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Ipush myself upright, leaning forward. “Comeon, come on.”
Atthe last second,Georgeor whatever his name is shovesBobaway and storms off.
“Damnit.”Dalslumps back against the car, crossing his arms.
Ilook up at the huge sky, with a half-moon hanging over the mountains.Thecool air teases my hair in a way that makes me feel sleepy and safe. “Thanksfor this,Dal.Itwas great.”
Aftera long pause,Iglance back to see him tearing off bits of grass and piling them on his knee. “Howare the meetings going, for real?” he asks carefully, without looking at me.Ina flood of relief,Iimagine that he figured out all my secrets without me having to confess them.Butthen his gaze flicks up to mine andIrealize it’s not true. “Whatlife skill classes sound most fun to you?Haveyou found any good mentors yet?”
Pressingmy lips together,Ifocus on the movie screen.Myfeelings are always big, solid, and loud, filling up my whole head.Rightnow, it’s guilt–a bitter burn on my tongue like vomit. “It’sintense,”Isay finally. “Idon’t know whatIwant.”It’sall true, but not true enough.
Hepunches me gently in the shoulder. “Youcan do anything,Beck.Truly.”
“Ihave no clue what makes you think that,”Imurmur, looking down at my hands in my lap.
Witha rustling sound, he kneels behind me, wrapping one hand around each of my shoulders.Theboy likes to try and give back rubs, but his fingers are so slender and my muscles are so thick that it doesn’t work unless he uses his elbows with his full body weight.Ilike it best when he gives up and just rubs the back of my neck. “Takeit one day at a time, okay?”
Alot of things happen one day at a time.Mymom going from healthy to sick.Akid earning his bicycle from the cool guys in town.Aguy and his best friend getting addicted to sleeping in the same bed.Worldschange one day at a time.Butwhen my days are built of half-rotted lies,Ihave no idea what they’re going to change me into.
3
DALLAS
WhenIwas fourteen,Ibroke down into hysterical tears and stumbled around the house untilIfound my mom weeding her tomato bed in the backyard.Ifell on my knees in the grass and sobbed out thatIwas a boy.Noexplanations, no reasoning, just the raw screaming of my heart.
Thepoor woman had no idea whatIwas talking about, but she pulled me into her arms and whispered that she loved me more than anything.EventhoughIknew she’d never reject me, coming out to her was the scariest thingI’veever done in my life.
SoIdon’t know what possesses me to come out toBeckjust a month afterImoved in with him.Forsome reason, my soul demands thatIopen up to this macho knucklehead with his ripped wife beaters, hand tattoos, and the gun stuffed down the back of his jeans.
Whenhe comes home one evening,Isit him down on the saggy futon.I’mshaking so hardIcouldn’t hide it ifItried.Aman chased me out of my home with a gun at my back because of my identity.Today, it might happen again.
Iopen my mouth, get stuck, and just stare at him.Ifhe hurts me, it will break my heart in so many ways.
JustwhenIstart to stammer “never mind”, he reaches across and wraps one big, rough hand around both of my slim ones, like it’s nothing.Hisforehead creases as his eyes search mine. “Don’tbe scared,” he says, squeezing a little.
“I’mtrans.”Thewords come out so fastIcan’t control it, becauseI’vebeen choking on them for weeks.Ifhe’s going to be my first real friend,Iwant him to know my truth–thatI’mbuilt of stories and scars, not chromosomes.
Beckblinks, confusion etched into his face. “What’sthat?”
Shit.Iforgot that he grew up with almost no access to a world of ideas beyond this filthy place.NowIcan’t find the words to explain, because saying it out loud brings up a kind of shameIcan’t quantify. “Um…I…”
“Wait.”Fishinghis perpetually dirty, cracked phone out of his pocket, he scoots over until he can sling an arm behind my back.Rightthere in front of me, chewing solemnly on his lip, heGoogles, “Whatis trans”.
Asridiculous as it feels, it’s easier this way.
Whenhe sees the answer, his body goes very still for a moment as he double and triple checks the words.Ifix my eyes on a hole in the linoleum, waiting for one of the questions that are almost worse than getting punched–CanIsee pictures of you before?orWhichone are you actually, between your legs?
Foronce, he doesn’t say anything.Ifeel his ribcage move against my arm as he sighs, then his arm around my shoulder tightens.Herests his cheek on top of my head with a quiet, protective, final kind of sound.
Ibreak down crying, making disgusting noises asItry to hold in the sobs.
“Here.”Heoffers me the front of his oversized t-shirt soIcan blow my nose and wipe my eyes.
Wejust sit like that, his head resting on mine and my face in his chest, for hours.Untilthe afternoon turns to darkness in the dirty windows.
“Jesusfuck.”Isnap out of my daydreaming and floor the brake pedal.TheCivicskids sideways with a horrible grinding sound and lurches to a stop.
Myheart pounds so hardIcan’t breathe asIpry my death grip off the steering wheel.Wipingmy sweaty, shaky palms on my jeans,Itip my head back and close my eyes to stop the world from spinning.Thespot where the seat belt locked around my chest is going to bruise tomorrow.
