Symptoms of Being Human (13 page)

I consider speaking up to tell Solo it's not that kind of club—but Bec replies before I have the chance.

“Those are my terms,” she says.

Solo glances at me, then turns back to Bec. “Done.” He holds out one fist. It's like the head of a plump, brown mallet. Bec stares at it for a moment, then slowly extends her own. Suddenly, their arms whir into action, fists and elbows flying in a complex and ridiculous dance. They finish by touching index fingers and uttering, in unison, “Ouch.” Solo smiles. Bec tries not to, but I see the telltale twist at the corner of her mouth.

Solo crams the remains of his lunch into his mouth, brushes off his hands, and gets to his feet.

“Tomorrow,” he says, the word almost indistinguishable around his final mouthful of pizza sandwich, and then he walks off.

ON THE RIDE TO SCHOOL
Friday, I notice that my mother is biting her cuticles again. Dad left for Washington this morning, last-minute—something about his education bill—and Mom always worries when he flies. I start to reach out, like I'm going to pull her hand away from her mouth, but I think better of it, and let my arm drop into my lap.

“When does he get back?” I say.

Mom, suddenly aware that she's gnawing on her own flesh, puts her hand back on the steering wheel and glances over at me, embarrassed. I stare out the windshield and pretend I don't notice.

“Monday night at the latest, depending on how his meetings go. He's so tense about this bill.” She starts chewing her thumb again. The affect makes her look younger, somehow, an odd contrast with the worry lines forming on her forehead. I
wonder if she secretly loathes this whole election business as much as I do.

There's another fund-raiser on Tuesday, a big one, and my attendance is mandatory. Thinking about being in a huge hotel ballroom with two hundred people, smiling my campaign smile and wearing what I have to wear, is usually enough to send me into a spiral of anxiety—but right now, I've got other problems to distract me.

I don't know why it bothers me so much that Bec invited Solo to the Q. He already knows I'm different, so I'm not too worried about him rejecting me. It's just . . . I thought of the Q as
our
place. Bec's and mine. And there's also the fact that it was supposed to be our third date. At least, I thought it was.

But it's more than that. When I'm with Solo, I tend to behave more like a guy, because I think that's how he sees me. But around Bec, I'm inclined to be more . . . I don't know.
Feminine
is the word that comes to mind, but it's too simple a word for what I feel. There
aren't
words for what I feel, because all the words were made up by people who never felt like this.

As if that dilemma weren't enough, I'll be in a room full of people who expect me to be open about my gender identity. Regardless of which direction my compass is pointing tonight—how am I going to satisfy all those different expectations without acting like a crazy person?

Behind all this, buzzing in the background like an unseen wasp's nest, is the threat of my anonymous stalker. I start to turn over the possibilities for the thousandth time—but my
thoughts are interrupted when Mom pulls into the circular driveway and stops at the curb.

“How about you?” she says, squinting at me. “You're dreading the fund-raiser, aren't you?”

I open my mouth, then close it again without saying anything. It's not at all what I was thinking—but she's right. I am.

“I don't blame you,” she says. “All you can eat at those things is bread and ketchup.”

I actually laugh out loud.

“We'll get On the Vedge before, so you're not starving. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say. And then she reaches toward me, and I'm not sure if she intends to ruffle my hair or pat my cheek. She ends up sort of gripping my shoulder and giving me a weird concerned-mom smile.

As she pulls away, I wave good-bye, and she starts chewing on her thumb again.

I expect Mrs. Crane's classroom to be empty, as it usually is when I get to school early—so I'm surprised when I open the door to find Sierra Wells standing at the far end, facing one of the windows. Her head is down and her phone is pressed to her ear.

“No,” she says. “Mom. Dad's . . . Okay, I'm not saying he
is
. I'm just . . . you're—okay. Fine.”

She ends the call abruptly, drops her phone on the nearest desk, and buries her face in her hands. I didn't hear enough to understand what she was talking about, but it's clear from the way her shoulders are shaking that she's upset. For a moment,
I consider walking right back out the door—but then Sierra turns around. Her eyes are red and puffy. When she sees me, she stiffens at once and her expression hardens into a glare. This is the second time I've witnessed her in an embarrassing moment—the third, if you count the time I cut her down in the cafeteria—and I regret it immediately.

“Sorry,” I say, taking a step back. She sniffs, looks away. “Are you . . . okay?” For a second, I think she might actually answer me, but then she snatches her phone, drops it into her purse, and heads for the door.

“Mind your own business,” she says. Then, under her breath, “Fucking freak.”

As she storms out, I notice she's scratching vigorously at her wrist.

I drop into my usual seat, and not long after that, the classroom begins to fill up. Solo comes in and starts trying to tease information out of me about “the club” we'll be hitting tonight. I deflect his questions with humor, but I'm distracted; I'm still thinking about walking in on Sierra's phone call, and her obsessive scratching. I almost tell Solo about it—I want to—but something stops me. Maybe I'm just being polite, or maybe I'm scared of what Sierra will do if she finds out, but I think it's something else. I think I just sort of understand what it's like to have a fucked-up secret, and I don't want to be the one who tells someone else's. Not even hers.

When I get home from school, there are still a few hours left before I have to get ready for tonight, so I head straight upstairs and fire up my laptop.

I haven't posted since I received the “c u at lunch” message; I haven't had the courage. But over the past week, the story of what happened to Andie Gingham has become a national news item. And with all the attention driving my follower count into the stratosphere, I feel pressure to respond. To get back on Bloglr and address my part in what happened.

It's still hard for me to believe that something I wrote created so many ripples—ripples that became waves—but whether I believe it or not, I have to deal with the consequences. At least, that's what I think Doctor Ann would say.

My computer emits its welcoming chime, and I go to Bloglr and type in my username and password below the smiling frog logo. My finger pauses above the keyboard, and I feel my heart skip. I take one deep breath, and then hit Enter.

MESSAGES: 500

FOLLOWERS: 35,144

This time, I'm prepared for the ridiculously high numbers. I manage, as Bec would put it, to contain my overdeveloped sense of drama, so there is no gasping or jaw dropping or anything like that.

My finger moves to click on my inbox, but I stop. Whatever is inside—hate or threats or gratitude—it has no bearing on what I want to say.

I click on New Post instead.

NEW POST: COMING TO TERMS

OCTOBER 19, 4:46 PM

Hi.

First, I want you to know I haven't opened a single message since the night I read Andie's story in
The Advocate
. I haven't even logged in until now. I apologize for my silence. I just got overwhelmed—by the massive response, sure, but also by little things in my own life.

It's easy to sound wise on a blog, easy to engage in clever banter and dispense advice to anonymous strangers. It costs me nothing.

Andie's stand cost her plenty. It almost cost her everything.

NOW PLAYING: “Low Point” by Trespassers William

Andie, I'm so sorry you were hurt. And I'm sorry if anything I said put you at risk. I only wanted to help. And I'm so grateful that you're going to be okay.

I don't know how else to respond or what else to say. I'm humbled by your gratitude, but I don't know what to do with it. I'm inspired by your bravery, but I'm not ready to match it. I feel like a coward, hiding on the internet behind a fake username. But I'm not just hiding on this blog—I'm hiding in real life, too. I don't have the guts to come out like you did. I'm afraid.

So, right now, nobody knows who I am. Nobody but strangers.

But when my time comes, I'll try to summon the kind of courage you showed us.

I click Post and slam the laptop shut. I think about how brave Andie was to come out to the world, and what she got
as a reward for that act of courage: a nation of supporters. An extended family of people who believe in her, even admire her. I have that, too, from my blog followers—but in an artificial, anonymous way, as Alix. If I want the real thing—the support, the admiration—I'll have to do what Andie did. And I don't know if I can.

A cold feeling settles in the center of my chest. The only person in my life who knows who I really am is Doctor Ann, and my parents pay her to care.

For the first time, I consider the consequences of coming out. School would be unbearable, obviously. The taunting I get just for
looking
different is a drop in the ocean compared with the torrent of discrimination I would suffer for being openly gender fluid. Bec would stay friends with me—I'm almost sure she would. But Solo? I don't know. He tolerates my weirdness, but if I were to come out, would he be willing to endure the harassment from his team?

My mom would accept me, I think. It might take her a while to wrap her old-fashioned mind around it, but she would come around. My father, on the other hand—what would it do to him? He's worked so hard to carve out his spot in this ultraconservative county; a breaking story about his secretly gender fluid kid might be enough to cost him reelection.

Then I think about my stalker, and a shiver goes through me. The thought of being exposed, of being outed before I'm ready, terrifies me. It makes me want to shut down my blog and just go back to trying to blend in.

But there's another voice in my head—maybe it's Andie
Gingham's voice, or Doctor Ann's. Or maybe it's my own. The voice is telling me that all those things aren't reasons, just excuses.

And maybe this isn't only about me anymore.

DESPITE MY PROTESTS ABOUT GETTING
carsick, I end up in the backseat of Solo's hatchback on the way to LA—windows down, music up, and heater cranked to full blast. For the first ten minutes, Solo and Bec fight for control of the stereo; Solo wants to play XTC, but Bec has just acquired an Against Me! bootleg that she insists is “the proper soundtrack for tonight's festivities.” Which prompts Solo to assert that he doesn't actually know what “tonight's festivities” are, which leads to an argument over whether Solo ought to know where he's driving us. I had almost forgotten he doesn't know what the Q is.

That's when the vague nausea of carsickness gives way to stomach-dropping dread. Even if I don't say a word tonight—even if I sit quietly and just listen to everybody else in the group—Solo will know. Maybe not the specifics, but he'll know something. Of course, he must suspect something
already; our talk at the Reagan Years proves that. But when he sees the whole picture—when he finds out what I am—what if he's repulsed? My guts churn again.

Solo turns down the music and glances at me in the rearview. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just tired.”

“We're almost to the exit. You need me to pull over? You want a 7UP or something?”

I shake my head.

“All right.” Solo turns the music back up, but not as loud this time. A moment later, I feel a hand touch my shoulder.

It's Bec's.

I sit up when we pull into the parking lot. My temples and upper lip are slick with sweat—whether from nerves or from Solo's heater, I'm not sure—but the cool air feels good when I step out of the car, and my stomach settles a little.

“Where the hell are we?” Solo says, glancing around at the empty buildings.

“West Hollywood,” Bec says. “Almost Beverly Hills.”

“Are you sure?” He glances down the alley, then frowns at Bec. “It doesn't look very safe.”

Bec looks him up and down. “I'll protect you.”

Solo laughs. Bec smiles.

We start across the parking lot, Bec to my left, taking her short, quick strides, and Solo ambling along on my right. Suddenly, I don't know how to walk. Almost sixteen years of doing it without thinking seem to vanish in an instant, and now I'm just putting one foot in front of the other in a series of
awkward, robotic lunges. Part of me wants to lean toward Bec and take her hand, and the other part wants to jam my hands in my pockets and match long strides with Solo. Instead, my arms just swing dead at my sides, making me feel like some sort of ballerina ape. I'm so distracted and self-conscious that I catch the toe of my Chucks on a pothole and barely stop myself from eating asphalt.

“You all right?” Solo asks.

“I'm cool,” I reply. My voice comes out oddly low, as though I'm imitating some rapper. Bec shoots me a bemused glance. I blush and look away.

This is what I was afraid of: being caught in some kind of relational limbo between masculine and feminine. I close my eyes for a second and try to sense which direction my internal compass is pointing—but it's as if there's too much interference, and I can't get a clear reading. So instead, I concentrate on walking and try to pretend nothing is happening.

Kanada greets us at the door. She performs an elaborate European cheek-kissing ritual on Bec, then collects me in a tight hug as though she's known me for years, her strong, lean arms almost squeezing the breath out of me. At first, it's overwhelming, and I feel a claustrophobic instinct to withdraw; but after a moment, I find myself hugging her back. I can't actually remember the last time someone hugged me like this, and I don't want to let go. I feel a pang of disappointment when she releases me and turns to Solo, her smile widening even further.

“Well, look at this hunk of pure love,” she says, extending her hand. “I'm Kanada.”

“Solo,” he says. And then, instead of shaking her hand, he
bends deftly at the waist and plants a kiss on it. “Enchanted.”

Kanada squeals with delight and throws an arm around Solo's neck. “Ladies best back off. Her Majesty claims this one for her own.”

Solo smiles, and I think I see a tinge of red on his brown cheeks.

Kanada leads us in, and we gravitate toward the table in the back as the rest of the group begins to show up. Bec goes from member to member, exchanging hugs and making small talk—she's almost a different person here, so much more social and outgoing than she is at school. Solo and I hang out by the refreshments table, him gnawing on a stale grocery-store cookie, me sipping at a Styrofoam cup of coffee. When the room starts to fill up, Bec comes back and ushers us to the ring of chairs in the center, and we sit.

Mike/Michelle is dressed as a man tonight, in gray slacks and a white dress shirt, her hair parted on the side and combed back. “Welcome, everyone,” she says. “In case you've never seen me present as a man before, this is what
Mike
used to wear to work.” She strikes an elegant pose, to which the group responds with scattered laughter and applause. Mike/Michelle smiles. “We have some new faces tonight, but don't worry, I'm not going to single anyone out. So if you want to introduce yourself, just raise your hand and say hello.”

I glance at Solo, wondering how he feels at this point. He sits quietly, observing the group's members and clearly doing his best not to stare. He probably looks exactly how I looked last week.

The cast is pretty much the same: Kanada sits next to
Mike/Michelle, and then there's Chris, the trans man with the combat boots. Next to him is Herman, the good-looking guy who was holding hands with Bennie last week—but there's no sign of Bennie herself. Morgan—the group member with the awesome green hair—takes the chair to my left. I recognize the fine-featured face and baggy flight jacket from last week, but this time, only a few strands of that shocking green hair are visible, peeking out the back of a baseball cap with a “T” embroidered above the bill. I'm trying not to stare like I did at my first meeting, but I think I detect a hint of lip gloss.

Mike/Michelle rubs her hands together. “Okay then. Let's have our opening words.” She reaches out to Kanada, and then everybody clasps hands. It's kind of cheesy, and I glance around to make a face at Solo, but he's solemn as a choirboy. So is Bec, for that matter. I wipe the smirk off my face and turn to look at Mike/Michelle. She closes her eyes and tilts her face toward the ceiling.

“Tonight we come together as a community—not to focus on our flaws, but to celebrate our uniqueness. To share our pain, our joy, and our love, and to create a better tomorrow.”

For a moment it's quiet, and I have to stifle the urge to say, “Amen.” Then Mike/Michelle looks up and there's a subdued round of applause.

“First, a few announcements. Herman tells me that Bennie couldn't be here tonight because she's meeting with her soon-to-be ex-wife and divorce attorney. So let's all take a moment to send her loving thoughts.”

We clasp hands again, and everyone is quiet for a moment.

“We also want to congratulate Kanada, whose daughter
was accepted into the very prestigious All Southern Youth Orchestra!” More applause. Kanada wipes tears from her eyes and waves at the group to stop. Mike/Michelle continues. “There's another person I'd like all of us to acknowledge, but she's not officially a member of our group. I'm sure you all must have heard about Andie Gingham by now? The trans girl in Oklahoma?”

A chill runs down my spine. Everyone nods.

“Good. Because I want to acknowledge Andie. She didn't back down or hide, even in the face of rejection by her own family. Even in the face of violence. She could have let it stop her, and no one in this room would have blamed her.”

“No way,” Kanada says. There are murmurs of assent.

“But she didn't,” Mike/Michelle continues. “She took the beating and then came out
again—
to the world. She took a stand not just for herself, but for every one of us. And I want to thank her for that.”

Even though there are fewer than a dozen people in this little room, the sound of applause bouncing off the concrete walls is almost deafening.

“And finally,” Mike/Michelle says as the applause dies, “I want to thank you for agreeing to switch nights this week. As you know, Trans Health Con is coming up in a few weeks. Remind me, who's coming? Raise your hand if you're planning to attend.”

Mike/Michelle, Kanada, Herman, and Chris raise their hands.

“Bennie's going, too,” Herman says.

“Oh, good,” Mike/Michelle says. “For those of you who
haven't registered yet, there are still spots open. I know you would find it inspiring. In any case, the reason I had to switch nights is that there's a planning session tomorrow. They're holding a panel about online community building at the conference, and the chairperson asked
me
to be the mediator!”

This time there are cheers mixed in with the applause.

Mike/Michelle smiles broadly and raises a hand to quiet the group. “Okay, okay, thank you! Wow.” She laughs. “Now, if nobody objects, I'll start the sharing.”

“Share away, my love,” Kanada says.

“As you can see, I didn't have time to change before tonight's meeting. I went to my son's debate competition, and I have an agreement with him to present as a man when we're together in public.”

Everyone in the room nods. Even Solo. I wonder what he's thinking right now.

“Well, I just—I just wanted to share that I'm bothered by it. Right now.” She puts a fist to her mouth as if to cough. Kanada takes her other hand, and then Mike/Michelle continues. “I've been out for years, but it's still a struggle. And I was really looking forward to wearing this periwinkle top Kanada bought me.”

“And you should've seen her in it,” says Kanada. “I mean,
damn.
”

We laugh.

Mike/Michelle smiles. “My son placed third, by the way. Okay. Who's next?”

For a moment, everyone just looks around at everyone else—and then Morgan breaks the silence.

“I know I don't talk much,” Morgan says, and I hear the hint of a drawl in that alto voice. “But I guess I'll go.”

“That's great,” Mike/Michelle says. “What's on your mind?”

“Well,” Morgan says, glancing around the group, “y'all know I came out here from Texas to get away from my family.”

Most of the group nods their heads.

“When I left, my dad pretty much disowned me. I didn't actually come out, not in so many words, but to my family, moving to Cali and being genderqueer are pretty much the same thing.”

A few people laugh, but not me; I'm transfixed.
Genderqueer.
I realize this may be the first person like me—or
close
to being like me—that I've ever met. I look at the trace of lip gloss, the green hair protruding from the back of the baseball hat—and all at once, I understand what it must be like for someone else to see
me
for the first time. When I saw Morgan, my first instinct was to wonder: Boy or girl? And if I saw
me
, with my untamed midlength hair and my ambiguous wardrobe, I'd probably wonder the same thing. I think of all my mother's scrutinizing looks, all the lectures about appearance I've endured from my dad. Were they really judging—or just trying to figure me out? The idea reverberates in my head like a low gong, drowning out all other thoughts.

“Anyway,” Morgan continues, “I've been here about three months. Haven't heard nothing from my family till last week.” Morgan pauses. When he—or she—speaks again, I expect that calm, alto voice to break, but it doesn't. “I got a letter from Momma. She told me I ought to get my scrawny ass to church
and pray to Jesus I don't get corrupted by y'all.”

This time I do laugh, along with everybody else.

“It wasn't the best thing, but . . . well, she wrote. So that's good. Right?”

“Yes it is, precious,” Kanada says.

Morgan glances around the room. “Anyway. I just wanted to say I'm glad y'all are here.”

Herman shares next, something about Bennie and the turmoil around her divorce, but I'm not really listening—I'm watching Morgan listen. Even after hearing him—or her—speak, I have no idea which pronoun to use, which gender label to apply. And I realize that, while I tend to think of myself as drifting between the two poles of male and female, that's my individual perception—and, in some ways, it's too binary for a person like Morgan, who seems to hover somewhere in the middle, or maybe doesn't envision gender as a spectrum at all. It's weird to think that now
I'm
the one clinging to old ideas. Just then, Morgan catches me staring and flashes me a brief, tight-lipped smile. I smile back.

As the applause dies following Herman's sharing, I notice Mike/Michelle looking in my direction.

“Riley,” she says. “Welcome back. How are you tonight?”

My heart gives a throb of protest. Mike/Michelle must sense my distress, because her face falls, and I get the feeling she's searching for a way to shift the focus to someone else. In my peripheral vision, I see Solo turn his head toward me.

“I'm okay,” I say.

More heads turn, and now all the eyes are on me. But it's not like the Gauntlet, not like walking through the halls at school;
those eyes are invasive and penetrating. These are curious and patient. These people genuinely want to hear what I have to say.

Mike/Michelle leans back in her chair as if to give me more room to breathe. “Would you like to share?”

I nod. “Hey, everybody, I'm Riley.”

The room responds with nods and hellos. My heart is now a lump in my throat, and my breath is shallow. I talk anyway. “I'm sort of . . . fighting off a mini anxiety attack right now,” I say.

“Do you want some time?” Mike/Michelle asks. “Kanada can take you out for a little fresh air if that would help.”