FENCING CHESTPLATE
WHAT HAPPENED LAST Friday at the gym wasn’t my fault.
Okay. The explosion was my fault. And Coach’s . . . condition. And the fact that the school needs extensive renovations. But you know who the real culprit in all of this is? Society, that’s who. Gatekeeping and transphobia are really at the root of this issue. What happened was nasty, I won’t lie, but hey: if Coach and the administration weren’t such a bag of dicks, then the school wouldn’t have had to hire six exorcists to clear out the gym.
Hmm. That sounds a little victim-blamey, now that I say it aloud. Can you scratch that from the record? No? You’re writing down everything I say? Even this? Or this? Or—oh wow, yeah, you’re typing really fast.
Sorry. I know you don’t have much time. I’ll get started now.
Last Thursday afternoon, I approached Coach with chipper-eyed enthusiasm. He insists on being called Coach, by the way, even though he’s really just a gym teacher who handles the school’s sports teams on the side, so that’s how I’ll refer to him. Unlike some people, I respect people’s chosen names, even when they’re stupid.
“Hey, Coach,” I said, trying to be as amiable and normal as possible, which was a struggle when Coach towered a full foot taller than me and still wore his Marine fatigues to school on Wednesdays. “New school year, new fencing team, right? Going to be hard to fill the captain’s shoes since he graduated, but I think our season prospects still look great. When are tryouts?”
A beat. “You want to try out?” Coach said in a tone that was not particularly encouraging.
“Well, yeah,” I answered, hitching my backpack higher. “I’ve been fencing with a private club for about three years, but now the owner wants to retire, so I figured I’d shoot my shot at joining your esteemed roster.”
Coach looked me up and down. I’m aware I may not cut the most impressive figure—five foot three, uncontrollable hair, distinctly muppetish build—but I didn’t know what was causing him so much confusion.
“It’s a boy’s team,” he grunted.
Ah. So that was it.
“Awesome,” I said, stretching my smile as far as it could go. “So I fit all the requirements, then. When are tryouts?”
“You’re not a boy, Pheller.”
At least he used my last name. My smile was starting to tilt like a sinking ship, but I made a valiant effort to keep it upright. “I am, though.”
“Not according to your school records.”
I bit my tongue. Fine. If that was how he wanted to play it. “Well, there’s not a girl’s team I can join, so I’m kind of stuck. Besides, it’s fencing, not football—weight or height classes don’t drastically impact your performance. What’s the difference, really?”
He looked pointedly at my chest. “Equipment.”
My smile died. I squirmed under his gaze, resisted the urge to shrink away. “I’ll wear a binder,” I said, hating how high-pitched and feminine my voice became under duress. “I’ll use the same gear as everyone else. No one will be able to tell what’s behind the mask or beneath the lamé. Please, Coach. Fencing is—it’s my thing. It’s everything. You don’t even have to let me on the team! Just let me try out. Give me one chance to prove to you I’m as capable as everyone else.”
His gaze was cold and distant, as if I was already dismissed. “Don’t you have a bus to catch, Pheller?”
I stared at the floor. “Yes, sir.”
Then I left, face burning in defeat.
***
The more I thought about my encounter with Coach, the more it pissed me off. It wasn’t like I had other options: now that my club had shut down, the school fencing team was the only one in the district. The tournaments were so small they usually ended up being co-ed, anyway. There was no point in excluding girls, and even if there was, I wasn’t one, regardless of the body parts I was born with. Coach just hated me. I didn’t know what I’d done for him to despise me that much, except maybe exist as a transgender teen, but it didn’t matter. I was going to make him change his mind.
I arrived home ready to pitch a fit of teenage angst and plot grand schemes, but unfortunately, someone else was already in my room.
Lucy was setting up an elaborate array of candles and runes on my floor. She was in full gothic attire, wearing a black dress stolen from the attic and raccoon-eye mascara. Various occultish miscellany formed a constellation around her. Gray-green smoke wafted up from incense candles and filtered through the vents.
“What are you doing in my room, asshole?” I snapped in typical benevolent older-sibling fashion.
Lucy squeaked and scrambled to gather up all her things, but fumbled reaching for a large tome embossed in red. I snatched it before she could. The smell of wet dirt and dead moths hit me as I held the book up to the light.
“A Practitioner’s Guide to Demons, Devilry, and Damnation? What scam-ridden corner of eBay did you order this off of? And, hey, since it bears repeating: why are you in my room?”
Clutching her candles and plastic skull, Lucy rose to her feet. “It’s not a scam, it had five-star reviews! You just don’t have your third eye open. And, well—I needed your charcoal sticks to draw a pentagram.”
“You stole my art supplies and tried to summon a demon on my bedroom floor? What’s wrong with you?”
Lucy shrugged. “Well, if something went wrong, I didn’t want to accidentally set my stuff on fire.”
“Get. Out.”
“See you in hell, jerk,” Lucy huffed, and stormed down the stairs.
As the door slammed behind her, I realized I was still holding her stupid Satanic scambook. Disgusted, I tossed it at a corner of my room, where it landed with a thud on top of my backpack. Then, with an equally dramatic thud, I collapsed on top of my bed and pondered my situation.
I had to find a way to fence. It wasn’t a question of whether, but when. Coach wasn’t going to stop me. I clung to the idea that if I could just show him—if he could see me, really see me—then he’d have to let me on the team. I knew that I was better than all those half-hearted assholes who couldn’t tell the difference between a parry and Passata Sotto. Fencing was my lifeblood, my legacy.
I’d grown up fencing with my father, and whenever I picked up an épée, it was like he was alive and with me again. When I won, I imagined he was proud of me—the real me, his son, who he never knew. Fencing was all I had left. I couldn’t give up on it.
Sorry, are you sure you can’t cut that part from the record? Alright. Yeah, no, I’m fine. Don’t need a tissue, but thanks for offering.
***
Having gained most of my misbegotten enthusiasm back overnight, I headed to school the next day. I was like a Whack-A-Mole dummy—you couldn’t keep me down for long. I hauled an extra duffel bag full of my fencing gear alongside my backpack, since I didn’t trust the school’s equipment not to be defective. The metal clanked as I moved.
I took Lucy’s stupid goth book with me, too, because honestly, I was still annoyed she’d tried to summon a demon in my room. I have stuff in there, Luce, stuff that is not fireproof. Anyway.
I passed through the day in a jittery haze, only focused on the tryouts ahead. In my head, I’d already succeeded. Once I had a blade in my hand, I was guaranteed a spot on the team. And maybe—just maybe—in a few years, I’d make captain. Dad would be proud of that.
A few minutes before the end of the school day, I ducked out of my last class and hauled my fencing bag down to the gym. Coach was standing outside the double doors, absorbed in some strategy minigame on his phone.
“Hey, Coach,” I said, bouncing up to him. “I was wondering if you don’t mind opening up the boy’s locker room for me? I brought all my fencing gear for tryouts, and I need some place to store it. I wasn’t sure what would be provided, so I brought everything. Mask, swords, gloves, lamé, jacket, shoes, et cetera. I even brought spares in case someone else forgot to bring something.”
Coach stared blankly for a moment, then rubbed his temples. “Pheller, you’re not getting into the boy’s locker room. You’re not a boy.”
“Goddamn, Coach, I didn’t know you were my doctor.” At my sarcasm, his face slid into a scowl, and I hastily backtracked. “Sorry. I mean—let’s indulge a delusion for a moment, okay? Almost every other teacher calls me by my preferred name. I’ve got a note from my pediatrician diagnosing me with gender dysphoria. I shop in the men’s section at Old Navy. What would it take for you to see me as a boy? What do you need me to do?”
His gaze flicked over me. I was hoping for pity, but all I got was disgust. “If you were born with the right equipment, then you could be on the boy’s team. But you weren’t, and you won’t be.”
“Well, I can’t exactly change the circumstances of my birth, but as I offered before, I could wear a binder. You wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference.”
“Give up, Pheller.” He shook his head. “I can’t have someone who looks like a fucking faggot on my team.”
I wish I could say I had a witty comeback, or punched Coach in the face, or did something—anything. Anything brave at all. But the words died on my tongue and my palms got sweaty and all I could do was turn tail and run, sneakers skidding on the tile.
I fled down the hall to the school’s only gender-neutral bathroom and slammed the door shut. The hurt was a physical ache in my chest, something heavy and howling. My ribs burned beneath my binder. And yeah, I cried. You’ve already got me talking about my dead dad on the record, you might as well have this.
I sobbed until snot ran down to my chin and the world went blurry with salt-stinging tears and I just kept making this noise, this chest-heaving trapped-animal noise that tore out of me like it had claws. I put my hand over my mouth to smother it, but that only made it worse. Everything hurt.
It was so hard, sometimes; this body. This life. And it was all my fault—if I could just figure out how to shut up, stay quiet, be fucking normal, then it wouldn’t be so painful.
Can we take a break now? I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
No. I’m fine. It’s not like I’m not used to it. When you’re trans, you sort of have to get used to it. I just don’t want to talk about it.
***
I’m good to start again. We’re getting close to the fun bit now, by the way, the answer to the question you’ve been asking since the beginning: how the hell does this tragically mundane tale of teenage angst end with the roof being blown off the school gym? Well, there’s a simple answer to that, and it starts with Lucy’s dumb goth book.
As I was sitting there, sobbing my little heart out in a public bathroom—top ten worst places to sob your heart out, by the way—I had my backpack on the floor between my knees. It was open. The spine of Lucy’s book peeked out of it. When the tears had slowed enough for me to focus, it was the first thing my bleary gaze landed upon.
And I thought—alright, that’s a lie. I was not thinking. I was desperate. There’s a difference. I flipped through the book, searching for a demon to trade my soul to in exchange for a spot on the fencing team. Or Coach getting fired. Either one.
There were several chapters on demon summoning, highlighted by Lucy, but what caught my eye was a flesh transfiguration spell. It was intended for eternal youth—which, speaking as a youth, sounded like kind of a raw deal—but it could be used for any sort of transformation. Or transition, if one was so inclined. The main ingredient in the spell was virgin’s blood, which, coincidentally, I was full of.
So I did what any sane human would do and stabbed myself with a pencil several times to create a spurt of blood, and proceeded with the spell.
Look. I was in a state of distress. But I would do it again.
For safety’s sake, I can’t tell you the exact wording of the spell. But I will say that it hurt. The pain started in my hand and then lightning-shocked down my wrist, rocketing through my veins and spreading through my bloodstream. I clamped my mouth shut, teeth grinding together, determined not to scream. My body shuddered and shook like it was going to fall apart.
Then the gross symptoms started: my eyelashes flaked off in clumps. My ribs snapped, crackled, popped. The skin beneath my nails turned crimson. The smell of singe began, but I couldn’t tell what was burning. I registered it all with a distant, miserable agony. At some point, I flailingly shed my outer layers, leaving only the choke of my bloodstained binder.
Something was happening to my body. Something was happening to me. My flesh lumped and squirmed, fat and muscle and organs rearranging. The pinprick wound on my hand gaped open to a stigmata-sized tear. The coppery smell of blood and bodily fluid hit my nose. I groaned, puked, and promptly passed out.
When I came to, I was sprawled on the grimy tile, awkwardly half-under the locked stall door. My hands were streaked with blood. My back molar was cracked. Vomit stained my torso.
Shivering, I crawled my way to the bathroom mirror and got a better look at the creature clutching the edge of the sink. Most of my body hair had burned off. Thankfully, my sort-of mullet had survived. My eyes were bulging and bloodshot. A frankly disturbing amount of blood, mucus, and bile spattered my binder, staining it irretrievably.
But the staining didn’t matter, because I didn’t need my binder anymore.
I rolled it up, staring at the two gaping wounds on my chest. It was not a pretty surgery. It looked like a monster had taken a chunk out of my flesh, then decided I’d tasted too stringy and given up on eating the rest of me. I could see the rounded tips of my organs peeking out beneath tears of shredded muscle.
I rolled the binder back down. It flapped loosely against my skin, a tattered flag of surrender. Blood turned the white fabric brown. I checked the time on my phone: ten minutes to tryouts. Perfect. Still panting, I grabbed Lucy’s book and my backpack, then slung both over my shoulder. I didn’t bother putting a shirt back on. I barely registered the pain of movement.
Alright, Coach, I thought. I’m ready to fucking fence.
***
Hey, are you alright? You look kind of nauseous. I didn’t even show you the wound, come on. I can, though, if you want me to. No? Okay.
Regardless, you can’t back out now. It’s about to get so much worse.
***
The school day had just ended, so the hallways were deserted as I strode towards the gym. The holes in my chest made a ragged whistling sound when I breathed in. I hardly noticed it. I was high on vicious, teeth-tearing satisfaction: no one could mistake me for anything other than a boy now. I had cut my hair short. I had torn off my tits. I hadn’t looked at my nether regions, but those felt different, too. I had transmogrified myself.
I was satisfied. Relieved, even. Ready to fence. But beneath it all, I wasn’t happy.
Can I tell you a secret? On the record, I know. But it’s just—okay. I liked my breasts. Overall, I don’t have much of a problem with the body I was given. Would enjoy being taller, maybe, but that’s it. The problem is that society can’t stand to see “boobs” and “boy” in the same sentence. I’m not a girl. I don’t care about biology. I’m not a fucking girl.
And it just got exhausting, after a while. The binder hurt, but the misgendering hurt worse. So I did my best to pass. I was lucky that Mom let me cut my hair short, that I didn’t have much in the chest area to begin with, so I could put “cis boy” on like a costume.
I don’t regret what I did. Don’t think that’s the message of what I’m telling you. If you take one thing away from this entire holding-cell confessional, it’s that I am fucking unrepentant. I just don’t think I would have gone quite so drastic if Coach hadn’t made that comment to me. That’s all.
Whatever. You’re not here to be my therapist; you want to know about the semi-accidental act of terrorism I committed. So, here we go. Final stretch.
The gym was bleakly deserted—the fencing team wasn’t the most popular to begin with, and only a handful of boys had the dedication to show up ten minutes early to tryouts. They were warming up and talking amongst each other, pulling equipment from the rack: a scattering of body shapes and sizes, but all undeniably comfortable in their skin, all undeniably boy. I stared at them with unabashed envy, and a faint flicker of hope. Soon, I would join them. Soon, I would be on their team.
Coach was sitting on the bleachers, mumbling something to himself and searching through an array of papers on a clipboard. I sauntered up to him and bared my bloodstained teeth.
“Hey, Coach,” I said, smiling as wide as possible. “I’ve got the right equipment now.”
He was still absorbed in his papers. “What?”
“Look at me,” I said, and when he didn’t move, repeated it: “Coach, look at me.”
And he looked. And he saw me.
Here is what Coach saw: blood, pooling from twin wounds on my chest. Singed-off eyebrows. Rearranged flesh that didn’t quite fit, like a bent puzzle piece. Shirtless, shoeless. A smile like the sun.
Here is what Coach did not see: a boy.
That’s what haunts me, you know. That’s the peak of the nightmare. I did everything I could. I invoked unholy magic. I wounded and gutted myself, dug into my flesh and forced it to conform to my will. I didn’t even care about top surgery. I just wanted for people to look at me and see a boy. And is it really so fucking hard? Is it really so goddamn difficult to unhitch yourself from gender norms, to untrain the expectations and accept a guy who looks a little different? Why is it always on us to change? Why are we always the ones who have to hurt?
Yes, I would like a tissue now. Thanks.
Coach looked at me. He saw a confused little girl. He saw a faggot. He saw a freak. It made me want to puke. He looked like he was going to puke, too. He said: “Pheller, what the hell did you do?”
“I did what you asked,” I said. “I got the right equipment.”
“What are you talking about? You’re bleeding out, you need to go to the hospital, now—”
He didn’t even remember. He didn’t even know what he’d done to me. I flinched back.
“I’m here to try out for the team,” I said. “I’m going to do that now.”
He gaped. I turned away, headed for the equipment rack.
He grabbed my shoulder. “Pheller, you have to get medical attention. What is wrong with you? You can’t—”
The word hit like a blade in my gut. I wrenched away from his grasp, whirled to face him, dried blood cracking off my lips. “Don’t you dare try and stop me.”
“You have to—”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” I snapped. “I did what you wanted! I gave myself the right fucking body parts! I did everything I could to make it easy on you, tried every possible route just to have a chance to be treated like a boy. And you’re still saying no.” Hot tears choked my throat, but I refused to let them out. “I’m done, Coach. I’ll never win with you.”
I was still holding Lucy’s book. Before anyone could stop me, I opened it to a random page and shouted the invocation at the top of my lungs.
It’s hard to say what happened after that. I only remember bits and pieces. There was an explosion, the smell of black tar. The howling shriek of a hellbeast being unleashed. Blood spattering the basketball nets. Someone sobbing in the distance. Coach wide-eyed in front of me, pleading. Screaming. Saying he was sorry. His skin melted, pale pink flesh oozing like wet clay. His face dripped down into his shirt. He was warping—into what, I didn’t know. Still don’t know. I haven’t visited him in the hospital. I mean, I’ve been in police custody for two days, so I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
That’s all I know.
My throat hurts. Is this over yet?
***
Okay. Yes, you got what you needed. Good.
Thanks for visiting, by the way. You’re the only one who’s come by. Yeah, I know, it’s your job or whatever. Still. It was nice to be listened to, for once.
Can I ask you just one question, before you go? Just one thing, please, I promise.
When you look at me, what do you see? Boy or girl? The victim of the tragedy, or the culprit? Monstrous either way, right?
***
You think it doesn’t matter what you see, just what I know myself to be. Nice to hear. Wish someone had told me that before.
See you around, detective. Make sure you get my pronouns right on the case file.