None of the Above (13 page)

“I'm Josh,” he said, holding out his hand. He didn't give a last name. I didn't need one.

“Nice to meet you, Josh.” I shook his hand, but lingered an extra second. Long enough to see the spark light up in his eyes.

I put back my drink so he couldn't see my smile, and when I set it down he nodded his head toward an empty table.

“Let me buy you another drink,” he said.

Vee would have been proud.

An hour later, I was deliciously buzzed and Josh had his hand under my shirt as we made out in a back hallway.

“You are so hot,” he murmured, and it should've been a turn-on but instead I just thought about how he was only saying that because he wanted to get laid. Because he was drunk. Because he didn't know about my fucking chromosomes.

It was just what I had wanted. But as Josh's thick fingers roamed down my back and up my miniskirt, the panic at what he would find cut through my Absolut haze. I blurted out the least sexy thing I could think of.

“Shit, I've gotta pee so bad. I'm so sorry.” I untangled myself from his arms and ran to the bathroom. All the stalls were full, and there was a pair of girls smoking by the hand dryer. They stared at me with heavily lined eyes as I leaned against the side wall, suddenly overcome with shudders. I could still feel Josh's fingers sliding into the dimple in my tailbone, and the sickening fear that he'd discover what I was.

When I went back out, I half expected Josh to be gone. Instead, he sat slumped on the ground by a free-travel-brochure rack.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, looking like he was about to enter the sad drunk phase. I had wanted to break the mood, but I felt guilty about it, so when he asked me for my number I gave it to him.

After I left, I took a couple of circuits around the block to
clear my head before driving, and to process what a near miss it had been. I passed huddles of giggling girls, a trio of guys smoking and telling jokes outside a club. Everyone seemed to understand that strength came in numbers and identity came as part of a group.

I wouldn't make the same mistake again.

Monday morning I didn't bother setting an alarm. My dad poked his head in before he left for work.

“I don't feel up to school today,” I mumbled into my pillow. “I think I have a fever.” I'd had another bad night, and my sheets were on the floor from where I'd tossed them.

“Honey, you need to see someone.” My dad's eyebrows tilted with anxiety.

“Tomorrow,” I promised. “If things aren't any better.”

“I'll call for an appointment right now, just in case.”

“Fine.” At least Aunt Carla worked at Boscov's on Mondays and I wouldn't have to worry about her bugging me to rise and shine.

At around ten, my cell phone chirped. Faith, of course.

U feeling any better?

No mention of Facebook, or of what she did the rest of the
weekend—had she gone out with Vee on Saturday? I knew I could never answer her text the way she wanted, with a cheery “Oh, everything's fine, don't worry about me.” The last thing in the world I wanted to do was burden her with something else to worry about.

Faith's brother had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder the summer he turned cute, which was right before his senior year and our freshman year. He was on medicine now, and was at a local college, living just fine on his own, but in the bad years Faith had become a total Pollyanna. She still went through each day as if she wanted to supply the whole world with happy juice. No sad faces allowed.

I lay down on my bed with my head nestled in my pillow, mind racing, wondering how I could ever be in a relationship, how I would ever be able to go back to school, and if I would run competitively again.

I stared at my phone, and deleted Faith's text without responding.

Underneath it, there was one more text that I'd ignored: Josh had messaged me late Sunday night, but I hadn't had the guts to answer him, either.

Hey, Lara. Wanna hang this Fri?

I couldn't imagine what a date would look like now. Before every big track meet, at the point where everyone's nerves were beginning to fray, Coach Auerbach always made us lie down and visualize our races. “‘What the mind of man can conceive
and believe, the mind can achieve,'” she told us. Some of the other girls rolled their eyes whenever it was time to do our psychosomatics drill, but I always ran smoother and lighter after running the cadences of a race in my head.

So I closed my eyes and pictured a date with Josh. A movie, maybe, was his style. Some superhero movie with a convenient romance. I saw us making out in the back row of the theater, saw his hands move downward. . . .

I shuddered.

The best thing to do was ignore him; if I messaged him back it would only encourage him. But then I thought of his dejected look when I came back from the bathroom, and threw him a bone.

Things R crazy busy this weekend. Will call you when things R less insane.

Somehow, that seemed better. The ball was in my court, and I had no intention to ever send it back.

Ms. Diaz called the next day and left a message on our answering machine. I didn't pick up, of course. She'd heard that I had missed a few days of school and wanted to know how long I thought I would be out. And could I or Mr. Lattimer please give her a call back within the next hour to discuss a few options?

What “options,” I wondered, as I deleted her message.

When I got back to bed I found a voice mail on my cell
phone, also from Ms. Diaz. I was almost certain that if I checked my email I would see a message from her there, too, but I didn't ever want to open that email account again.

When our doorbell rang at three o'clock, I hauled myself up from my bed and answered the door. It was—you guessed it—Ms. Diaz.

“Hello, Kristin,” she said. “Your father said that you were at home.” Her glasses fogged up when she came inside, and I felt guilty for making her wait in the cold for so long.

“Do you want something warm to drink?” I asked automatically.

She took in my pajamas and hair, and shook her head. “You look exhausted. Maybe I should be making
you
a cup of tea?”

I made a noncommittal sound and led her over to the living room. Standing up took too much energy, so I slouched onto the love seat.

Ms. Diaz moved slowly, but her eyes were sharp as she followed me, taking in our family pictures and the books on our shelves.

“So, you were in the neighborhood?” I finally asked.

“Oh, nothing that casual.” She smiled. “It's just I noticed that you weren't in school the past few days, and as you had surgery recently, we wanted to make sure that you hadn't had any . . . complications that might require you to take a leave of absence.”

“No real complications,” I said. “I'm just not bouncing
back as fast as I thought.”

“It's a lot to go through,” Ms. Diaz said, and I could tell that she wasn't just talking about the surgery. She clasped her hands and leaned forward. I stared at the ground.

“Kristin,” she said as I counted the flowers on our living room carpet. “One of your friends came to my office today and told me about some disturbing things that were posted on Facebook. He couldn't show me the actual links, because it appears that they were taken down, but what he described sounded like cyberbullying.”

Fifteen. There were fifteen flowers on the border of the carpet.

“Kristin?” Ms. Diaz said softly. “Were you aware of anything questionable on Facebook? Do you know who may have done it?”

Interesting way to put it: “anything questionable.” I nodded wordlessly. I could feel my face turning red. I wondered who had told her. It was bad enough that all of my “friends” had seen, but teachers and counselors, too? At the thought, my stomach started to cramp, a dull twisting ache. It wasn't my incisions, but something deeper.

“The administration is working on contacting the company to see if they have any archived images that they can trace. If the person who did that to you is in our school, we will make certain that they are punished appropriately.”

“No,” I blurted out. “Please don't make a big deal out of all
this. It was just a prank.” If they did a whole investigation, my dad would find out for sure.

“There's a fine line between pranking and bullying,” Ms. Diaz said, her voice sharp. “The person who made that profile crossed it.”

I shrugged, and curled my legs into the fetal position. I laid my cheek against my flannel pajamas and closed my eyes, but even then all I could see was a photo of myself with naked boy parts pasted on.

“Kristin, I'm concerned about you.” Ms. Diaz's voice was soft again. The kind of voice that brought tears to your eyes even when you thought that you'd cried them all out.

Ms. Diaz reached into her pocketbook and brought out a pack of tissues.

“I can't go back to school again,” I said. “I can't see those people again. My ‘friends.'” I made quotes in the air with my fingers.

Ms. Diaz sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. “We do have a temporary home-instruction option,” she said. “It requires a doctor's note, of course.”

She handed me a pamphlet, and I stared at her as if she'd just told me that she believed in immaculate conception. “You mean I don't have to go back?”

“Not right away. Technically, there's a six-week limit to home instruction. But that is flexible if your physician requests more time.”

I hiccupped, and the tears slowed down. I couldn't believe it. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you so much.”

At that point Ms. Diaz got out of her seat and sat next to me. She put her hand over mine, and spoke softly but firmly. “Kristin, you do have to realize that this is a temporary solution until things . . . settle down.”

I barely heard her. All I could hear was that I wouldn't have to go to school the next day. Or the day after that.

Ms. Diaz went on. “The one requirement you still need to meet, Kristin, is your community service project. You still need sixty more hours to graduate. I understand that you were working with Big Brothers Big Sisters?”

I froze in the middle of blowing my nose. Vee and I and a few other people had been working on a benefit race for the program. “I'll have to switch to another project,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

“Do you have any idea where else you'd like to volunteer?”

Wherever Vee wasn't. Or Sam, or Bruce, or . . . anybody.

I shook my head, scrunching my Kleenex into a tight little ball.

“A number of organizations are still looking for students to help out.” She handed me a stapled list. “Why don't you look at that and get back to me? I'll start the paperwork for your home instruction. We'll need to have a formal meeting with your father present, and a doctor's note as well.”

“We have an appointment in a few days,” I said.

“Well, then.” Ms. Diaz stood up and put on her coat. “Take care, Kristin. Give yourself some time to heal. We hope to have you back at school soon.”

As I showed her out, I wondered who “we” was.

“So, um, have you been checking your email?” Faith asked a couple nights later. She was trying to be casual and all, but even over the phone I could sense an undercurrent of anxiety.

“No, why?”

“Well, Vee wanted me to tell you she sent you an email,” she said. “About Big Brothers Big Sisters, now that you're not doing it. She just needed to know about some logistics, but hasn't heard from you.”

“Why didn't she just call me herself?” I asked.

“I don't know. Probably because she thought you wouldn't pick up?”

“I would've,” I said. Just to see if she said she was sorry.

“Well, anyway, she wanted me to tell you.”

When I opened my email I ignored the Facebook
notifications, and scrolled down to Vee's message, sent the day after Ms. Diaz's visit. It was four measly lines:

Subject: BBBS

Hey.

Faith said you had surgery. Hope you're okay.

So, I hear from Ms. Diaz that you're not doing BBBS anymore. Can you email me all the info on the sponsors you've gotten so far?

-V

The absence of an apology hit me as hard as any blow. I read the email twice, as if I could've missed something. It was almost worse that she had asked if I was okay, because that implied that she cared. Except if she had given a rat's ass about me, she would've said she was sorry.

I searched through my files to find my sponsor spreadsheet, and sent it to her without bothering to write anything in the message field. Then I slammed my laptop shut, hands trembling.

“You okay?” my dad asked. He put his palm on my forehead. “You look flushed.”

I
felt
flushed, and vaguely sick to my stomach. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my fingers.

“Well then,” I said, “good thing we made that appointment for tomorrow.”

“I don't think there's anything wrong with you,” Dr. Cheng said.

“Oh, thank God,” said my dad.

Unlike my dad, I wasn't relieved. “Then why do I always feel like I have a fever?”

Dr. Cheng sighed. “It's not clear. Your temp's normal today. Your incisions are healing perfectly well, and you're having bowel movements.” That had been the highlight of my visit so far, having to talk about what my poops looked like—and how often I had them—in front of my father. “How's your energy level been? Have you been sleeping?”

My father snorted. “A little too well.”

“I've been really tired,” I said defensively. “Yeah, I've been sleeping a lot, but that's because I've been tossing and turning because of the fevers.”

“Hmm.” I could feel Dr. Cheng's eyes on me, could hear the wheels turning in her head.

“And how are you doing with the hormones?” Dr. Cheng asked.

I stared at my boots. After my surgery, I'd gotten a prescription for some estrogen pills. Dr. Cheng had said that I needed to take them for my bone health, now that my body—my
testicles—didn't produce hormones naturally anymore.

At my silence, Dr. Cheng raised her eyebrows. “I guess you haven't gotten a chance to pick them up yet. In fact, that might account for your fatigue. It certainly could explain hot flashes. If you're not taking your estrogen, you're essentially menopausal.”

As if my body wasn't enough of a yard sale.

“It slipped my mind,” I told Dr. Cheng.

Dr. Cheng sighed. “I'll print you out a new prescription. How about the support group? Have you contacted them yet?” She smiled in what I supposed she thought was an encouraging way.

“I talked to one girl,” I said.

“Good. You know, they have meetings too, and a mailing list. It's a terrific resource as you go forward with your diagnosis.”

Dr. Cheng fiddled on her laptop, and I fixated on what she had said.
Go forward with your diagnosis
. It was nicer than saying “learn to cope with being a freak.”

“I'm ordering labs and an X-ray since you've had recent surgery. But you need to take your hormones. And I really want you to think about your fatigue, and whether there may be a psychosomatic element to it.”

“What, do you think this is all in her head?” my father asked.

Dr. Cheng held out her hand like she was trying to stop traffic. “I'm not saying anything for sure. But if the X-ray is negative, I would like to refer you to a therapist who specializes in adolescent psychiatry.”

Great, I wasn't just a freak. I was crazy, too. The thought of seeing a shrink made me want to cry: Having to tell the whole stupid story all over again. Another waiting room. Another form to fill out where there wasn't a space for “None of the Above.” Where there wasn't space for me.

My dad took the referral for the shrink, and I knew that he'd make the appointment.

“You're going to need Dr. Cheng's help if you ever want to go back to school again,” he said on the ride home.

“What if I don't ever want to go back? Can't I just get a GED?”

With a screech of tires, my dad pulled to the side of the road. He cut the engine and turned to me, face already getting red. “Are you
joking
? Krissy, what is the matter with you? You'll lose your scholarship for sure.”

Suddenly, it was too much, the lies. Trying to be brave for him. “Dad . . . the whole school knows.”

“What?” He went pale.

“I . . . I told a couple of people, and you know how rumors spread.”

It was a good thing the car was already stopped. My father
put his head in his hands for a moment. “Oh, Krissy. No wonder you don't want to go to school. Why didn't you tell me earlier?”

The helplessness on his face slayed me. So I didn't tell him about the locker, or about Vee and me no longer being friends. Instead, I told him about my talk with Coach Auerbach. To my surprise, his face brightened.

“Well, they have no leg to stand on keeping you off the team, you know. We can take care of that right away.”

I stared at him. “Wait, what?”

At the disbelief on my face, my dad's lips curled up, and I thought about how rare it had become for him to smile. “I finally found the right NCAA guidelines,” he said, “and people with AIS are considered women for competitive purposes. They
can't
take your scholarship away.”

I stared at him. “Why didn't you tell me?”

He shrugged. “I just figured it out last night. You were already sleeping. We know how easy it's been to wake you up lately. And what a peach you are in the morning, too.” He muttered the last part under his breath.

I ignored the jab, and swallowed hard, my mind swirling in a dozen different directions. I could still compete, still go to college without my dad having to take out a second mortgage.

I still had a future.

But if I wanted it, I'd eventually have to go back to school.