Out of Blue Comes Green, page 2
Just go away, Mom.
“Well?”
I’m trying to remember what I’ve told her. What I said I talked about with Behmann. “It doesn’t suit me.”
Deep Mom sigh. “It needs to suit you, Kayla. This isn’t a choice you can make.”
My teeth clench, holding back the profanity I’d like to hurl at her.
Standing abruptly, she steps to my closet, throwing open the door. She pages through my shirts. “All of these, Kayla.
Too boyish.” She holds the sleeve of a green flannel, shaking her head.
“I like that one.”
She shoves the sleeve into the closet, repulsed, slamming the closet door. “You’re too old to be a tomboy.” She stands over me, pity in her eyes again. “What about next year? Don’t you want people to take you seriously?”
With my eyes, I trace the edge of her sock, noting a tiny, frayed spot that will likely grow to a hole soon.
“College can be a time to reinvent yourself. Drop all of this …” She waves her arms over me as if casting a spell to remove my essence. “You could be—”
Dad’s voice barrels up to us, “Honey, is Kayla home?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she whispers a swear. “I’ll be back.” She signals me to stay, as if I’m her pet.
Descending half the staircase, she reassures my father that everything is all right, adding, “She needs to get her sleep now,” so he won’t come up to say goodnight to me.
“I heard that storm is really picking up out there,” Dad says. “Glad she’s home safe.”
I should close the door, but instead I sit on the bed, waiting like a dutiful daughter.
When she returns, she starts in on me right away. “I just don’t understand you.” She closes my door to contain our conversation and her whispered yell. “I don’t need you putting all of this into your father’s head. He’s got enough to worry about without thinking that you’re—”
What am I, Mom?
“I talked to Dr. Behmann. He wants to see you again in spite of what happened between you two.”
“Come on.” There is no way I will ever set foot in that asshole’s office again. “You have to be out of your mind.”
“Just hear what he has to say—”
“I have heard what he has to say. I’m not listening to that prick anymore.”
“Language, please.”
“No, Mom, you don’t understand. He’s awful. He’s the worst kind of awful. Do you know what he said to me about being trans—”
My mother scowls, shaking her head at the word.
“—gender? Any idea?”
She doesn’t look at me now.
“He says I haven’t given myself long enough being a girl and that—”
She raises her hands against my verbal gun. “How do you know he isn’t right?” Meandering around my room, she picks at things on my dresser, my desk, touching them as if they are festering growths. “You need to accept reality.” She plucks up a tiny sample of men’s cologne, assessing its presence in her daughter’s room. “People don’t change who they are. They don’t change their gender.”
Why am I bothering? “I don’t want Dr. Behmann’s help, and I don’t want yours either.”
Her judging scowl droops as she places a hand on my cheek. “I might be the only one who can help you.”
Squirming away from her hand, I open my bedroom door wide, leaning against it. “I need to get to bed.”
Before she leaves, she returns to my closet, fishing something out of the back. As she passes me, she lays a gauzy, cream-colored, flowered shirt in my arms. “This is one of my favorites.”
I’ve hated this shirt since she gave it to me for my last birthday. It touches my skin, but slithers down to the floor since I refuse to grab it. Then when I close the door over it, it bunches up. The more I wrestle with it, the more it wedges itself under the door. It’s not until I am on my hands and knees, shimmying it out that I am able to freely shut the door.
I listen for a few minutes before I undress, stepping into my closet as much as possible as I undo the makeshift binder from my chest. The skin beneath expands in the air as if denied necessary sustenance for the past few hours. Wrinkles in the binder have imprinted magenta ridges on my skin. Running my fingers along them, I wince. One of these days I’ll have the money to buy a better one—one that won’t have to hurt like this.
Once in a bulky sweatshirt and athletic shorts, I slip under the covers. My anger has heated me up, all but my hands. I shove them under my thighs. Without thinking, I gently whistle to call Sasha, to have her warm me, to feel her soft fur and let her snuggle against me. But she doesn’t come. Of course, she doesn’t come.
Sasha died two months ago.
Chapter 3
MAYBE I DREAMT OF HER. Maybe I imagined she was here with me, that I could feel her warm fur, that her breathing was even. But in the morning, I’m alone.
I want my dog back.
Dodging Mom and Dad for the rest of the weekend is easy enough, but Monday morning is a different story. Though I don’t want to sit across from Mom, I need to talk to her. Instead of saying anything, though, I continue to spoon Cheerios into my mouth. She meets me silence for silence, sipping her coffee and reading the news from her tablet. I pull my green flannel closed so she can’t tell my chest is flat. Flatter. Taking a moment while she’s clearly occupied, I discreetly pull at the end of the binder where it’s digging into yesterday’s sores. I tried to make it looser, but too much looser makes the entire effort pointless.
When she finally speaks, every word is reluctant to leave her mouth. “Be sure to wear your scarf. It’s going to be below zero all day.” Her eyes flick over to me.
“Yeah, all right.” Now’s the right time. The ice is broken. Do it. Ask her. “Mom.”
She’s back into her coffee and news.
“Mom, we should get another dog.”
Her eyes close as she stops mid-sip of her coffee.
“There’s an animal rescue not far from my school. We could get one that’s already housebroken. One that’s a few years old.” One that already wants to be around people, one that’s calm enough to cuddle.
“Kayla—”
My father interrupts her response when he comes into the kitchen. He looks cool, like he always does in the mornings, dressed in a suit and tie. Stooping to kiss Mom’s cheek, he grins as he asks, “What have I walked in on?”
“Ask your daughter.”
I purse my lips at the name she’s called me.
He takes the seat next to me. “Well?” Then he notices my hair. Last time he saw me it was at least six inches longer. “Whoa.” He ruffles it. “Quite a change.” His smile looks sincere, but I can’t tell if it’s shock or amusement. “All right.”
I poke an O down with my spoon. “I was asking when we can get another dog.”
His face droops. “Sasha was one of a kind.”
“I know.”
“We can’t just replace her.”
“I know that. It’s just the house is so empty.” I pluck a tiny hair from my jeans. Sasha’s. How can her fur still be on my clothes?
Dad straightens himself. “And what happens to this new dog when you go off to college God-knows-where?” He grasps my forearm, shaking it playfully as if he’s kidding.
It’s not bad enough that we’re talking about my dead dog, now he wants to talk about my undetermined future. As if I’ll go away to college, and do what? Live in the dorms? Have a roommate who constantly questions who I am? I can’t live with some girl I’ve never met before. And how much more scarring would it be to live with a boy?
But I can’t stay here with Mom.
Dad wolfs down a bagel half, kissing me on the forehead, and says, “It wouldn’t be fair to the dog, sweetheart.” Then he’s up and putting on his winter coat.
“Take a scarf,” Mom says.
“You want a dog too.” I throw these words at his back to make him give in. Though he stops for a moment, he doesn’t stay and soon is out in the garage, starting the car.
Mom releases her coffee cup. Her hand makes a move to grab mine, but she thinks better of it. “You know he’s right.”
I change the subject. “Is Sam up yet?”
“I don’t think so.”
Pushing back from the table, I put my bowl in the dishwasher and slip on my leather jacket. “I have to go.” I drape my scarf around my neck to keep Mom from commenting.
“Hang on, Kay.” Sam comes in.
Sam pulls his winter jacket from a hook, sticks his bare feet into old tennis shoes with droopy heels, and escorts me out to the driveway where my poor car huddles in the January cold. The blizzard last night did some great work with snow drifts across our driveway. My car looks like an awkward ship tossed along white waves.
The wind bites at my fingers and head. I’m not used to this short hair. Sam, though, wears shorts and a college hoodie, holding his jacket in case Mom or Dad see him. He prefers the Minnesota winter uniform: shorts and a sweatshirt.
I have no idea why he has followed me, but it’s too cold to wait for him to tell me. I duck inside the driver’s door, and he takes the passenger seat. I chuckle at him. “I’m going to school, you know. I’m not driving your ass back here.” The snow on the windshield and roof makes my voice hushed like we’re in a soundproof room. I start the car and crank the defrost.
He gives me the serious older-brother face. “Watch your language.”
“Whatever.”
He laughs. Perfect straight teeth. “Look, I thought we should talk. I don’t get to see you ever.”
Whose fault is that? “I’ve got to get going.” I crank up the temperature and the fan to defrost my windows.
“Hang on a second.” He scowls. I’m distracted by his squared jaw and manly brow. We look so much alike, but he’s clearly the male version, and in comparison, I’m clearly not. “I saw you come home the other night like you were performing at some concert.”
I smile, remembering the rush of the crowd. “What about it?”
He stalls for too long. “I didn’t even recognize you.”
I try not to smile too much.
“It’s not like you’ve ever been girly, Kay, but what’s this?” He gestures at all of me, like I’m suddenly not a who but a “this.”
I’m too aware of my chest binder. I don’t want my brother thinking about my chest.
He tilts his head to meet my eyes, but I won’t let him. “Tell me what’s going on.”
We had the whole weekend to talk about this, and he picks now. Outside. When I have to get going. “I have to go to school, Sam.”
“Everyone will see you.”
I laugh too angrily at that. “And?”
“And? I don’t know. Is this how you want them to see you?”
I overthink my answer before I simply say, “Yep.”
“You’re going to do it, then?” He clears his throat. “You’re going to be a boy.”
I shrug each shoulder one at a time, awkwardly. “Yeah.”
A smile spreads slowly across his face, and he hits me—sort of hard—in the shoulder. “Good for you.” He opens his door. “See you after school.”
I open my door, too, and call to him, “Help me clean off the car first.”
On my short drive to Lakeview High, I smile. Sam is so strange sometimes. He gets it. I didn’t think he would be so easy. I put on a song that I recorded with Blue and immerse myself in the memory of last night by blasting “I Don’t Remember” so I can yell the lyrics along with it. My stomach flips when I recall the look in Christine’s eyes in the parking lot. When I was me. Before she knew I wasn’t me.
The recording isn’t as powerful as what we did last night. I ought to tell Libby we should redo it. We record everything on her uncle’s old laptop. The sound isn’t perfect, but it’s better than not recording. She brags about the software at the community college where she’s taking a music production class, but we can’t afford to rent it out.
I should send this MP3 to Christine.
Inside school, I hang my jacket in my locker and grab the books I need. JT and some of his jerk friends are on the stairs to my first class. I can hear his obnoxious laugh and a few words about fags. His friends spread out on the stairs to leer at a couple of girls and steal some kid’s calculator. Ducking behind taller people—which isn’t hard since I’m not even five-nine—I change direction, heading down the stairs. JT yells, “Was that my girl Kayla?”
I shut out their laughter. The bell will ring in a minute, so I jog to the other staircase, up two flights, and back over to the art room. Ugly sweat makes dots down the back of my shirt, which is just perfect. Exactly how I want to see Christine the day after our talk. Our moment.
Just inside the doorway by the sinks with shelves of paint brushes and empty jars, I take a few seconds to blot my forehead with crude paper towels. On the giant slanted art desk we share, Christine has her supplies arranged. Charcoal. Paper. No matter how much Ms. Horvath tells her to experiment with color, Christine sticks to black and white only.
Already her hands are shaded dark gray. Seems she’s adding a second layer of charcoal to her drawing, which is clearly a palm tree.
I say hello, pulling out my stool beside her.
She blends the tree leaves to a darker gray.
“Funny running into you last night.” I laugh, but it’s so obviously fake.
With strands of her sandy hair in her eyes, she selects another rectangle of charcoal, darkening lines along the edge of the tree. Split second glance and a tiny smirk is all I get. Her words go into her paper. “Are you fishing for another compliment?”
“Are you going to offer one?”
Not even an eyebrow twitch in response. She grasps an art gum, blending charcoal into the tree’s leaves, lightening bits of the leaves to suggest sunlight.
“That looks great.” I want to take it back as soon as it’s out; I’m trying too hard.
“I need to get the texture of the leaf.”
“Well, if anybody can—” I stop myself, taking out my pencils instead. Before I can completely chicken out, I lean closer to her. “I was wondering …”
A student passes behind us, so I wait.
“I was thinking maybe …”
The girl on the other side of Christine asks to borrow something, so I wait.
“This Friday, I thought it might—”
“Kayla.” Ms. Horvath’s voice announces my name so loudly that I’m surprised every Kayla for twenty miles doesn’t hear her. “This will be the last piece for your semester collection?”
I lift my arm from the desk, revealing a sketch of a round, furry creature, vaguely outlined with dozens of tentative marks.
“We’re running out of time. Finals are next week, which means this has to be completed.” She scowls, eyes drifting past my sloppy mess to Christine’s perfectly rendered umbrella leaves. Christine can move from zero to sixty in under ten seconds when it comes to art.
Horvath gestures to Christine’s paper as if it is the Second Coming. “Marvelous work. Absolutely marvelous.”
Adding several more lines to my sketch, I bide my time until Horvath has moved on, only now, Christine is absorbed in her work. Lifting a hand to scratch her cheek leaves an adorable line of dark gray. I look for a Kleenex to wipe it off for her.
Her eyes narrow at me, and I realize my hand is inches from her face. “Sorry, but you’ve got …” I almost touch her before her own hand all but knocks mine away as it returns to her cheek. She uses the back, though, successfully removing some of the smudge.
“I was wondering what you’re doing on Friday.” It all comes out so quickly.
Christine sets her charcoal down, recrossing her legs so she’s facing me. “Kayla, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
I shake my head.
She keeps going. “I really did like your song yesterday, but that doesn’t mean I … like you.” Her hands come up quickly. “Not that I don’t like you.” She shakes off the words, then whispers, “I’m not a lesbian.”
“No, I wasn’t—” I check all around us. Someone must have heard her, but only Ms. Horvath is looking at me. “I thought we could go out as friends.”
Her sad smile lets me know that I sounded just as pitiful as I thought.
Chapter 4
FOR THE LAST WEEK OF the semester, right up through finals, Christine is mostly nonverbal. Sits beside me in art, silent. When I run into her in the hall, nothing. To her credit, she always makes it seem like I’ve caught her at the worst possible time, and she must, must, must continue on without me. Polite. Super polite. She even gives me a pretty smile with her sincere hazel eyes.
All I have to do is help her remember the me she saw after the talent show. She liked him. Flirted with him. Once she sees that he and I are the same person and forgets this Kayla she thinks she knows, she might agree to go out with me.
Still, right now there’s nothing more between us other than my complimenting her work too much, especially her final project for first semester Art. A few times I try to talk to Libby about her, get some advice on how to get Christine to be interested in me, but Libby has as much experience dating as I do, and no experience being trans and asking someone out. We don’t talk much about her and guys. I can only hope that Christine’s in my section of drawing next semester; otherwise, I won’t see her anywhere. Maybe lunch.
I should let it go, but that look in her eyes after the talent show. I would give anything to have her look at me like that again.
First day, second semester, senior year. I can’t feel the cold of January as I walk across the parking lot; I can only think about what lies ahead: Strength Training, which I’ve wanted to take since I was born, and Accelerated Drawing. My other classes are all honors-level crap that make my transcript look good.
First hour, weight room. I can’t wait to learn some new exercises and better techniques. I’ve exhausted all the sources I’ve found online and even library books. Maybe Coach Wendell can help me put on some muscle.
Strength Training messes up my schedule so I don’t have Art the same hour as last semester. I just hope I don’t sweat too much before I see Christine—if she’s there, fingers crossed—in second hour. If she’s not in second hour, I have to seriously think about dropping Strength Training.
“Well?”
I’m trying to remember what I’ve told her. What I said I talked about with Behmann. “It doesn’t suit me.”
Deep Mom sigh. “It needs to suit you, Kayla. This isn’t a choice you can make.”
My teeth clench, holding back the profanity I’d like to hurl at her.
Standing abruptly, she steps to my closet, throwing open the door. She pages through my shirts. “All of these, Kayla.
Too boyish.” She holds the sleeve of a green flannel, shaking her head.
“I like that one.”
She shoves the sleeve into the closet, repulsed, slamming the closet door. “You’re too old to be a tomboy.” She stands over me, pity in her eyes again. “What about next year? Don’t you want people to take you seriously?”
With my eyes, I trace the edge of her sock, noting a tiny, frayed spot that will likely grow to a hole soon.
“College can be a time to reinvent yourself. Drop all of this …” She waves her arms over me as if casting a spell to remove my essence. “You could be—”
Dad’s voice barrels up to us, “Honey, is Kayla home?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she whispers a swear. “I’ll be back.” She signals me to stay, as if I’m her pet.
Descending half the staircase, she reassures my father that everything is all right, adding, “She needs to get her sleep now,” so he won’t come up to say goodnight to me.
“I heard that storm is really picking up out there,” Dad says. “Glad she’s home safe.”
I should close the door, but instead I sit on the bed, waiting like a dutiful daughter.
When she returns, she starts in on me right away. “I just don’t understand you.” She closes my door to contain our conversation and her whispered yell. “I don’t need you putting all of this into your father’s head. He’s got enough to worry about without thinking that you’re—”
What am I, Mom?
“I talked to Dr. Behmann. He wants to see you again in spite of what happened between you two.”
“Come on.” There is no way I will ever set foot in that asshole’s office again. “You have to be out of your mind.”
“Just hear what he has to say—”
“I have heard what he has to say. I’m not listening to that prick anymore.”
“Language, please.”
“No, Mom, you don’t understand. He’s awful. He’s the worst kind of awful. Do you know what he said to me about being trans—”
My mother scowls, shaking her head at the word.
“—gender? Any idea?”
She doesn’t look at me now.
“He says I haven’t given myself long enough being a girl and that—”
She raises her hands against my verbal gun. “How do you know he isn’t right?” Meandering around my room, she picks at things on my dresser, my desk, touching them as if they are festering growths. “You need to accept reality.” She plucks up a tiny sample of men’s cologne, assessing its presence in her daughter’s room. “People don’t change who they are. They don’t change their gender.”
Why am I bothering? “I don’t want Dr. Behmann’s help, and I don’t want yours either.”
Her judging scowl droops as she places a hand on my cheek. “I might be the only one who can help you.”
Squirming away from her hand, I open my bedroom door wide, leaning against it. “I need to get to bed.”
Before she leaves, she returns to my closet, fishing something out of the back. As she passes me, she lays a gauzy, cream-colored, flowered shirt in my arms. “This is one of my favorites.”
I’ve hated this shirt since she gave it to me for my last birthday. It touches my skin, but slithers down to the floor since I refuse to grab it. Then when I close the door over it, it bunches up. The more I wrestle with it, the more it wedges itself under the door. It’s not until I am on my hands and knees, shimmying it out that I am able to freely shut the door.
I listen for a few minutes before I undress, stepping into my closet as much as possible as I undo the makeshift binder from my chest. The skin beneath expands in the air as if denied necessary sustenance for the past few hours. Wrinkles in the binder have imprinted magenta ridges on my skin. Running my fingers along them, I wince. One of these days I’ll have the money to buy a better one—one that won’t have to hurt like this.
Once in a bulky sweatshirt and athletic shorts, I slip under the covers. My anger has heated me up, all but my hands. I shove them under my thighs. Without thinking, I gently whistle to call Sasha, to have her warm me, to feel her soft fur and let her snuggle against me. But she doesn’t come. Of course, she doesn’t come.
Sasha died two months ago.
Chapter 3
MAYBE I DREAMT OF HER. Maybe I imagined she was here with me, that I could feel her warm fur, that her breathing was even. But in the morning, I’m alone.
I want my dog back.
Dodging Mom and Dad for the rest of the weekend is easy enough, but Monday morning is a different story. Though I don’t want to sit across from Mom, I need to talk to her. Instead of saying anything, though, I continue to spoon Cheerios into my mouth. She meets me silence for silence, sipping her coffee and reading the news from her tablet. I pull my green flannel closed so she can’t tell my chest is flat. Flatter. Taking a moment while she’s clearly occupied, I discreetly pull at the end of the binder where it’s digging into yesterday’s sores. I tried to make it looser, but too much looser makes the entire effort pointless.
When she finally speaks, every word is reluctant to leave her mouth. “Be sure to wear your scarf. It’s going to be below zero all day.” Her eyes flick over to me.
“Yeah, all right.” Now’s the right time. The ice is broken. Do it. Ask her. “Mom.”
She’s back into her coffee and news.
“Mom, we should get another dog.”
Her eyes close as she stops mid-sip of her coffee.
“There’s an animal rescue not far from my school. We could get one that’s already housebroken. One that’s a few years old.” One that already wants to be around people, one that’s calm enough to cuddle.
“Kayla—”
My father interrupts her response when he comes into the kitchen. He looks cool, like he always does in the mornings, dressed in a suit and tie. Stooping to kiss Mom’s cheek, he grins as he asks, “What have I walked in on?”
“Ask your daughter.”
I purse my lips at the name she’s called me.
He takes the seat next to me. “Well?” Then he notices my hair. Last time he saw me it was at least six inches longer. “Whoa.” He ruffles it. “Quite a change.” His smile looks sincere, but I can’t tell if it’s shock or amusement. “All right.”
I poke an O down with my spoon. “I was asking when we can get another dog.”
His face droops. “Sasha was one of a kind.”
“I know.”
“We can’t just replace her.”
“I know that. It’s just the house is so empty.” I pluck a tiny hair from my jeans. Sasha’s. How can her fur still be on my clothes?
Dad straightens himself. “And what happens to this new dog when you go off to college God-knows-where?” He grasps my forearm, shaking it playfully as if he’s kidding.
It’s not bad enough that we’re talking about my dead dog, now he wants to talk about my undetermined future. As if I’ll go away to college, and do what? Live in the dorms? Have a roommate who constantly questions who I am? I can’t live with some girl I’ve never met before. And how much more scarring would it be to live with a boy?
But I can’t stay here with Mom.
Dad wolfs down a bagel half, kissing me on the forehead, and says, “It wouldn’t be fair to the dog, sweetheart.” Then he’s up and putting on his winter coat.
“Take a scarf,” Mom says.
“You want a dog too.” I throw these words at his back to make him give in. Though he stops for a moment, he doesn’t stay and soon is out in the garage, starting the car.
Mom releases her coffee cup. Her hand makes a move to grab mine, but she thinks better of it. “You know he’s right.”
I change the subject. “Is Sam up yet?”
“I don’t think so.”
Pushing back from the table, I put my bowl in the dishwasher and slip on my leather jacket. “I have to go.” I drape my scarf around my neck to keep Mom from commenting.
“Hang on, Kay.” Sam comes in.
Sam pulls his winter jacket from a hook, sticks his bare feet into old tennis shoes with droopy heels, and escorts me out to the driveway where my poor car huddles in the January cold. The blizzard last night did some great work with snow drifts across our driveway. My car looks like an awkward ship tossed along white waves.
The wind bites at my fingers and head. I’m not used to this short hair. Sam, though, wears shorts and a college hoodie, holding his jacket in case Mom or Dad see him. He prefers the Minnesota winter uniform: shorts and a sweatshirt.
I have no idea why he has followed me, but it’s too cold to wait for him to tell me. I duck inside the driver’s door, and he takes the passenger seat. I chuckle at him. “I’m going to school, you know. I’m not driving your ass back here.” The snow on the windshield and roof makes my voice hushed like we’re in a soundproof room. I start the car and crank the defrost.
He gives me the serious older-brother face. “Watch your language.”
“Whatever.”
He laughs. Perfect straight teeth. “Look, I thought we should talk. I don’t get to see you ever.”
Whose fault is that? “I’ve got to get going.” I crank up the temperature and the fan to defrost my windows.
“Hang on a second.” He scowls. I’m distracted by his squared jaw and manly brow. We look so much alike, but he’s clearly the male version, and in comparison, I’m clearly not. “I saw you come home the other night like you were performing at some concert.”
I smile, remembering the rush of the crowd. “What about it?”
He stalls for too long. “I didn’t even recognize you.”
I try not to smile too much.
“It’s not like you’ve ever been girly, Kay, but what’s this?” He gestures at all of me, like I’m suddenly not a who but a “this.”
I’m too aware of my chest binder. I don’t want my brother thinking about my chest.
He tilts his head to meet my eyes, but I won’t let him. “Tell me what’s going on.”
We had the whole weekend to talk about this, and he picks now. Outside. When I have to get going. “I have to go to school, Sam.”
“Everyone will see you.”
I laugh too angrily at that. “And?”
“And? I don’t know. Is this how you want them to see you?”
I overthink my answer before I simply say, “Yep.”
“You’re going to do it, then?” He clears his throat. “You’re going to be a boy.”
I shrug each shoulder one at a time, awkwardly. “Yeah.”
A smile spreads slowly across his face, and he hits me—sort of hard—in the shoulder. “Good for you.” He opens his door. “See you after school.”
I open my door, too, and call to him, “Help me clean off the car first.”
On my short drive to Lakeview High, I smile. Sam is so strange sometimes. He gets it. I didn’t think he would be so easy. I put on a song that I recorded with Blue and immerse myself in the memory of last night by blasting “I Don’t Remember” so I can yell the lyrics along with it. My stomach flips when I recall the look in Christine’s eyes in the parking lot. When I was me. Before she knew I wasn’t me.
The recording isn’t as powerful as what we did last night. I ought to tell Libby we should redo it. We record everything on her uncle’s old laptop. The sound isn’t perfect, but it’s better than not recording. She brags about the software at the community college where she’s taking a music production class, but we can’t afford to rent it out.
I should send this MP3 to Christine.
Inside school, I hang my jacket in my locker and grab the books I need. JT and some of his jerk friends are on the stairs to my first class. I can hear his obnoxious laugh and a few words about fags. His friends spread out on the stairs to leer at a couple of girls and steal some kid’s calculator. Ducking behind taller people—which isn’t hard since I’m not even five-nine—I change direction, heading down the stairs. JT yells, “Was that my girl Kayla?”
I shut out their laughter. The bell will ring in a minute, so I jog to the other staircase, up two flights, and back over to the art room. Ugly sweat makes dots down the back of my shirt, which is just perfect. Exactly how I want to see Christine the day after our talk. Our moment.
Just inside the doorway by the sinks with shelves of paint brushes and empty jars, I take a few seconds to blot my forehead with crude paper towels. On the giant slanted art desk we share, Christine has her supplies arranged. Charcoal. Paper. No matter how much Ms. Horvath tells her to experiment with color, Christine sticks to black and white only.
Already her hands are shaded dark gray. Seems she’s adding a second layer of charcoal to her drawing, which is clearly a palm tree.
I say hello, pulling out my stool beside her.
She blends the tree leaves to a darker gray.
“Funny running into you last night.” I laugh, but it’s so obviously fake.
With strands of her sandy hair in her eyes, she selects another rectangle of charcoal, darkening lines along the edge of the tree. Split second glance and a tiny smirk is all I get. Her words go into her paper. “Are you fishing for another compliment?”
“Are you going to offer one?”
Not even an eyebrow twitch in response. She grasps an art gum, blending charcoal into the tree’s leaves, lightening bits of the leaves to suggest sunlight.
“That looks great.” I want to take it back as soon as it’s out; I’m trying too hard.
“I need to get the texture of the leaf.”
“Well, if anybody can—” I stop myself, taking out my pencils instead. Before I can completely chicken out, I lean closer to her. “I was wondering …”
A student passes behind us, so I wait.
“I was thinking maybe …”
The girl on the other side of Christine asks to borrow something, so I wait.
“This Friday, I thought it might—”
“Kayla.” Ms. Horvath’s voice announces my name so loudly that I’m surprised every Kayla for twenty miles doesn’t hear her. “This will be the last piece for your semester collection?”
I lift my arm from the desk, revealing a sketch of a round, furry creature, vaguely outlined with dozens of tentative marks.
“We’re running out of time. Finals are next week, which means this has to be completed.” She scowls, eyes drifting past my sloppy mess to Christine’s perfectly rendered umbrella leaves. Christine can move from zero to sixty in under ten seconds when it comes to art.
Horvath gestures to Christine’s paper as if it is the Second Coming. “Marvelous work. Absolutely marvelous.”
Adding several more lines to my sketch, I bide my time until Horvath has moved on, only now, Christine is absorbed in her work. Lifting a hand to scratch her cheek leaves an adorable line of dark gray. I look for a Kleenex to wipe it off for her.
Her eyes narrow at me, and I realize my hand is inches from her face. “Sorry, but you’ve got …” I almost touch her before her own hand all but knocks mine away as it returns to her cheek. She uses the back, though, successfully removing some of the smudge.
“I was wondering what you’re doing on Friday.” It all comes out so quickly.
Christine sets her charcoal down, recrossing her legs so she’s facing me. “Kayla, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
I shake my head.
She keeps going. “I really did like your song yesterday, but that doesn’t mean I … like you.” Her hands come up quickly. “Not that I don’t like you.” She shakes off the words, then whispers, “I’m not a lesbian.”
“No, I wasn’t—” I check all around us. Someone must have heard her, but only Ms. Horvath is looking at me. “I thought we could go out as friends.”
Her sad smile lets me know that I sounded just as pitiful as I thought.
Chapter 4
FOR THE LAST WEEK OF the semester, right up through finals, Christine is mostly nonverbal. Sits beside me in art, silent. When I run into her in the hall, nothing. To her credit, she always makes it seem like I’ve caught her at the worst possible time, and she must, must, must continue on without me. Polite. Super polite. She even gives me a pretty smile with her sincere hazel eyes.
All I have to do is help her remember the me she saw after the talent show. She liked him. Flirted with him. Once she sees that he and I are the same person and forgets this Kayla she thinks she knows, she might agree to go out with me.
Still, right now there’s nothing more between us other than my complimenting her work too much, especially her final project for first semester Art. A few times I try to talk to Libby about her, get some advice on how to get Christine to be interested in me, but Libby has as much experience dating as I do, and no experience being trans and asking someone out. We don’t talk much about her and guys. I can only hope that Christine’s in my section of drawing next semester; otherwise, I won’t see her anywhere. Maybe lunch.
I should let it go, but that look in her eyes after the talent show. I would give anything to have her look at me like that again.
First day, second semester, senior year. I can’t feel the cold of January as I walk across the parking lot; I can only think about what lies ahead: Strength Training, which I’ve wanted to take since I was born, and Accelerated Drawing. My other classes are all honors-level crap that make my transcript look good.
First hour, weight room. I can’t wait to learn some new exercises and better techniques. I’ve exhausted all the sources I’ve found online and even library books. Maybe Coach Wendell can help me put on some muscle.
Strength Training messes up my schedule so I don’t have Art the same hour as last semester. I just hope I don’t sweat too much before I see Christine—if she’s there, fingers crossed—in second hour. If she’s not in second hour, I have to seriously think about dropping Strength Training.
