It was my sixth birthday, and my dad took me to Toys“R”Us to pick out my own present. I was allowed to choose one thing, and I walked the aisles for what felt like hours to my six-year-old self. Finally, I narrowed it down to two possibilities. The first was a blue Power Ranger—I remember I wanted it because it had a shield that lit up when you pushed a button on his belt. The second was a Bratz doll. She had enormous brown eyes and long, dark hair with a purple streak running down one side. I was totally fascinated by that purple streak.
I held the two packages side by side, looking from one to the other, unable to decide. When I glanced up at my dad for help, his expression was . . . weird. I knew something was wrong, that for some reason, he didn’t approve of my choices—but I didn’t know why.
So I put down both toys and walked on to the next aisle.
Looking back, it probably wouldn’t have been that big of a deal if I’d chosen one or the other. But that uncertain look in my dad’s face—that was the moment I knew there was something different about me.
We ended up getting some stupid Pirates of the Caribbean board game; I was disappointed, but I could tell from my dad’s body language that it was a safe choice. And that’s what I’ve been trying to make my whole life.
Safe choices.
Until I turned fifteen. There was a local news story about a transgender girl who sued her school district for the right to use the girls’ locker room. I must have read the story on five different news sites, and then I voraciously inhaled every blog post and YouTube response I could get my eyes on. At some point during my research, I came across the term “gender fluid.” Reading those words was a revelation. It was like someone tore a layer of gauze off the mirror, and I could see myself clearly for the first time. There was a name for what I was. It was a thing. Gender fluid.
Sitting there in front of my computer—like I am right now—I knew I would never be the same. I could never go back to seeing it the old way; I could never go back to not knowing what I was.
But did that glorious moment of revelation really change anything? I don’t know. Sometimes, I don’t think so. I may have a name for what I am now—but I’m just as confused and out of place as I was before. And if today is any indication, I’m still playing out that scene in the toy store—trying to pick the thing that will cause the least amount of drama. And not having much success. Which leaves me with this question:
What would it take to change something?
I rub my burning eyes and stare at the question I just typed out. As I read, the words seem to lose their meaning. I glance at the clock.
Holy crap, single follower, it’s almost two a.m. I guess we’ll have to wait for an answer to that question.
Good night, Bloglr.
#genderfluid #GenderFluidProblems #GenderDysphoria #AgainstMe!
I click Post and lean back against the wall. I haven’t thought about that day in the toy store since I was a kid. I’m not even sure I remembered it until I typed it out—but now, the details hover, fresh and vivid in my memory: the rough denim of my dad’s jeans against my cheek as I clutched his leg. The dark lines that formed between his eyebrows as I looked up from the toy packages, seeking his approval. That sensation of compression, of being trapped, of knowing there was something wrong with what I wanted, and that I had to hide it from everyone—especially my dad.
And then, sitting there on my bed, remembering—it’s like a dam breaks, and a dozen other memories flood my mind at once: staring at my reflection in one of those angled shoe-store mirrors when I was six or seven, thinking there was something wrong with my body. Glancing up to gauge my dad’s expression as we picked out books in the children’s section at Barnes & Noble. Riding home from the salon with my mom, hating my new haircut. Sorting through paint swatches the summer we moved here, watching her face for that smile of validation as I picked out colors for my room. Struggling to choose the “right” eighth-grade elective. Shopping for clothes. All the decisions I made to hide the feelings I didn’t understand—and every single choice altered by the fear that I would choose wrong, and that my parents, or my teachers, or the people at my school would reject me. My whole life, designed around hiding.
But today, even with all my careful forethought, I couldn’t hide. People at school still knew something was different.
I grab my phone and turn on the selfie camera so I can look at myself. I run a hand through my messy hair, brushing my bangs out of my eyes and watching them fall right back into place. A cracked image stares back at me, and it doesn’t look anything like I feel.
The clock on my laptop changes from 1:59 to 2:00, and I decide I’d better try to get some sleep unless I want to wake up tomorrow looking like an androgynous harbinger of the zombie apocalypse. I’m about to log out of Bloglr when a little red envelope icon appears in the upper right-hand corner of my screen, indicating I have a new message. I click it, and a new window pops up.
Anonymous: your a fag
And suddenly, I feel very awake.
Alix: Dear Anonymous, while I’m eager to illustrate for you the difference between sexual orientation and gender identity, I think we had better start with a more fundamental concept:
Apostrophes.
What you meant was, “You’re a fag.” “Your,” sans apostrophe, is possessive, as in “your devastating lack of creativity,” while “you’re” is a contraction of you + are, as in “you’re a homophobic asshole.” I hope this sheds some light on the misery that is your life.
Love,
Alix
#genderfluid #homophobia #grammarpolicearrestthisperson
I could reply privately—but I decide that this particular anon would benefit from a little public smackdown. So, with a rush of righteous triumph, I click Post. I watch the screen for a solid minute, waiting for a snarky reply to pop up, but nothing happens. Apparently, even the trolls have gone to bed, and so should I. Like leprechaun gold, the triumph is fleeting, and now exhaustion takes its place. I close my laptop, drop my head to the pillow, and fall asleep.
CHAPTER 6
I DREAM ABOUT CHOOSING THE Bratz doll and awake with a nearly irresistible compulsion to put a purple streak in my hair. I’m feeling absurdly feminine—like the compass needle is all the way on F—so pulling on my neutral/ambiguous jeans-and-tee combination feels particularly wrong, because what I really want to do is put on a dress.
The dysphoria is going to be rough this morning; I can already feel the buzz in the back of my head. Crossing the quad feels like one of those dreams where you go to school naked—I keep imagining that the people around me can see how wrong I feel in these neutral clothes. I get to Miss Crane’s classroom early and apply a coat of lip balm, a trick I learned from another gender fluid blogger. It feels enough like gloss to give me a small sense of outward femininity without spoiling my neutral look—and no one else can tell. It helps, a little. That buzz—anxiety or dysphoria, I’m not sure which—recedes slightly, but it doesn’t quite disappear.
I feel Solo’s eyes on me as he walks into AP English, but I don’t meet them. Why did he bother pretending to be nice to me yesterday, only to ignore me in front of his friends? I avoid looking at him for the duration of the class—and when the bell rings, I’m the first one out the door.
Ten minutes into AP Government, the buzzing sensation starts to intensify. My arms feel particularly wrong—too skinny and angular for how feminine I’m feeling—so I pull my hoodie out of my bag and put it on, tugging down the sleeves. It doesn’t make much difference. I cross my legs at the knee—sometimes a shift in posture helps—but today, it’s not bringing any relief.
French passes in a blur. All I can think about is trying to cross the quad feeling like this—or worse, walking the Gauntlet. My heart is beating in my throat now, and a numb tingling blossoms in my cheeks and the tips of my fingers.
It’s starting.
But I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to close my eyes and picture the whiteboa
rd. I’m supposed to paint it black with my mind until there’s nothing left but a calm, quiet void.
I close my eyes. I dip my imaginary paintbrush into the surrounding blackness and begin to paint the board with long, slow strokes. Long, slow strokes. I’m three-quarters of the way to the right edge, almost done, when a patch of white appears on the left border. The black is dripping away, revealing more and more of the whiteboard beneath.
This always happens; I’ve never once succeeded in painting the whole board black. Sometimes the exercise manages to calm me anyway—but this time, it’s not working.
My face is completely numb now, and the tingling has spread through my hands all the way up to the wrists. My shortness of breath must be audible, because the pretty girl with long blond hair who sits in front of me, Casey Reese, keeps looking over her shoulder at me.
As I pass her on my way out of class, she asks, “Ça va?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I reply.
But I’m not okay.
My vision is starting to tunnel. I’m not thinking, just putting one foot in front of the other—and before I know it, I’m halfway down the stairs to the cafeteria. When I realize where I am, ten yards from the Gauntlet, part of me wants to turn and run; but I don’t. I continue forward, eyes on the ground, drawing my shoulders up toward my ears as if I’m bracing for impact.
I’ve covered most of the distance to the cafeteria line, and there have been no taunts yet, nothing thrown; maybe the novelty of harassing the new kid has worn off. As I pass Solo’s table, I’m tempted to glance over and see if he’s watching, but I keep my head down instead; it’s not much farther. My heart thuds against my rib cage.
And then I’m through. I make it to the outdoor hallway and break into a run. The concrete wall of the auditorium blurs past as I round the corner. Just ahead, there’s a wheelchair ramp by the side stage door. It’s protected by a low wall about two feet high—just enough to conceal me if I lie flat on my back.
Finally, I make it, Doc Martens squeaking as I come to a stop on the smooth concrete. I bend over, chest heaving, hands gripping the aluminum safety rail. I try to slow my breathing.
But then a hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch hard.
“Take it easy,” a voice says.
My eyes are blurred with tears, and I draw one still-numb hand across them to clear my vision: the figure standing before me is the pale boy from Government I saw sitting with the Hardcores yesterday—the one with the long nose and the lip ring. He’s standing on the ramp, hands up in a gesture of surrender. Despite the heat, he’s wearing that same black coat. Circular sunglasses with mirrored lenses obscure the blue eyes I remember from yesterday, and I can’t tell if the look on his face is more surprised or amused. There’s something soft about the curve of his jaw, and the neck of his T-shirt is cut low to reveal—
And that’s when I realize: He’s not a boy. He’s a girl.
“I’m sorry,” she says, lowering her hands slowly, “but you’ve discovered my secret lair.” She gestures at the ramp. “And now, I’m afraid, you’ll have to pay the toll.”
I stare at her, speechless, gasping for breath.
“I accept juice boxes, Amazon gift cards, and narcotics,” she says. Then, in response to my blank look, she adds, “For the toll.”
I recognize that it’s a joke, but I don’t manage to laugh. My face is still numb, and my heart is beating a frantic tattoo against my breastbone.
The girl seems to realize something is wrong, because her expression softens. “Hey,” she says, pulling down her sunglasses to regard me with those bright-blue eyes. “Hey, sit down.” She moves to help me sit on the ramp—well, it’s more like I fall and she catches me—and then she pulls off her backpack and produces a juice box. “Here, drink this.” She punches in the straw and hands it to me, and I drink. My heartbeat slows. The tingling recedes a little.
She sits there, watching me patiently. I expect to find her gaze invasive—but there’s no threat in her eyes, just curiosity, and . . . something else. Something strangely comforting.
Her voice is high-pitched and doesn’t match her punk-boy wardrobe, but despite my initial mistake, I’m certain she identifies as a girl. Maybe it’s the confident way she wears her low-cut shirt, or the angle of her neck as she cocks her head at me—but beneath these superficial observations, there’s just a strong intuition.
What I’m not certain about is how she views me. When a girl sees me as a guy, I usually feel dismissed as unworthy or, at best, as nonthreatening. When a girl thinks I’m a girl, I get the feeling she’s comparing and judging me. But this girl isn’t doing any of those things. Her posture is open, her body relaxed. And even though her eyes are hidden behind mirrored lenses, there’s an intimacy about her expression that penetrates my wall of anxiety and sends a shiver through me—but a shiver of what? I don’t know.
“Are you diabetic?” she says.
I shake my head. She frowns.
“Are you having a psychic vision?”
I shake my head again, feeling the hint of a smile curl the corners of my mouth. “I can wait,” she says, glancing at her wrist in a gesture of feigned impatience.
A slurping sound informs me that I have finished this juice box, which is odd, because I don’t remember tasting it at all. The girl pulls another out of her backpack and offers it to me. I reach for it, but she pulls it back.
“I require a name,” she says.
I smile. “Your parents didn’t give you one?”
She opens her mouth in mock surprise and leaps to her feet.
“The creature speaks!” she says, standing and shouting down at the parking lot below. “I hath revived it with mine purple potion!”
I glance up nervously, checking to see if anyone’s looking at us. Is this girl making fun of me? I can’t tell. But the last thing I want, the last thing I can handle right now, is more attention.
“Listen,” I say. “Please don’t—”
But Lip Ring Girl is now making a four-point bow, blowing kisses to an imaginary audience. “I’d like to thank the Academy, my fans, my team at Minute Maid who—”
At this point I reach up, grab her by the sleeve, and yank her back down onto the ramp. “Riley,” I say, exasperated. “My name is Riley. Please, just don’t attract any more attention.”
“Right,” she says, straightening her collar. “Riley Cavanaugh.”
She knows my name, too?
At the look on my face, the girl puts up her hands again. “I’m not a stalker. Brennan said your name in Government yesterday.” She leans in. “He called on you, and I tried to bail you out, remember?”
I nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Then you pulled that obscure factoid out of thin air. Maybe I ought to make you tutor me, as partial payment.” She tilts her head and squints like she’s examining me. After a moment, she nods. “I’m Bec.”
I blink at her. “Short for Rebecca?”
She closes her eyes for a moment and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Le bec,” she says, “is French for ‘beak.’” She gestures to her face. “I have a large nose. Beak-like, one might say. Therefore, Bec.”
I frown. “Who could’ve possibly given you that name? Some mean French kid?”
“Absolutely not,” she says. “I gave it to myself.”
I shake my head, incredulous.
“Not everyone is born a Riley,” she says. And then her thin lips form a delightfully crooked smile. It’s contagious. She offers me the second juice box, and I take it.
“Did you . . . follow me behind the building?”
“Yes, I did,” she says, sounding completely unperturbed.
I take a long sip through the straw. “Why?”
“After yesterday, I didn’t think you’d come anywhere near the caf again. I told myself that, if you did, then you were the kind of person I wanted to meet.” She inclines her head like a Renaissance courtier. “Well met, Riley Cavanaugh.”
She noticed me
? Two days in a row? I gape at her, then realize what I’m doing and clamp my jaw shut.
“So,” she says, glossing over my awkwardness as though this sort of thing happens to her all the time. “You’re a transfer?”
“Yeah.”
“Where from?”
I hesitate, then say, “Immaculate Heart.”
Bec starts to laugh, something between a giggle and a chuckle. I feel myself blush. I start to get up, but she grabs my hand. Her fingers are cold, her palm smooth, and her touch sends goose bumps up my arm.
“I wasn’t laughing at you, I promise. Look.” She pulls open her peacoat, revealing the graphic on her T-shirt: a large black cross inside a red circle with a diagonal line running through it. Above that, the caption reads: BAD RELIGION. “I was laughing at the irony,” she says, “that I’m welcoming your defection from Catholic school wearing a Bad Religion shirt.”
“Oh, right,” I say, relieved, “the band.” When she lets go of my hand, I feel a pang of disappointment. She pats the ground next to her, and I sit. “I thought maybe you were referring to my school’s unfortunate nickname.”
Bec leans in. “You realize you’re going to tell me, right?”
I sigh. Of course I am. “Instead of Immaculate Heart, they called it ‘I Masturbate Hard.’”
Bec laughs. It starts out as that low chuckle, but quickly becomes a full-on guffaw. Now, I start laughing, too.
“Sounds like my kind of place,” Bec says, finally regaining her breath. When I realize what she’s implying, I feel myself blush for the nine thousandth time in two days. Our laughter fades, and I notice that, though my heart is still beating harder than usual, the tingling in my hands and face is almost gone.
“What’s your real name?” I ask.
But Bec speaks right on the heels of my last word, as if she didn’t hear me.
“So, you’re not diabetic,” she says. “Were you, like, about to have a seizure? Is it epilepsy?”
I open my mouth to reply, and then the bell rings, a long, ugly wail. It’s how I imagine the lights-out buzzer sounds at Folsom Prison.