locker, peel off the tape, and open it.

  A tangy, pungent odor wafts out as the door swings back on its hinges. Vinegar? I wonder if the kid with the locker next to mine has left his lunch bag in there too long. At first, nothing appears to be missing. I can see my textbooks in their usual haphazard pile. I reach in to grab my copy of The Crucible off the top, but withdraw my hand immediately when it touches something sticky. I wipe my hand on my hoodie, pull out my phone, and use it to illuminate the inside of the locker.

  My books—all of them—are spattered with coagulated blood. I stagger back and cover my mouth with my hand—but when I look closer, the vinegar smell hits me again, and I realize it’s not blood, but ketchup. There’s a drizzle of something faintly golden, too—it looks like honey. The sides of my locker are dripping with it. I reach in and gingerly lift the cover of my French textbook: the pages are soaked, sticking together in clumps.

  I stare at the stack of ruined books for a long moment, feeling my heart creep up into my throat, and the heat and pressure build behind my eyes. I won’t let tears come. I won’t. I start to close my locker, but stop when I notice that something is pasted on the inside of the door.

  It’s a sequence of cutout magazine letters spelling the words

  POOR LITTLE RILEY

  My pulse pounds in my throat. I want to throw up. I want to scream, but nothing comes out. I look around to see if anyone is watching, and then—I’m not sure why I do it—I cross the hall and drag a trash can toward my locker. Pulling down the sleeve of my hoodie to cover my hand like a mitten, I reach in and slide the stack of books into the trash can. They hit the bottom with a thump, stirring up a cloud of tiny insects. Then I turn to the inside of the locker door and scratch at the edges of the pasted-on letters until they peel away. I drop the shreds of paper into the trash, then pull off my hoodie and drop it on top, concealing everything.

  I stare blankly into the trash can as the buzzing in my head swells, drowning out all other sounds. I had thought—no, hoped—that my stalker might just be some random stranger on the internet, trying to scare me. But this proves that’s not true. The stalker is here, at my school. And they know exactly who I am.

  The bell rings, and I flinch so hard that I let out a grunt of surprise. Students start to flood the hallway. Hastily, I slam my locker shut and drag the trash can back into place, leaving it next to the restroom door.

  Then I go inside, lock myself in a stall, and vomit.

  It’s an hour before we’re supposed to leave for the fund-raiser. I’m standing in front of my closet, fighting the heaviest bout of dysphoria I’ve ever experienced. My whole body feels fake. My stomach roils with nausea. My palms sweat.

  I can still smell the tang of vinegar, still see the cut-out letters. I shake my head hard, but it has no effect. I slap my face, like you do when you’re falling asleep behind the wheel. It hurts, but it helps.

  I stare at the outfit my mother chose as it hangs there in the closet. Finally, I work up the courage to put it on. I do it as quickly as I can, just trying to get it over with. Once I’m dressed, I stand in front of the brand-new bathroom mirror and force myself to look into it. I open the mirrored medicine cabinet just so, spilling an infinite trail of my own reflections deep into the glass. I stare at them, hoping that, like a word repeated over and over, my image will lose its meaning if I look long enough.

  “Riley?”

  I flinch and turn. It’s my father.

  “Sorry,” he says, laughing a little. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He holds out his hand: he’s got three oblong tablets cupped in his palm. “Doctor Ann said you could have three tonight. If you want them.” He bounces the pills in his hand like they’re peanuts and we’re at a ball game. I look at his face, and I see genuine discomfort in his eyes. “Listen,” he says, looking away, “Mom told me what you said, and I . . . well, I wanted to thank you.”

  I cock my head. “Thank me for what?”

  “I know that you . . . dislike these events. I know they’re hard for you, with the anxiety, and . . . everything.” He clears his throat. “And I appreciate you going. Not just for appearances, you know, but because it’s nice to have you there. Supporting your dad.” He shrugs. “That’s all.”

  His lip trembles slightly. I’ve never heard him fumble for words like this—and for the first time, I’m ready to tell him. Right now. Ready to tell him how I feel in these clothes. How I long to be “one of the guys” with Solo, and how I want Bec to want me. I’m ready to tell him about Sierra calling me “it,” and Vickers asking, “Is that the new tranny?” About the blood—no, it was ketchup—all over my books. The message in my locker. The stalker
who knows my name.

  I’ve been carrying around this pressure inside me for so long—not just since I started at Park Hills, or even since I got out of Pineview—but maybe since I was six years old. And after everything that’s happened in the past few weeks, it’s become too much. I want to let it go. I need to let it go. I need my parents to know who I am.

  I’m ready to come out.

  But then I look at my dad, and I see how the lines on his forehead have deepened, and the gray in his hair is no longer confined to his temples. Under his eyes, I see the dark semicircles he tries so hard to hide from the cameras.

  In an hour, he’ll be walking into a ballroom full of those cameras, and I’ll be right behind him. So no, maybe now isn’t the time. I’ll tell him after the event. Tonight, when we get home.

  I’ll tell them both.

  I hold out my hand. He tips the tablets into my palm, and I swallow them.

  I’m silent in the limousine, just staring out the window and taking deep Doctor Ann breaths. My dad keeps shooting me worried looks. He thinks I don’t notice, but I do. My mother, on the other hand, makes no attempt to hide her concern. Every few minutes, she glances over her shoulder to check on me. At one point, she says, “How are you feeling, honey?”

  I force a brief smile. “I’ll be fine once we’re seated.”

  The Grand Entrance is always the worst for me. These fund-raisers are basically extravagant dinner parties that the candidate throws for himself, pretending the whole time that it was his supporters’ idea, as though he and his staff haven’t spent the last month deciding on the menu and tweaking the seating arrangements. For the sake of theatrical tension, the candidate and his family have to arrive fashionably late—which means we’re always paraded through a crowded hotel ballroom amid camera flashes and deafening applause. In short, even without the dysphoria, it is a perfect storm of anxiety triggers. Which is why Doctor Ann upped my dosage for the evening. Xanax doesn’t really make me feel less anxious, per se. It just makes me care less about feeling anxious. Like I’m distant from it. Like I’m watching some other Riley down there fend off an impending attack.

  The limo pulls up in back of the hotel and a valet opens the door for me. I step out and follow my parents up a short flight of steps, through a steel door, and into a service corridor. Dad’s staff surrounds us now, Shelly’s heels clicking on the white tile, Elias reaching up to adjust the radio mic clipped to his lapel. He flashes a big smile and says something to me, but I don’t hear. I just nod.

  They lead us through the kitchen, weaving among rows of tall stainless steel shelves and huge gas stovetops. Vaguely, I think how this is the part of politics they glamorize on TV. In real life, it just smells like frying grease and restaurant trash.

  We’re at the ballroom door, and Mom turns to face me for what she calls “last looks.” She fixes an errant strand of my hair, then tries in vain to smooth a wrinkle in my clothes. “Are you ready?” she says.

  I look at her. Somewhere in the distance, I can feel my heart beating against my breastbone. With a stifled laugh, I imagine it shattering my sternum and skittering across the rubber kitchen mat to freedom. I say a silent thank-you to the one and a half milligrams of Xanax roaring through my bloodstream.

  “I’m ready,” I say.

  The PA system in the ballroom squeals to life and a muffled voice announces us. Then the doors open, and I’m ushered into the chaos of flashing lights and loud cheers. Elias is behind me, making sure I won’t fall as we mount the steps to the stage so Dad can introduce his family and say a few words before dinner is served.

  As I cross the stage behind my father, I feel 350 heads turn in our direction, and I’m suddenly aware that I don’t know how to walk. My legs wobble, my knees twinge. I look down at my feet, stumble, and fall forward.

  Elias catches me, but not before an audible gasp rises from the crowd. My father turns to look, his face a mixture of concern and embarrassment, as Elias pulls me to my feet. My mother takes a step toward me. I raise my hands to show I’m fine.

  I turn to the audience and murmur, “So much for that gymnastics scholarship.” One of the microphones on the podium picks up my voice, amplifying it, bouncing it off the silk-papered walls and into the ears of the constituents packed into the room. At first, there’s a lull, and then an old woman in the back lets out a high-pitched cackle. A moment later, the room erupts in laughter and applause, and I take an ironic bow.

  By dessert, the Xanax is staring to wear off, but it’s okay. The hard part is over, and now all I have to do is nod and smile and pretend to eat the brick-sized wedge of gelatinous dairy products they’ve placed before me. My mom sees me pushing the cheesecake around with my fork and produces a square of dark chocolate from her purse. I take it gratefully, and she smiles.

  After a while, someone announces my father, and he excuses himself to go up to the podium for his speech. I hear myself wish him good luck.

  When he’s finished, the audience bursts into applause and cheers. The noise is pretty bad, and I wish I could cover my ears, but I know if I just smile and clap along I’ll be safe in the car in a few minutes.

  My mom mouths, “Are you okay?”

  I nod and smile.

  And then it’s over, and Elias and Shelly are leading us out the way we came in, through the ballroom and into the kitchen. It’s less crowded here; my heartbeat slows. We weave through the stainless steel maze and into the service corridor. Just a few more steps, and we’ll be at the car. My breathing becomes steadier, and I let out a relieved laugh; I’m going to make it. The hard part is over. We turn right down the hall, and then we’re at the exit. Elias reaches for the door.

  It opens to a burst of light as bright as a nuclear explosion. I throw up my hands to shield my face. The snap of camera shutters and the click of shoes on concrete crescendos into a wall of sound, mixing with the shouting voices of the crowd of reporters before us, making their words indistinguishable.

  I’m used to being intercepted by media after an event, but the energy here is too frenetic, too high-pitched, like a pack of coyotes descending on their prey.

  Something is wrong.

  Elias steps in front of me, spreading his arms like a fence.

  My father raises his hands. “Okay, everybody, please step back and give my family some room.”

  A tall blond woman elbows her way to the front and thrusts a microphone in my father’s face.

  “Congressman Cavanaugh! How will this revelation affect your campaign for reelection?”

  But before my father can answer, a man in a gray suit calls out, “How will your conservative constituents respond?”

  And then they’re all pushing forward, calling our names and shouting questions, an undulating swarm of faces and microphones.

  “Congressman Cavanaugh!”

  “How long have you known about Riley?”

  “Do you support your child’s lifestyle choices?”

  I glance at my father. His mouth hangs open slightly, his face a mask of confusion. Elias grabs me and shoves me between my parents, then moves in front to clear a path toward the car. We take a few steps, but the crowd of reporters only presses in closer.

  And then a small woman in a pink suit breaks through the line and points her microphone at me.

  “Riley,” she says, “how did your parents react when you told them about your gender identity?”

  CHAPTER 28

  ONCE WE’RE OUT of the hotel parking lot, I expect my father to begin the interrogation; but he just looks at me and says, “We’ll talk about this when we get home.”

  By the time we turn onto our street, it’s clogged with reporters and news vans. Elias clears a path through, inching along in his SUV, and we follow behind in the limousine until we reach our driveway. And then we’re out of the car and fighting through another mob of media people. Finally, Elias shoves us through the front door and slams it behind us. The doorbell rings twice, and someone pounds on the door—an
d then I hear Elias’s raised voice, and the pounding stops.

  We stand in the dark foyer, frozen, waiting for the tumult outside to subside. I stare at the floor, avoiding eye contact with my parents as Elias clears the media people off the front steps and urges them to leave the property. We listen as the voices recede. Two news vans start up and drive away.

  Finally, Elias pokes his head through the door. “They’re clearing out.”

  “Thank you, Elias,” my father says.

  “You should probably stay inside tonight. Call if you need anything.”

  My father nods, and Elias closes the door.

  And then it’s just the three of us, standing in the unlit house. I still can’t bring myself to look at either of my parents, so I just stare at the tile and try to breathe. I’m grateful when my mother puts a hand on my shoulder and then turns on the hallway light.

  “Let’s sit down,” she says. She turns and moves back toward the family room, and we follow.

  I sit down on the long, brown couch. My mom sits next to me, leaving a small but noticeable gap between us. My father drops into the big chair opposite.

  Dad exhales, loosens his tie, and yanks it off. “Riley,” he says, “what were they talking about out there?”

  I don’t reply.

  He folds his tie in half, then in quarters. “You’ve got to talk to us.”

  This is not how the conversation is supposed to go. This is not happening on neutral ground, I do not feel safe or calm, and this is not the plan I made with Doctor Ann. It’s not fair. I feel tears welling up, but I force them back. I want another Xanax. I want this to be over. I wish I could just push the forward button and skip past this part like a bad commercial.

  But I can’t. It has to be now.

  My mouth is dry, and when I speak, my voice sounds like someone else’s. “I’m . . .” The words feel foreign and unwieldy. I force them out anyway. “I’m gender fluid.”

  There is no response. Not a gasp or a clearing of the throat. Only silence.

  Not knowing what else to do, I say it again. “I’m gender fluid.”