“Yeah,” I say, and add, “same as you, just with shorter hair.”
Wendy’s still frowning but doesn’t say anything, chewing her fry with contemplation. Not wanting the silence to hang, and kind of desperate to change the subject, I rustle up the plastic bag and set it on the table between us.
“You can keep all this stuff in the bathroom, by the way. I’ll make sure the other guys don’t do anything to it or get?—”
“Why, though?” Wendy interrupts again.
I withdraw my hand. I swallow, put both elbows on the table and my head between my hands, and rake my fingers through the short, short hair. “It’s kind of a long story,” I say at last.
“Yeah, I would think so,” Wendy retorts. And the fries and Coke must be doing their job, because her usual sassiness is back. She shrugs and picks up two more fries. “I mean, I’ve got time.”
I smile, catching my lower lip in my teeth as I do, and lower my hands again. “Well, it’s kind of complicated,” I say. “I really don’t know how to start.” It’s not a story I thought I’d ever be telling. I exhale, look at the empty road again, then back at Wendy.
“See, it was kind of an accident. I’d…” I stop short.
There’s basically no part of the backstory that I can tell to Wendy that’s acceptable for her to hear, appropriate for her to hear, or that I can even get past my lips. Anything I could say will be stuck in my throat, twisting in my stomach. Too real, too raw. Not acceptable, not needed.
I purse my lips together again and try a second tack. “Basically, I got hurt. I was in this…accident. My head and mychest. So they had to cut my hair, and put me in this thing”—I span my hands across my chest to indicate the binder—“to stabilize my ribs while they healed. But that kind of had the side effect of…you know.” I smash a hand against my chest gently. “Flattening me out.” I shrug.
Wendy nods, as if she’s following so far. “Okay,” she says. “And you just decided to…stay that way?”
I pick up a fry of my own, twiddling it back and forth like it’s a pen I’m about to doodle with. “Not exactly.” I stare into the mountain of potatoey goodness and the oil-splotched carton beneath them. “I was just sort of living on the street, like wherever I could find a place to sleep for a while. And?—”
“Where’s your family?” Wendy interrupts.
I think about it for a minute. “Gone,” I say, and then shake my head. No, that’s not true, and there’s no reason to lie to her about this part. “I mean, my mom and dad haven’t been around for…” I roll my eyes at the sky. “I don’t even know how long. I was living with my grandma, but she…” I trail off again.
I’ve never put words to this, not out loud, not to someone who cared or was at least interested in the genuine truth.
“She had a lot of problems,” I say at last. “Not sick exactly, just, you know, aging. Dementia.” As if Wendy knows what that is. “She needed a lot of help,” I clarify. “So that’s what I did. I took care of her.” I stretch my arms in front of me and fan my fingers as if I am trying to push the memory away. “Um, but, so. Yeah. I left there eventually.” That’s the most kid-friendly version of I ran away to the big city with my so-called boyfriend that I can manage. “And then I got hurt,” I go on, “and then, yeah, I kind of ended up looking like a guy while I was living outside.”
“Okay,” Wendy says again, like she’s adding all these things up. “And you just liked it, or…?”
I breathe out. “In some ways, I guess? Like, I noticed people didn’t bother me because they thought I was a guy.”
The first time was just a mistake. It had been someone random, at an inner city Fill-R-Up, calling me ‘sir’ when they accidentally bumped me as I was refilling my ice cup to try and keep cool. But I realized it kind of made more sense. “People don’t pick on guys the way they pick on girls, you know?”
Wendy nods, and for the first time, I think this is something she actually understands firsthand.
“Yeah, so,” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Long story short, I ran into Pan. Helped him out of a jam, and he asked if I needed a place to stay. Kind of earned his trust from there. Fox got me a bike. I earned some money working with them to buy some clothes and?—
“And you just trusted them,” Wendy says, one eyebrow raised. Like she’s chastising me for my bad choices. “Just a bunch of strangers?”
“Well, yeah,” I say, looking back down at my fries. “I mean, so did you,” I point out.
“Yeah, but you’re notstrangers,” Wendy says. “You’re friends with my brothers.”
The sting of her words is like an arrow to my heart. It’s all I can do not to let my face react.
I swallow hard. I don’t love not telling her the truth. Especially now.
“Yeah,” I say, a little lower, almost in my guy voice again. I clear my throat. “Anyway, I actually—” I hesitate just briefly. “I’d met Pan before, like a long time ago. When I was, a kid maybe a little older than you are?” I say it like it’s a question. I don’t know why. “He used to come around my neighborhood sometimes, teach kids how to ride bikes—” I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not like he remembered me. That would’ve kind of ruined things if he did, you know?” I give her a smile.“But yeah, I figured he was safe, and anyone with him probably was too, and…” I shrug. “…I was right.”
Wendy contemplates. She chews a few more fries, and then a few more.
“This whole thing sounds like a lot of work,” she says at last.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “I mean, some parts of it are easier. Like, I don’t have to do my hair or shave my legs and, I don’t really worry about how my skin?—”
