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“Areyou ready,Dallas?”Scouthollers from the kitchen.
Ifreeze halfway through forcing myself into a pair of too-tight acid-washed jeans. “Shit,Idon’t know,”Iyell back, hopping on one foot. “AmIstanding in the living room fully dressed saying ‘I’mready’?”
Hedoesn’t answer.Afew seconds later, the door to my tiny room creaks open and he leans on the frame, studying me. “Whatare you doing?”
Yankingup the zipper on the jeans,Iopen my shirt drawer and stare at the neat piles.Myclothes are the only folded things in this entire house of twenty-two-year-old hooligans. “Gettingdressed.”
“Youwere already dressed.”Thedelicately gorgeous man with his silver hair and lip ring crosses his arms. “We’regonna be late.Romanand the dog are already in the car with everything packed.”
“Okay,Dad.”Ihold up a gauzy white t-shirt thatBecklikes, then throw it onto the bed and dive back into my drawer.
“What’sthe matter with that one?”
Iglance over at him, hesitating with the strange, irrational gut-punch of guilt that hits me wheneverIcommit the sin of not passing perfectly as cis. “It’s…kind of see-through.”
Hisfine eyebrows pull together as he glances at my chest, with no nipples and two long, slightly ragged scars along the bottom of my pecs that didn’t heal as cleanly as they were supposed to. “Weara fucking see-through shirt if you want,Dal.Youlook sexy in white.”
I’mnot an apology.
Iread that in a book once, andInever forgot it.It’strue for all of us.Theworld doesn’t want four ragtag, misfit guys with nothing except each other, a shithole house, and a big, smelly dog.Buthere we are.Andwe’re not sorry.
Grabbingthe white shirt,Idrag it on over my head and pull my chest-length hair into a messy bun.Thepale fabric complements the light brown skin and black hairIgot from my mother’sIndianheritage. “I’mnot trying to look sexy.”
WhenIglance atScout, he raises one eyebrow with a small smile. “Right.Well, you’re failing then.”
Igrab my flannel-lined denim jacket and follow him through our threadbare house–just a dog bed, a ripped couch, and aTVthat sits on the floor.SometimesIthink back to my childhood with the huge playhouse on the lawn, my room lined with trophies from chess contests and spelling bees, and a hot, home-cooked meal every night.NowIspend my time literally counting dried beans, sliding them across the counter into piles asItry to portion out how many meals we can make them last.
ButwheneverIstart to feel sorry for myself,Romancomes and helps me count, pinching individual beans as he murmurs numbers in his soft, rusty voice.ThenBeckandScoutburst in, arguing about something ridiculous like whether hot dogs should be categorized as sandwiches or tacos.Thoseare the momentsIknow everything’s going to be okay.Whathurts us will never be stronger than what we have together.
Tubbs, our huge, fawn-colored mastiff, starts barking from the back of the ‘97CivicwhenScoutandIemerge into the late afternoon sun.Scout’sboyfriend,Roman, glances up through the passenger seat window and beams gently at me, waving for us to hurry up.Icheck my phone; it’ll be tight to reach downtownFortHoldenby five o’clock, thanks to my totally unnecessary wardrobe change, butScouthas a very loose relationship with speed limits.
OnceImanage to pry open the rusty, dented rear door,Islide into the back seat and pet the dog until he loses interest in sniffing my ears.Warmlight flickers over me asIwatch the endless flat, scrubby fields fly past, just starting to come in green with summer crops.Onthe horizon beyond them, the hazy blue bulk of theRockyMountainsreminds me that it’s almost time to make our traditional drive up toEstesParkand getBeckhis once-a-year box of fudge.
Aftera while,IrealizeI’mlooking at my reflection in the window instead of at the view.Myshirt does look good, as long asIdon’t mind people seeing my top-surgery scars.Wide, dark eyes gaze back at me, above a narrow nose and a soft mouth.Mythick, unruly hair is already starting to tumble out of my bun and frame my face.Beckthinks my hair and my eyes are pretty.Heeven likes my nose.Ithink he likes everything about me–he’s a simple guy.
I’ma lot more complicated.
SometimesIsee my mom whenIlook at myself.Imiss her so fucking much it makes me want to tear out my insides to make the hurt stop.
SometimesIsee a version of me whose nameIwill never say again, but who will always be there.Shecarried my soul for fifteen years, untilIcould set it free.Onthe hard days,Ifeel like that person is all anyone sees, likeI’llnever be free of her.
ButtodayI’mjustDallas.ThenameIchose, the manI’vealways been.Ihave my mom’s eyes, andIlook good in white.Mythree best friends and roommates are my entire world, even though they drive me insane.AndIfeel right in my body more often thanIfeel wrong–something that sounds simple but feels like a miracle every damn day.
2
BECK
“Thisis the kitchen,and that’s the bathroom.Dad’sbed is behind there.”Iturn in a slow circle in the middle of our new home.Thenarrow, beat-up trailer smells like old leftovers and pee.Standingon my toes,Ipush the photo in my hand flat against the window over the sink.Thisview out the back of the trailer park, with the fields and river and sun on the mountains, is the only nice part of this place.
“Here’smy room.”Itaped together a bunch of cardboard this morning to make a divider between my twin mattress and the rest of the house.Afruit crate in the corner holds my clothes, aWalkmanwith anIronMaidenCD, and my tiny collection of cool rocks and bottle caps.Balancingon one foot,Ipoke my wrinkled rocket ship sheets with the toe of my sneaker. “Everything’sset up.Itried to be neat like you.”
Mymom’s photograph slowly folds up along the creases whenIset it on my pillow and sit down next to it. “That’severything.Idon’t like this place.”
Wenever had much, butMomalways made sureIwas clean and dressed.NowI’ma scrappy little piece of garbage with my filthy, ripped jeans and uncut hair.Iride my bike around with the other stray kids–spray-painting shit, throwing rocks at cars, and stealing booze for the older boys in exchange for candy bars.AtleastIdid, before we moved toParadisePeaks.Here, the air feels so thick with misery thatIcan’t breathe.NotevenMomwould be able to find a speck of goodness in this shithole.
Thefront door creaks open, andDad’sheavy boots stagger inside.Foldingmom’s picture as fast asIcan,Istuff it in the tiny leather bag around my neck, whereIkeep her wedding ring. “Wherethe fuck are you, brat?” he slurs from the other side of my cardboard wall.Whenwe drove our boxes fromArvadatoFortHoldenthis morning, he backed over my bike in the driveway and got the bent frame stuck in the undercarriage of theCivic.Ihelped him rip it out, but now the car makes weird noises and leaks pools of dark liquid into the dirt when you turn it off.Theold man will be drunk and kicking my ass until he finds someone to fix it.
Scramblingsilently to my feet,Ipush open the small window over my bed and stick my head out.It’sa six foot fall into spiky weeds, but that’s better than whateverDadhas in mind.Igrab the frame, hoist myself up, and wriggle out into the noon sun.Oneof my small hands slips on the hot vinyl siding andItumble onto my ass in the prickle bushes.GoodthingI’munbreakable.
