My head feels like there’s a pendulum inside, clanging into one side of my skull, then the other.
My midsection is sore, and my first thought is that I must have pushed myself too hard during a core workout. I sit up slowly. No, this is an unfamiliar kind of discomfort. Someone placed a glass of water on the table next to me. I take a sip. Much-needed moisture returns to my mouth, but the effort it takes to swallow doesn’t do my head or stomach any favors.
With the next wave of pulsing inside my brain, my memory comes back, starting with the violent heaving over the toilet—that’s why my stomach hurts—and rewinding from there.
Oh God. Sam.
I peek to my left. He’s lying next to me, on his back, wide awake and staring at the ceiling.
“Hey,” I say, rubbing my eyes. Even after the sip of water, my voice is scratchy.
“Hey.” He doesn’t look at me. After a pause, he asks, “You feeling all right?”
“Not at all. You?”
“Not really.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s my own fault.”
There’s a tension in the air that I’ve never experienced before with Sam. It’s as if, even though the sky is bright with the morning sun, it’s still yesterday in all the ways that matter. Everything that went down is still big and important and here in the room with us.
Why the hell did I kiss him?
That’s not what he and I do. Our friendship was perfect. Well-oiled and comfortable and safe.
And now it’s weird. I screwed up things with the one person I had left.
He’s still refusing to look at me.
I can’t lose Sam too. I have to fix this. But short of rewinding time and doing it all differently, I don’t know how.
The pendulum makes it hard to think. But slowly, a nugget of an idea starts to form.
Maybe I can give Sam a redo? If he wants it. And if he takes it, that could make all of this a lot easier, for both of us.
I make a show of rubbing my forehead and groan, exaggerating the reaction to my very real headache. “So … what happened last night?”
That gets him to look at me. “What do you mean?” he asks warily.
“I think I drank too much.”
“You definitely drank too much. We both did.”
I bite my lip. “I remember being at the bar, and drinking a lot of beer …”
“And?” Sam sits up, watching me carefully now.
“And the rest is pretty … blank.”
“Blank?”
Keep going, I urge myself. I blink back at him innocently. “Yeah. I’m sorry. What happened? Do you remember?”
He gapes at me, and I can almost see the machinery working in his head. If he doesn’t tell me about the kiss, that means I was right to give him this out. And if he does, well, I guess we’ll be back where we started when I woke up.
“Do you remember throwing up?” he asks.
“Um … no, I don’t think so? When did I throw up?” I don’t like this. I don’t like lying.
But you have to try. You can’t lose him.
“Last night. Do you remember coming to this hotel? Tricking the lady at the front desk into believing we’re on our honeymoon?”
I laugh a little, and shake my head.
“Marla? Mozzarella sticks?”
I shake my head again. I’m not even good at this. He’s going to see right through me.
No, he’s not. Look at him.
He frowns. “You don’t remember anything else?”
“No,” I say. “I’m sorry, Sam. Is there anything else I should know?”
He sighs and seems to consider the question. After a long moment, he shakes his head and says, “No. Nothing important.”
Two things happen inside me simultaneously then. One: utter relief. We don’t have to talk about all the kissing. We can move on; let things return to neutral. Two: a bizarre, confusing disappointment. He’s right—it’s not important. It didn’t mean anything. He’s my best friend; nothing more, nothing less. I don’t have the right to want him to think the kisses we shared were at all significant, when I don’t. But still. It would have been nice.
I manage a smile. “Okay, good.”
“Do me a favor and don’t drink that much ever again, okay?” he asks, visibly loosening up now. “You clearly can’t handle it.”
“Not a problem.”
I get up to shower, and once my skin and hair and teeth are clean and I’ve changed into fresh clothes, I feel a little better.
“Breakfast?” I ask Sam, coming back into the bedroom. He’s sitting on top of the bunched-up blankets, fingers tapping away at his computer.
“We can get something on the road,” he says. He closes his laptop. “I just need to shower, and then we can get out of here. Or did you want to go to the gym first?”
I shake my head. The thought of getting on a treadmill right now makes me want to puke all over again.
He gathers up some clothes, and skirts around me on his way to the bathroom.
While I wait, I open my email. If this morning has taught me anything, it’s that avoiding one problem only causes more.
Two new emails from Mellie.
From: [email protected]
June 21 (6:29 PM)
Subject: Best friends
Dear Dara,
Apart from my family, there was one other person who was central to my childhood. Her name was Kristen Meyer. I fell in love with her in second grade. To this day, she’s the only girl I’ve loved, besides Celeste.
(I know I told you I dated men back when I dated at all, and that’s how you were conceived. The truth is, for me, it’s only been women. But dating has been complicated. Of course I would have to disclose the fact I was trans to any serious partner, but revealing that information was just not an option. For reasons I promise I’ll get to, it was crucial that no one know who I was, or where we came from.)
Kristen had the seat assigned next to mine at our classroom’s big table. Her raven hair fell all the way to her waist, and I often had to stop myself from reaching out and stroking it. She wore patterned tights under corduroy skirts, and winter jackets with fluffy, faux fur collars. Her smile made my stomach flip.
But most of all, she was nice to me. She made me feel welcome. Important.
She lent me a pencil whenever I needed one, and sometimes let me use her special silvery one with the purple feathers at the top. We talked about the TV shows and music groups we both liked. We weren’t a boy and a girl. We were equals.
The confusing part was that I both loved her and wanted to be her. And I didn’t know if that was normal. So I kept my mouth shut on both counts, and for the next several years, Kristen remained my friend. My only friend.
Love,
Mom
I listen to the shower running on the other side of the wall. Sam. My only friend.
Just as I think it, his phone dings on the nightstand, the same noise it made yesterday in the car. I can’t smother my curiosity. Oh-so-casually, I peek at the screen. It is a text message—and it’s from Sarah.
I know you said you needed space, but … I think about you all the time. Can we please talk?
Immediately, my mouth dries up again. I polish off the glass of water.
It was Sarah who texted yesterday too, I’m positive of it. But why would he hide it from me? Is he thinking of getting back together with her?
I shake my head, even though there’s no one in the room to see it. No way. He can’t.
Why not? the little “other me” voice in my head counters. You’re not his girlfriend. You just lied to him, for the first time in your life, to make sure of that.
The shower turns off. I walk to the window and force my attention back to my email. I have more important things to worry about. It doesn’t matter whether Sam gets back together with Sarah or not. Anyway, he’s probably not. He didn’t even reply to her message yesterday.
From: [email protected]
June 22 (12:02 AM)
Subject: Stepping-stones
Dear Dara,
Most of my childhood is blurry, like rough waves sloshing together all around me, significant and unrelenting, but the drops indistinguishable from one another. There are a few moments, though, that stand out as defining, as if they’re stepping-stones through the tide, the direct path to who I am today.
The Glinda dream was one.
Another was the day my mother caught me pretending.
Sometimes, when my father wasn’t home and I knew my mother was busy with other things and wouldn’t be looking for me, I would go into my room and pretend. That’s what I called it, though experimenting is probably a better word.
Once I “borrowed” some of my mother’s makeup from the bathroom cabinet and tried on lipstick and eye shadow. I forgot to bring a washcloth into my room to wash it off, though, so I ended up having to wipe it off using one of my undershirts. And then I hid the shirt at the bottom of the garbage can in the kitchen and prayed no one would notice because I couldn’t risk Mom finding it in the laundry.
Another time I put on one of Joanna’s sundresses over my pajamas, and curled up under my blankets, taking comfort in the feel of the pretty, flowing fabric around me. I fell asleep quickly that night.
But it was when I was naked from the waist down—eleven years old and standing in front of the mirror, attempting to see what I would look like without a penis—that my mother walked in.
“Marcus!” she screamed, rushing into the room and jerking my arm nearly out of the socket, so that my legs unclenched and all my parts sprang back to their original position. “My Lord, what are you doing to yourself?”
I turned away and quickly pulled on a pair of underpants. I could feel my face and neck burning bright red but I didn’t know what to say, so I just hung my head and remained silent.
I had no idea what was going through my mother’s mind in that moment. I still don’t. All I know is that she called my father home early from work, and when he got there he yanked me from the place behind the bed where I was hiding, terrified, and beat me until I had no tears left and my bottom was covered in dark-purple bruises.
Another stepping-stone, a much happier one, was the day I found out you didn’t have to be stuck with what you were born with.
“Have you ever known anyone who changed their name?” Kristen asked me one Saturday afternoon when we were about thirteen. We were at the diner getting smoothies.
“Like a nickname?”
“No, like changed their name completely.”
“Like when a woman gets married and changes her last name to her husband’s?”
Kristen shook her head. “Michelle decided she’s changing her first name.” Michelle was Kristen’s older sister. She was away at college studying to be an engineer, so I’d never met her, but Kristen talked about her all the time. I think she wished they were closer, but that would have been hard, considering there were several years and hundreds of miles between them.
“She’s changing it to what?” I asked. I’d never heard of such a thing, but I was intrigued.
“Corinne.” Kristen screwed up her face a little when she said the name, like it tasted bad. “She said she’s always hated the name Michelle and thinks Corinne fits her much better.”
I didn’t understand. Corinne was a pretty name, but it didn’t sound anything even close to Michelle. “So you’re supposed to call her Corinne now?” I asked.
“Apparently.”
“Like … all the time?”
Kristen fiddled with her straw wrapper. “Yup. Like forever. She’s having it changed legally. She said it’s been a lot of paperwork, but worth it. And most of her friends and teachers at school already know her by the name Corinne so it’s just us who will have to get used to the switch.”
I took a sip of my smoothie, trying to make sense of my thoughts, which were suddenly shooting around like a pinball. I’d never heard of anyone changing their identity like that before. Michelle would be Corinne from now on, and that would be that.
“Do you think it will be hard to get used to?” I asked.
“Um, yes! She’s been Michelle my whole life. It’s not just a name; it’s who she is. I don’t know how to just switch who she is in my brain.”
“But you’re going to try?”
Kristen shrugged. “I have to, right?”
“I guess. Maybe you’ll get used to it sooner than you think.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She sighed, resigned to it already.
What if your identity doesn’t have to be set in stone? I wondered. Maybe “who she is” isn’t Michelle? Maybe, inside, she’s been Corinne all along?
If the government had an entire system in place for you to change your first name if you wanted to, this stuff must happen at least sort of frequently. And Corinne’s family was going to try to get on board, even though it was hard for them. So people’s minds could adjust too, it seemed. Eventually.
Apparently, things like this were possible.
I tucked that information in the back of my mind. Something told me I’d need it someday.
Love,
Mom
Without looking, I click off the phone. I stare out the hotel room window, only vaguely watching the man in the white hat zigzag the riding lawn mower across the lawn fourteen stories below.
I picture Mellie sitting at the kitchen table in her leggings and slippers, her hair back in a braid, typing on her phone or laptop. I bet she has dark circles under her eyes. She always gets them when she’s tired or stressed. She’s probably not eating much, either.
I’ve never gone a whole day without talking to her. And now we’re at nearly three times that.
My thumbs itch to type a response.
But I can’t.
In some ways, the person who wrote those emails sounds like my mother, like the person I knew. Her voice, her phrasing. She’s a true writer. Not in a past life—in this one. But the story she’s telling is further proof that she’s not her anymore. This is a person who knows how to bare her soul. And that is something Mellie Baker never knew how to do.