Out of Blue Comes Green, page 24
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
She smiles as if I haven’t just tried to make her feel bad.
“The Student Council chose you because you’re actually good.” “What?”
“Hunter made it sound like he tried to influence their decision, but a bunch of people today have been saying how glad they are that it’s your band.”
They have, but I didn’t know they were saying it when I wasn’t there. Underground cult sensation. “Hunter’s a …” I can’t think of a suitable insult for him. Instead, I say, “I can’t see what you like about him.”
Her eyes search our tiny rehearsal room for an answer. “He’s a gentleman.”
I scoff at her.
“What?”
“He lied to you. He never talked to the Student Council about the audition.”
She hesitates. “You don’t know that.”
“Come on. I’ve known him for years.”
“I don’t believe you.” But it’s plain she partly believes me. “How did you get the audition, then?”
I lock eyes with her, hoping to make this sting. “Christine.” Her face falls. Maybe it stings too much.
“Listen.” How do I walk this back now? “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
She’s mulling it over.
“Let’s just rehearse, huh?”
Absently, she nods.
“Didst thou hear these verses?” I say, and when she doesn’t speak, I say her line too.
She laughs a little at my taking over for her and replies with my line, “That’s no matter: the feet might bear the verses.”
And for the entire scene, we do the other’s role. She exaggerates how manly her words can sound and I pretend to be a total ditz. It’s very satisfying in light of our previous discussion. With the last line, we fall into a fit of laughter together. It’s hard to stop when she’s so clearly happy and I’m so clearly not unhappy.
I read the first bunch of lines again. “Rosalind seems desperate for Orlando to love her, but Celia, why doesn’t she want someone to love? It seems like she’s pushing love away.”
Madi snorts. “If you know anything about her family situation, it makes total sense.” And then just like that, her thoughts are forever away from here. She shakes her head as if dismissing them and says, “If you could change anything about your life, what would it be?”
Dumbest question ever. I give her the look.
She groans. “Besides that.”
There is only that. “I guess get a dog.”
“Right. Dakota?” She joins me on the bench, forcing me to slide down a few inches. She seems about ready to tell me what she would change, but instead she chooses a completely different road. “Can I ask you something? I’ve known a few other trans people, but I’ve always wanted to ask … Have you ever thought about just being a girl?”
I cluck my tongue. “Why would I want that?”
“I don’t know. It would be a lot easier, wouldn’t it?”
“No doubt.” I play the melody of her song again, but my answer doesn’t satisfy her. “I don’t know how to be a girl.” I laugh. “I’ve tried.”
She laughs too. “That’s true. But it would be easier than changing everything about yourself.”
“Well, I’m not changing anything about myself, really.”
“Oh.” She lightly gestures to my body. “So you’re not going to …”
I move two feet away from her, what the room allows. “First of all, that’s not your business. Second, yes, that’s my hope.”
She nods, but it’s clear she’s processing something.
“What?”
“So you’re changing the outside, not the inside.”
I shrug. “The inside is a work in progress too.”
She laughs, no doubt remembering our conversation about what kind of man I’m trying to be. “Just so you know, I was right about you.”
“What?”
“You’ve been acting a little different at school since we talked. You’re—I don’t know, more real. Not so shut off from everyone.”
“I don’t want to be shut off from you.” The words rush out of me, followed by warm icicles of embarrassment. I cover my eyes.
“That’s sweet.”
“You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever talked to.” I don’t know what gives me the courage for it, but I know she’d rather hear she’s intellectually stimulating than hear that her eyes are deep pools of blue. “You’re just real. No acting.”
She raises an eyebrow at me.
“You know what I mean. No pretending. It’s how I think I would be if I had just been born … you know, the way I should have been.”
Madi nods. “Sometimes I wish I knew how to put up a façade. ‘Do you not know that I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.’”
Her quoting from the play makes me laugh.
Something between us is so powerful that I feel pulled toward her, compelled to kiss her. But I stop myself. This could be the beginning of us, but it’s not yet the beginning of us.
Chapter 36
AFTER DRAMA, I FIND A dozen messages from Troy and half a dozen missed calls. I start skimming the texts, but it’s clear I have to get to the animal rescue right away. That’s almost all he’s texted. You need to get here right away. Later messages are clearer: Luna’s owner is on his way here. If you want to say goodbye …
This is a nightmare. I can’t lose this dog. But there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I drive too fast all the way there and into the parking lot and can’t catch my breath before I open the door. There in the lobby is Dakota, only she’s not Dakota anymore. Her tail is wagging, and her mouth is open in a panting smile. Someone’s dad stands over her, talking to her in a doggie voice. “How’s my little Luna? How’s my good girl?”
And her tail creates a gale-force wind with her enthusiasm.
I don’t recognize the guy, but it’s clear who he is.
Dr. Wallin, Troy, and Jeanie stand nearby with hesitant smiles on their faces. They look up as I rush in, and the smiles disappear.
Troy comes over to me, grabs my arm, and says quietly, “This guy’s name is Jason Ashur. Is he your dad or something?”
I don’t understand. “Of course not.”
“Is Dakota actually your dog this whole time?” Troy is confused and he isn’t making any sense.
Jason Ashur roughhouses a little with Luna, laughing, and says, “My son will be so happy to see her again.” He looks at Jeanie and then over at Troy. “I can’t thank you enough.”
Troy perks up. “Son?”
Jason nods. “He was trying to get her to come inside when she got loose. Remember that blizzard back in January? Luna didn’t want to come in. She loves the snow. So Nathan went out in his boots and jacket to try to pull her inside, and she got out of her collar. Took off running.”
Nathan Ashur lost his dog Luna, who’s my Dakota. This can’t be happening.
“He’s been so upset with himself. He thinks it’s his fault she got away, and until you called, he thought she’d wound up dead somewhere.” Jason becomes overly serious. “He’s been so broken up all this time, thinking he’d let her die because he’d given up looking for her.” He crouches down to pet Luna. “He was out in the blizzard for hours. Nearly died himself.”
Troy looks at me. His fingers still wrapped around my arm; he thrusts me forward a little. “Is this your son?”
I gasp, scowling at Troy like he’s insane. Bad timing, dude.
Jason Ashur assesses me, his gaze up and down. “Uh … no. Why would you ask that?”
Troy has let me go. “Funny coincidence. His name happens to be Nathan Ashur too.”
Jason frowns. “What?”
I laugh. “Terrible joke, Troy. Why would you think that would be funny? I’m Nathan Kinkade.” I shake Mr. Ashur’s hand.
Dr. Julia Wallin, Jeanie, and Troy glare at me. I ignore all of them and move over to Dakota. Kneeling down in front of her, I hug her head and say, “You’re still my dog.” My tears are trapped behind my tense embarrassment. “I’ll miss you.” I ruffle her fur.
I get up, looking Mr. Ashur in the eye. “You should get her home to your son.”
He’s confused but his relief is obvious when he says, “Thanks again. We were lost without her.”
And with those words, Dakota disappears from my life.
And the four of us are left in a silent lobby with my questionable identity.
Dr. Wallin crosses her arms. “I think you better explain yourself.”
My heart beats so hard that it moves my body back and forth as I try to come up with the words. “I never meant to lie to you.”
Troy raises his eyebrows.
“That first day I came in, Jeanie thought I was Nathan Ashur.” I sound like I’m blaming her, but that is what happened. “I thought if he hadn’t shown up, maybe I could be Nathan Ashur. I’ve always wanted to be accepted as a boy.”
Troy turns to his sister and says, “I told you.”
I close my eyes. I thought Troy knew, but it still hurts. “I came in that day to see if I could adopt a dog, and then you let me be Nate.” I smile in spite of fearing their response. “I liked being Nate.”
“Is that why you wouldn’t give me your driver’s license?” Jeanie is entirely unamused.
“I didn’t want you to know I wasn’t who you thought I was. And the longer it was that the real Nathan didn’t show up, the harder it was to tell the truth.”
None of them meets my eyes. They must hate me so much.
“This is a great job. I really liked working here.” I can feel my eyes filling with tears, so I head for the door.
No one says anything to stop me.
Chapter 37
EVERYTHING IS IN LIMBO AS the next few days meld together. Lifting weights with Danny, Art with Christine, Shakespeare lines in Drama, song rehearsal with Blue, missing Dakota and the animal rescue. I don’t even have the slightest relief knowing that the real Nathan Ashur will never make me lose my job. I did that all on my own by lying to them. And while finding his Caring Bridge site back in January made me astoundingly happy, knowing he almost died only makes me ashamed.
Prom is mere weeks away. Our Blue-ified versions of these songs have improved even since the audition. I think I might love playing cover songs. Libby occasionally tweaks something here or there, jots a note in her little book, and we try it the new way to see if it gels.
JT has come up to me for a heart-to-heart twice since he popped up at my house. Both times, he wanted to walk down Memory Lane, rekindle our paltry, childhood romance. If he hadn’t been so detailed about the fifth-grade music concert, I’d think this was a semi-elaborate plan to humiliate me; but he seems serious. Like seriously interested in me. Prom is coming. He needs a date. He must know it can’t be me.
As deadlines go, though, Drama class is more serious. In two days, Madi and I have to perform our scene from As You Like It. Two days. We have our lines down, but our blocking is pretty sparse, mostly because we rehearse in a room the size of a shoebox. Major dramatic movements cannot be developed in a shoebox. Some groups have props. There’s even one with swords and fake blood. They could be the best of all of us. My money’s on Madi and me, though. We aren’t relying on special effects or flashy objects; we need only our voices.
Then on Friday, everything changes. We’re performing our scene today. But that’s last hour. So all day, I have to think about how I can mess things up. Which line will I deliver wrong? When will I forget to take a step or make a gesture?
Thankfully, I don’t worry long because third hour, I’m called down to the principal’s office. Something completely different to worry about. I have never been summoned to the principal’s office.
To my surprise when I arrive in the main office, Libby is here waiting.
Oh, no. Did something happen to her aunt or uncle? Ignoring the principal’s secretary, I go straight to Libby. “Is everything all right?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “What are you doing here?”
The principal’s door opens. He looks from Libby to me and back to Libby. “Come on in, ladies.”
My eye twitches. Ladies.
Libby snorts at him, gesturing toward him with her thumb like he’s ridiculous.
“Take a seat,” he says, closing the door behind us.
His chair behind his giant principal desk places him directly in front of me. As he assesses me, I try to think of any time I’ve ever spoken to Principal Eckert for more than a sentence or two. Only after the talent show.
Awkwardly laying his hands on his desk, he says, “Before we talk, I should congratulate you girls on being chosen to play at prom.”
We adopt his awkwardness when we thank him.
“Unfortunately, a situation has been brought to my attention.”
I sift through recent memories. What has happened that could be considered a situation? It’s not like JT harassing me after the talent show or JT and his friends humiliating me wearing “dresses” and makeup was ever brought to his attention. I can’t recall anything that traumatic recently.
He isn’t talking, so I say, “What situation?”
His lips purse. “There’s been some concern.”
When he doesn’t continue, I shift in my seat. If there’s concern, it’s likely about me. “What concern?”
At the same moment, Libby says, “From who?”
He removes his glasses, setting them on his desk. “Well, as you may know, our district has a fairly large group of conservative families.”
This is starting to sound really bad. “Mr. Eckert, what’s going on?”
“I’m afraid a few families have expressed concern over your band performing at prom.” He puts his glasses back on.
“We’ll play a huge variety of songs. They don’t have to worry.” Libby sits back in her chair, knowing she has this completely under control.
Principal Eckert says, “That’s not the reason they’re concerned—”
Libby interrupts him. “I know what I’m doing with music.”
“The issue has nothing to do with the music. I’m sure your band is very good. But—” He gets louder when Libby starts to talk. “It has to do with the way Kayla … dresses.”
My entire face gets hot. “How do I dress?”
Mr. Eckert gets up. “Now, I need you to understand, this request isn’t coming from me. But I have to represent every student here, even those I might not agree with.”
Libby squirms in her chair.
“What does it matter,” I say, “how I dress?” Of course, I know very well why it matters, and if I forget, I can always consult my mother for the answer.
His eyebrows rise. “Indeed,” he says, so very quietly.
Libby pushes against the arm rests that hold her in place. Standing, she says, “Are you telling us we can’t perform at prom?”
The principal moves to his door as if he’s showing us out. “No, no. Of course not.” But he’s positioned to herd us back in should we decide to bolt.
“Oh, good.” The heavy weight on Libby’s shoulders evaporates.
“But you’ll have to wear appropriate attire. Formal attire.” Now, he opens the door for us to leave.
I stay seated, looking over my jeans and T-shirt. “There’s nothing inappropriate about what I wear.”
“Appropriate for a—a young lady attending prom.”
My disgust bursts from my mouth in a slew of words that don’t string together. “That’s not fair. I don’t have to … I mean I wear what I … I follow the dress code.”
Eckert closes the door in a hurry as if I swore. “I’m afraid that’s not good enough. The parents have threatened to take this to the school board if I can’t convince you.”
“I don’t see why it matters.” Libby clears her throat. “There’s nothing wrong with these clothes.” She picks at my T-shirt.
Principal Eckert sighs. “These parents believe young women need to dress in acceptable ways, and the compromise we reached was prom attire.”
Libby tuts. “We’re a rock band, Mr. Eckert.”
I stand up in a huff, trying to flip my chair over, but it only rocks back a few inches. “I’m not changing who I am. I’ll perform as me, or I won’t perform at all.”
Mr. Eckert opens his office door so we’ll leave. “Please just think about it.”
Libby grabs my shoulder and moves me out into the hallway, murmuring under her breath all the way. Once we’re safely past adult ears, she spits out a string of swears, adding to the end, “How ridiculous am I going to look playing drums in a prom dress?”
I’m so amped up I can’t speak. Think about it.
Like I won’t be thinking about it every second of every day for the rest of my life. How I lost my chance to impress Madi Sayer with my voice and to show this stupid school that I’m worth more than they could ever imagine. How it all happened because of bigots who want everyone to fit into a perfect little gender box.
Every face I see, I have to wonder, was it her? Or him? It could be anyone. It could be half the senior class. The juniors. It could be the whole school.
On our way back to our third hour classes, Libby and I have to split up. Spotting a prom flyer on the wall announcing what would have been my greatest accomplishment, I tear it down and shred it, letting the pieces fall from my hands like water flowing through my fingers. But then there’s another. And another. All of these flyers saying Blue is playing prom.
All of them must die.
I rip each one down, scratching my nails against the gray stone wall. This yellow one, this green one, this blue one. Down they go. After a dozen or more, two of my nails have torn, but I don’t care. And I don’t care that my fingers are scratched or that the back of my hand prickles with blood, a rash burn.
I grab another yellow one and a green one. A classroom door opens wide, and two freshmen lurch into the hall mere feet in front of me. When they see me, their eyes widen. One grabs the other and pulls him back in the room.
Two lives saved.
I continue my remodeling spree.
