“It’s just some stuff. It’s not something I can go into, okay?”
“Um, okay.”
“I’m sorry. Look, I’ll call you when I get home—”
“You don’t have to. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait. Callista, I’m sorry—”
If I stay in the house another second, I know I’m going to break something. I slip in the earbuds of my MP3 player and flick through my playlist until I find something loud.
There’s a low cement wall around a few plants near the curb across the street where I put up my heel and stretch my tight calves, watching a flock of noisy blackbirds threaten a few starlings over the oak tree at the end of the court. I bend forward, putting my head as close to my knee as I can, then switch legs. My muscles are reluctant, burning with strain, and I fill my head with the pain, glad to do anything but think.
I follow the sidewalk beside a row of straight, broad tree trunks. The slightly fuzzy effect of their newly opened leaves makes me think of a little kid’s drawing. Everything is so bright and shiny in this neighborhood that it’s hard not to smile at the postman walking along ahead of me, stuffing mail and newspapers in the sidewalk boxes. Heading off across the hill behind Dad’s town house, I pick up the dusty walking trail and follow it down at a ground-eating lope. The puffs of dust kicking up make me glad I didn’t wear my good running shoes.
A few blocks from home, I realize I probably should have called Viking—who I discovered was Connor when he sent me his number. He’s a good friend so far, but I don’t think I can explain how I feel about this. The people in the chat room mean well, but they don’t understand. Callista is a really nice girl with a decent, normal family. Our friends in Medanos are normal, status quo types—nice house, a couple of kids, a couple of cars. We’re not identical, by any means, but basically we’re all the same type—people with jobs, people who went to college, people who go to church. Normal people.
That’s not us anymore. How would it look if Callista got back together with me? Wrong. Unless she likes answering questions about the guy with the drag queen dad, I think I’ll do her a favor and stay away from her.
She’ll understand it’s a favor, eventually.
I walk fast, stretching my legs and shaking all the thoughts from my brain with my pace. After a series of long hills, the trail stops at the edge of the road. I cross to the parking lot and read a small sign announcing that this is Buchannan Valley College’s East Lot.
The library is just a few buildings away. I push through the doors to find things busy and noisy. Groups of students sit at tables, working on projects, and every seat in the computer station is busy. I’ve spent hours in the library at school and at Medanos Junior College, scanning journals and magazines, formulating defensive arguments for all kinds of cases. It feels a little strange to be in a college library with no purpose and no deadline, but I find a couch in the periodicals section and dig in. It’s a perfect distraction.
At first I just stick to what’s around me—a random journal from a nearby shelf, the sports section in the local paper, the New York Times. Then I head for the computers and research “boarding schools”—and give that up when I realize how expensive most of them are. Mom and Dad will never agree to me leaving home for that much money.
When a group moves into the periodicals area, I snag a few pieces of recycled scratch paper and a golf pencil from a computer kiosk and settle into a study carrel in the silent basement stacks to write a letter. After the words Dear Callista, I cross out sentences and whole paragraphs as I attempt to explain about Dad, about the way things have been. It comes out sounding like a policy debate defense, full of evidence and argument and nothing I really feel.
I wad it up and sit staring for a while, feeling tired.
You can’t force people to react like you want them to. You can’t create a way to think about things that don’t even cross most people’s minds. No matter what I try to say to Callista to make it better, the obvious truth remains: Dad is coming home, and eventually, Callista will find out about him. And freak.
But what’s the worst thing that could happen?
One of Mr. Lester’s little tricks in forensics for breaking through our panic about having to speak in public was to have us freewrite for two minutes on the worst things that could happen to us during our event. Afterward, we divided our lists into two categories—legitimate worries and stage fright/paranoia. It turned out that, as a group, we were a lot more paranoid than we thought.
Okay, yeah, we could trip on the way to the platform, lose all of our evidence cards five minutes before an event, knock over the team’s water pitcher, stutter, lose our voices—but chances are that even if one of those things happened, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. We all trained so hard for our events that most of us could rattle off our points blindfolded or if wakened from a sound sleep.
I remember laughing as Mr. Lester read our Worst lists out loud. Writing them really helped; none of the stuff I’ve dreaded has ever happened during an event.
Okay, so I never imagined Dad walking into the auditorium in drag. But none of the stuff on my actual list ever happened.
I turn over a fresh sheet of scratch paper.
What’s the worst thing that could happen with Callista?
Slowly, the words come to me.
She could stop speaking to me.
She could out Dad to her friends.
She could decide to make us her missionary project and be scary-nice.
She could act like she doesn’t notice and secretly talk trash about us.
She could …
It doesn’t take long to run out of ideas. I cross out a few stupid ones as paranoid—really, Callista’s not going to beat me up or get someone to run me down in their car. She can’t make me feel any way, and she can’t do anything I haven’t already done to myself.
Didn’t I already stop speaking to Callista—to protect myself from when she decided to stop speaking to me? Isn’t Dad getting ready to out himself? All of my biggest worries have to do with embarrassment, humiliation, and fear—and just like during a forensics event, none of that is anything I can do anything about, except breathe and live through it.
Which completely sucks.
I draw a line under my list and write another one.
What’s the worst thing that can happen in Medanos?
Immediately the list looks more realistic and less paranoid.
People could ask Pastor Max to make us leave church.
We might get kicked out of school.
Mom could lose catering jobs.
People could vandalize our house.
People could harass Dad.
People …
It would really hurt all of us to be asked to leave our church. It would be hard on Mom not to hang out with her Girls’ Night Out women’s group. I can’t see Pastor Max deciding that we’re a bad influence, but I know a few conservative families get wound up about things and like to control how everything looks at church. Dad coming down the center aisle in Mom’s old linen suit would really freak them out—and me too.
Would Pastor Max ask us to leave? Would Dad even do that? If we get asked to leave a church, it’s not like that changes God’s mind about us. And we could always join another church.
I leave my first worry with a question mark next to it.
I cross out my second worry. Unless Ys and I do something to break school rules, we can’t get kicked out of school because of Dad—unless the school wants to deal with Poppy and the American Civil Liberties Union. No one wants to deal with Poppy when he’s in lawyer mode.
The third worry is realistic—people might decide against having Mom do their catering because of Dad. Mom’s business could lose money, and she might have to work harder and lay off her staff.
This really scares me for a moment, before I realize something: Mom might also gain new clients because of Dad. It’s a weird thought, but a good one. Maybe someone would feel safer with Mom because she’s married to Dad.
The next three worries on the list are just too real. I hear in the news all the time about violence against gay and lesbian people. It gives me a stomachache to think that Dad is putting himself out there by being transgender. Someone could hurt him—or Mom—or Ys. It makes me sick with fear and anger.
I want to get online and find statistics for our state, for our city. Have there been any recent incidents? Do we live in a bad area for violence against gay and lesbian and transpeople? Should we move?
I stretch out my legs and prop my feet on the chair across from me, thinking hard. There has to be something we can do to protect ourselves. Does en|GNDR have resources for self-defense classes? I don’t realize I’m drumming my fingers until I earn an annoyed look from the guy browsing the shelves next to me.
Shut it down, Justin.
I reach for my pencil again.
Fact: Random violence happens—no matter where you live.
Fact: Some racist could attack us for being African Americans. But no one has.
Fact: These last three questions probably fall at least a little under the category of “paranoid.” Who are these “people”? Why do they suddenly know who we are and what we’re doing?
Other than asking Dad to be careful and praying for him like always, there’s nothing I can do about any of this. Just like every other day of my life, when I say goodbye to Dad when he flies down to supervise a building site, when Mom has a late job and I go to bed before she comes home—all I can do is make sure they know I love them, say my prayers, and let it go.
Stuff happens. None of us control anything.
“The library will be closing in ten minutes,” a nasal voice interrupts, and I frown. Closing? What time is it? I have no idea how long I’ve been here, pulling one idea out of the air, rejecting it, pulling out another one. Standing, I pat my pockets for my phone to check the time and realize I don’t even have my backpack. I shrug. I didn’t know how long of a walk I was going to take, so everything is back at Dad’s.
Folding my notes into a little square, I shove them into my back pocket, then visit the bathroom. It’s good to move; I didn’t realize I was sitting still for so long.
I splash water on my face in front of the mirror, feeling a little better. Even though I know I haven’t solved anything—the Callista issue and all the other worries are still there—I don’t feel so stressed. It probably won’t last, but for the moment I feel okay.
It’s like policy debate—most people hate it, because it takes tons of research, and there’s a three-minute cross-examination session at the end of each speech. Policy is my favorite type of debate, though. I know how to dig in and find solid facts that make the argument for whatever plan I propose. It makes me feel better to nail things down with logic.
Stretching, I climb the stairs from the basement stacks and blink when I hit the main library floor. It’s dark out, and the big clock behind the checkout desk says it’s five till midnight.
How long have I been gone? I hurry toward the entrance, glancing around for a pay phone, but I don’t see one. I pass a security guard in a plain blue uniform who gives me a brief nod.
“Got some good studying done?” he asks.
“No. I was thinking,” I say, then realize how dumb that sounds.
“Thinking’s good,” the guard says mildly. “You need an escort to your vehicle?”
“No, thanks. I walked.” I hurry past and push open the exit door.
Cars are streaming out of the lot. I head for the back lot, then change my mind; the lot is well lit, but the walking trails close at sunset, and I’d never find Dad’s house that way. I’ll have to figure out a long way around.
I sigh and shove my hands in my pockets, ignoring my growling stomach. Now that I think about it, I’m hungry. Did I even eat lunch?
Midnight. Unbelievable. Dad’s going to be pissed.
I frown, picking up my pace. If I get home fast enough, maybe no one will notice I’ve been gone. Our curfew during a school break is midnight, anyway.
“Justinian Nicholas?”
I jump, turning to find the speaker. The same security guard is standing next to his open car door, engine idling. He raises his eyebrows. “Justinian Nicholas?” he repeats.
“It’s Justin,” I tell him.
“Thought so.” The man nods. “You look a little young to be a freshman.”
“I’m taking junior classes.” I blurt the non sequitur. “Who are you?”
“You might want to call home. The police have been keeping an eye out for you.”
“What?! Oh, crap.” I pat my pockets and remember. “I don’t have my phone.”
The security guy just smiles and pulls out his radio. “This is 549 to base. Ronnie, you wanna call in to the PD that I’ve got their missing minor in front of the library here? Over.”
The radio crackles, and a staticky voice says something garbled. The security guard nods. “Yep, safe and sound. We’ll just wait for that black-and-white. Over.”
That’s it, I’m dead. I am so dead.