Out of Blue Comes Green, page 19
“Tomorrow?”
“We have to do blocking and gesturing and props. We’ve got to get our lines down now so we can make everything come together for this.”
Something in my chest flips as she speaks. She’s so sure of herself. I love the way she knows exactly how we should proceed.
While I wrestle with my inner romantic, Madi continues on with instructions for the opening of the scene, a vision she has. Then costumes. Mine will even have a sword.
“Are you listening?” She’s partially amused, but partially annoyed.
“Just trying to wrap my head around it all.”
Her expression goes blank as she looks past me. “Isn’t that …” She doesn’t finish.
I twist around to see what she sees. Shit. It’s JT. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“He’s staring straight at you.” She stands as if to be my protector.
I laugh. “He can go to hell.”
But there he is just outside the choir room door, waiting for me after the bell rings. Madi moves in front of me, which is fairly gallant of her, though she has no chance if he decides to be a douche. When she doesn’t get out of the way, JT extends his ugly blond head around her and says, “Can we talk?”
“We have nothing to say.” I hold Madi still while I step around her and make my getaway.
JT is undeterred. “I-I do. Even if you don’t.”
The hallway is nicely full of other students, so I boldly state, “I don’t care what you have to say.”
Madi throws him a death glare that he easily deflects.
With some quick maneuvers, she and I are able to lose him in a herd of freshmen with band instruments. I know he’s behind us, but I doubt he’ll be able to catch us.
After a flight of stairs and another hallway, I reassure Madi that I’ll know my first five lines by tomorrow and get on my way home. When I glance back to see her one last time, she still stands in the same place I left her, giving me a little wave.
Chapter 27
I TRY TO GET MY HEAD around everything I have to do right now. The audition is in two days. And Troy texted me about Dakota’s surgery. Dr. Wallin wants to operate on Dakota in two days. The same day as auditions. Why not today? Or tomorrow?
Even though April has brought considerably nice weather, I don’t really feel like I can enjoy it. On my drive home from school, I see people outside. Light jackets, no longer bundled up for the winter, an elderly woman walks her Pomeranian, elementary school kids ride bikes, and a couple walks hand in hand. Their heads bow toward each other as they talk. Inadvertently, I slow. They’re so happy together.
The SUV behind me honks.
Fine, fine, I’m going.
Inside my house, I gather a drink and a snack and my guitar and settle in on the couch. Mom and Dad won’t be home for at least an hour. Until then, this is my house, my living room, my couch, my rules. I rest one foot on the coffee table as I get ready to play. I start one of the songs I wrote last week, but then I pick out the solo on “Livin’ on a Prayer.” We’ve got to be ready for prom.
I play through “Livin’ on a Prayer,” then “Thriller,” secretly thanking the rock gods that so many mainstream male singers use their upper tenor range. As I start the leading riff to the next song, the doorbell rings.
I quiet the strings, waiting for whoever it is to go away.
When the doorbell rings again, my resting leg spasms. I am not answering that.
A moment later, it rings a third time. Surely this will be the last. But it’s not. So finally, I get up and check my phone. Maybe Libby is here and she’s texting me to let her in. Or maybe Madi. But no one has texted.
Slinking up near the entryway, I see a shadow move on the front step. Still here? The bell rings again. Seriously? Who is it that won’t give up and leave me alone? I tiptoe to the door, hoping to be able to see out the window better. But when the bell rings again, I don’t care who it is. I throw open the door to tell them to get lost.
It’s not Libby or Madi. It’s JT.
I swear too loudly and try to shut him out. But once the door is open, I can’t close it again. His muscled hand shoves it toward me. “Just let me talk to you.”
“I’m going to call the cops,” I say. God, I don’t want to call the cops. What do I tell them? That there’s a boy who’s harassing me? Embarrassing.
His white Nike high-tops step onto our welcome mat inside the door. “I have to tell you something.”
“What are you doing here?” I’m considering letting him stay for a moment, which makes me doubt my sanity.
“Come sit down with me.” He waltzes into the living room like he’s a guest. Small mercy, though: he doesn’t sit.
“Get out of my house. Now.” I stay rooted by the front door.
His familiar yellow-toothed smirk appears. “Wow. This room has not changed one bit.”
I stay by the door, keeping it open.
“This morning you said you remembered Ms. Dischinger’s class and the puppets we made.”
I roll my eyes. Sentimental kids’ stuff.
“What about Mr. Lang’s music class? We had that duet in fifth grade.”
I forgot he can sing. Probably shouldn’t vape so much then.
He puts his hand on his chest. “‘Love Is an Open Door.’ I used to sing my part to your yearbook picture.” He begins to sing Hans’s lines, accenting the words with his mango stench.
“No, no, no. Stop singing.” I find myself directly in front of him, as if I’m going to physically stop him somehow.
He shoves his hands in his pockets sheepishly. “I thought it was perfect for us. Then.”
Oh, no. He can’t think …
He dips his head so he’s not so tall. “We went for ice cream after that concert. You looked so great in that blue flowered dress.”
God, don’t remind me. My mother nearly held me down to put that thing on me. Every school presentation ever, my mom made sure I was wearing such a frilly dress. Humiliating.
“I was eleven,” I say.
“You were beautiful.”
I scowl at him. I never was beautiful. Cute, maybe.
His hands creep out of his pockets to grasp mine. “You could be beautiful again.” His hand goes to my short, short hair. He strokes it.
I take a giant step back. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the fuck are you doing?”
His mouth opens. He stutters a few words then anxiously licks his lips. “We went out together.”
“One time. Seven years ago.”
“You can’t say you didn’t like me.”
Did I? He wore a blue button-down shirt and khakis that I envied. Did he think I was looking at him when I was longing for his wardrobe?
“Why would I like you when you make fun of me?”
He explains himself. He elaborates. He confesses. All of it was meant to help me see the error of my ways, see that I was ridiculous to dress like a boy. He shifts his hips and I remember weeks ago when he and Dirk and Hunter all wore fake dresses and rude makeup. They accused me of trying to dress like a girl. When I point this out to him, he shakes his head.
“Maybe it was stupid. But that doesn’t mean my heart wasn’t in the right place.” His sincerity is sickening.
“I can’t do this right now.” I march to the front door, opening it wide. “You need to get out of my house.”
He raises his hands. “I will. I’m going. I just want you to ask you something.”
Glaring at him does not make him move any faster.
“I’d like to take you to prom.”
He has to be joking. “What?”
He grabs my forearm. “Think about it.”
I’m about to yell when he finally steps through the door. He turns to me, about to speak again, but I slam the door and turn the bolt.
How can he be so clueless? He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t listen.
Danny’s right. No one wants to be like JT. He’s the ugly side of being a man.
A second later, the roar of the garage door sounds, up and down, and my dad comes into the room. “Was that JT?”
I can’t look at him.
Dad opens the front door to look outside, but I slam it closed again. “It’s fine,” I say. I expect to see his protective daddy face, but all I see is concern.
“What did he want?”
“Don’t worry about it, Dad.”
He returns to his after-work routine, hanging his jacket, kicking off his shoes.
I remember we haven’t talked about what we really need to talk about. Is that why he’s home early?
He pops the tab on a can, returning to the living room. “I haven’t seen that shithead around since you were a kid.”
Apt name, Dad. I gather my things to move to my room.
“You don’t have to leave,” he says. “Why don’t you play me one of your prom songs?”
“You don’t want to hear that crap.”
He pulls a kitchen chair into the living room and sits. “I’m all ears.”
“Dad, really.” I can’t do this in front of him.
“Humor your old man.”
I stand dumbly with my guitar in the middle of the living room. If he asks again and I refuse again, he’ll be sad.
So, I sit on the edge of the couch, debating what to play, what sounds neutral or could be taken as androgynous.
Meeting his gaze, I hope to find boredom or distraction, but all I see is his proud dad smile.
I pluck out the beginning of “Time After Time.” With each word, my voice shakes, but I find my way in the first verse. Libby would be pleased with my choice. At the end of the song, Dad cheers like he’s in a crowd of thousands. I’m sure I’m blushing.
“Kay—uh.” He keeps himself from saying my name. “That was fantastic.”
My right eyebrow rises. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I forgot how well you sing.” He’s in his own world for a moment, perhaps thinking of my past, my future. Then he says, “They better choose you and Libby or they’re idiots.”
Gingerly, I place my guitar on the floor, resting against the couch. “Dad, I need to tell you something.” My heart thuds frantically against my chest.
Crossing his hands on his stomach, he sits back in his chair. Is he praying I won’t say what he thinks I might say? He has to know already. My hair, my clothes, my ID from Wallin Animal Rescue.
I don’t know how to start. I see my mother sitting next to me on the couch two years ago, acting like she’d listen when all she did was close her mind. Then I meet Dad’s gaze. Here. Now. His small grin keeps his eyes alight as if he’s trying to send me love from across the room.
I tear up. “You know that card you found?” I clear my throat. “The one with my picture. For the animal rescue.”
Nodding, he leans forward.
When I’m at the rescue, they call me Nate. That’s not what I want to say. Too unclear. And how could I tell him I’ve been impersonating a kid who might be dead?
“You know how I cut my hair …” I shake my head. This isn’t the right way to tell him. I drop myself down on the couch. Think of something he’ll understand.
Without an invitation, my dad joins me on the couch, taking hold of my hand.
Stupid tears fall down my face.
Gently, he squeezes my hand. “It’s all right. Just tell me.”
“I don’t want to be a girl. I hate being a girl.”
He lets out a breathy laugh. “I know that.” He pulls me toward him so our shoulders touch.
“I don’t feel like a girl. I never have.”
“I know that too.”
I pull back from him to see his expression. He’s serious. “I’m transgender, Dad.”
He nods. “I hear you.”
“But … aren’t you mad? Don’t you want me to think about it?”
“Do you need to think about it?” he counters.
“No. I’ve known since I was little.” I stand up and walk across the room. “You’re okay with this?”
He shrugs. “It’s not up to me, kiddo. You are who you are.”
I come back over to the couch, but before I can sit, he stands and envelops me in his arms. “You’re my kid, and I love you.”
When my eyes get hot, I don’t want more tears to come. I try to wipe them away, but Dad says, “Men cry sometimes too. It’s okay.” As if to prove it, he rubs the back of his hand against his own wet eyes.
I never thought he would be so cool about this. I allow him to hug me for as long as he’s willing, and I allow myself to think over and over that he accepts me. My dad still loves me.
Chapter 28
THE NEXT MORNING SEEMS BRIGHTER than usual, which has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with my dad. He gets me.
At school, Libby and I hang out by our tree near the student lot. At our feet are a few remaining splotches of snow and ice. All of the dirt from last autumn is revealed, and though it’s not beautiful, it’s wonderfully warm.
Libby takes a folded sheet of notebook paper from her jean jacket pocket, hands it to me, and says, “Tell me what you think of this.”
It’s an updated setlist for prom. She’s written it out like she has no fear that we will be chosen. The gig is ours already. Start off with a fast song people can sing along to. Midtempo to get people dancing. She’s even penciled in some breaks for us. I smile at the little drawings of punch cups and embellishments of swirls and stars. I skim down the list, checking each tune off in my head. I know this one, I can almost play this one, I like this one, wait a minute. “Fall Through” is listed along with all the covers and later “Blind Like the Night.”
“These are my songs,” I say. I can’t believe she agreed.
She smiles. “I decided you had a good point. We should play something original. Otherwise, how are we going to make a strong impression?”
I pull her into a hug. “You’re the best.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on there.” She struggles a little—she doesn’t like to be hugged—but gives in, patting me on the back. “Okay. You can let go now.”
I step back to give her space again. “I was going to tell you that you were right. I mean, why would anyone want to hear songs they don’t know when they’re trying to dance?”
“Well, yeah, I’m more right than you, but we need to have both.”
I jump in, “Except at the audition.”
“Except at the audition where we play only covers.” She takes the list from me for a moment, pointing out some of the patterns she created. “And here we have a few slow songs to get the groping going. But then it’s back to dance time.”
Pretty smart planning. Libby really has a gift for this.
“Tomorrow.” She locks eyes with me.
I nod. Our audition is tomorrow.
“We’re up fourth.”
I say, “I’ll be there,” like I’m being sarcastic, but then I start thinking about it. Tomorrow is Dakota’s surgery. If we audition fourth, that’ll be like 4:30. What time did Troy say for Dakota? I check my phone. 3:30.
Libby’s eyes darken. “What’s the matter?”
I start to tell her, but I can’t think of the right thing to say. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
What am I supposed to decide? If we’re not on time for the audition, are we knocked out of the running? We’ll lose our chance to play prom. Bekkah Ingram’s dad will never hear of us. I’ll end up working for the Wallins, cleaning up poop and vomit for the rest of my days under some other kid’s name.
But Dakota needs me there. She’ll be so scared by herself. I need to be there for her.
I’m sure there’ll be enough time for both.
Throughout the day, I type into my phone the address of the school and of Wallin Animal Rescue, requesting the distance and driving time between them. Five miles, thirteen minutes. They’re so close, and yet thirteen minutes is too long. I need to leave the rescue by 4:17 at the absolute latest. But I really want Dakota to see me when she wakes up.
If I don’t leave by quarter after, I’ll be late to the audition. The Student Council was very clear: Everyone has to be on time. But what if Dakota doesn’t wake up right away? Or what if Dakota doesn’t wake up at all and I wasn’t there to say goodbye?
At dinner with my parents, Mom and Dad share bits from their days, more uninteresting than usual. Eventually they’ll remember I’m here and ask about my day, and what do I tell them? Dr. Wallin doing the surgery is a huge deal, but I don’t want Mom to know how things are with Madi. I could leave Madi out of the story.
Maybe I could tell just Dad. If I talked to him alone, maybe he could help me decide what I should do. Dakota or audition.
Not that it would help. Whichever decision he suggests, I’ll question if it’s the right one.
He’s been eyeing me for a little while now. After chomping through his last bite of peas, he raises his eyebrows at me. “Something bothering you, champ?”
Champ? That’s his name for Sam.
“You haven’t said anything since we all got home.”
My mother stabs a piece of chicken. “Tell us about your day.”
Swatting me on the shoulder, Dad says, “Hey, that audition is tomorrow.” He already looks proud, and we haven’t even played a single note for the Student Council yet.
Mom’s expression is blank.
“To be the band at the prom,” I fill in for her.
She waves a hand at me. “Of course.” I don’t think she remembers that I’ve told her about prom a couple of times now.
“You’re going to do great.” Dad winks at me.
Mom saws at her chicken with the side of her fork. “Maybe you ought to focus on getting a date to prom instead.”
Dad and I both give her the same look.
“What?” The worry on her face makes me believe she has to know what.
“Why would K—, why would sh—” Dad can’t decide what to call me.
“Why would I want to do that?” I drop my fork on my plate for emphasis.
Dad clears his throat and adds, “Yeah.”
Mom’s eyes flit from me to Dad and back. “Well, I don’t know, but I wouldn’t want to miss my senior prom.”
