Out of Blue Comes Green, page 3
Arriving as early as possible, I duck into the girls’ locker room to change. No one’s here yet. Kicking off my shoes, I take down my pants, but before I can step out of them, I hear the door open. A dozen voices or more chattering away. Shit. I slam my locker closed, rushing for the bathroom stalls.
I secure myself behind the stall door, double checking the latch, then change quickly—sweatshirt and baggy shorts—and wait, trying to get a breath in that doesn’t shiver out of me.
A locker closes. Another opens. Someone says, “I hate having gym first hour.”
“I know, right? It’s the worst.”
“What do they expect me to do about my hair?”
The air grows humid around me as I wait, my binder cutting into my side, trapping sweat beneath it. For a short time, I count in my head—one, two, three—by the time I’ve counted to seventy-six, the girls are still out there. Screw this. I have to get to class.
I gather up my school clothes, abandoning the stall, and keep my eyes focused on the lockers, not the girls. When I pass the first girl, the chattering quiets. Whispering begins.
One girl screams. “Oh, my God. What are you doing in here?”
A few others cover their already-clothed bodies with splayed fingers. “You can’t be in here!”
I make my movements as fluid as possible, sliding open the locker, dropping the clothes inside, spinning the lock.
Someone whispers, “What is he doing in the girls’ locker room?”
“Shut up. She has hips.”
“It’s a girl?”
Laughter springs up here and there. “Holy shit, you’re right.”
A short blond loudly whispers to her friend, “I’ve never seen a he-she before.” She cackles.
I breeze out the door, clenching my jaw so hard pain shoots through my head, and quicken my steps to class. Music blasts, punctuated by clanking metal. A few guys are already pushing up weights. The guy bench-pressing grunts with each rep, and each grunt strikes me like an actual blow. JT. I clamp my teeth together. He won’t ruin this class for me.
At least we’re not segregated by gender. But, I’d rather be with JT than be labeled a girl. Of course, I’ve been labeled a girl since birth.
JT pushes the bar up one last time, setting it down with a purposeful rattle and a barbaric groan. His blond crewcut doesn’t move as he sits up, charged, ready to go spear a boar. His gaze finds me before I can look away, get away.
“Kayla!” His face brightens like he’s found out he’ll actually graduate this year. He’s on his feet, strutting up to me.
The more I back up, the more he lurches forward, so I sidestep behind a bench, crossed with a barbell. My fingers encircle the bar as I assess the weights on each end. Could I hurl this at him if I needed to?
His voice quiets. “Admit it. You’re in this class for me.” He puckers his lips, kissing the air and winking.
I’m in this class in spite of you. I don’t need to check the room for back-up; I don’t have any, even if Coach shows up now.
JT steps up to the bar, his body against the metal, nearly touching me, forcing me to take a step back. But when I move, he doesn’t let me. Grabbing my shoulders, he holds me in place in front of him, a stupid grin creeping across his face. Balling up my sweatshirt in his hands, he winks. My shirt rises slowly, exposing my belly button, growing dangerously close to exposing my binder. My muscles tense.
“Dude,” Hunter moves in beside him. “Coach is going to be here any minute.” Hunter meets my stare. His eyes seem oddly kind.
JT inches my shirt higher so I have to stand on my tiptoes or reveal what’s underneath. He flares his nostrils. “You still got the good stuff under there?” A nasty waft of mango-vanilla floats to me.
I shove him with both hands, falling backward to the ground when he lets go of my shirt.
Hunter yanks JT’s arm. “Come on.”
“The chicks’ weight room hasn’t been built yet, so you know, get the hell out.” JT wipes nonexistent snot from beneath his nose. He whispers as he leans toward still-on-the-ground me, “You’re too much of a distraction.”
I get to my feet before JT can grab hold of me again.
Ten feet away, working her calves, Tiyana Taylor stops mid-press. She catches my eye like Hunter, then saunters over. “I don’t see a Dicks Only sign on the door.”
Hunter and JT’s other friends howl, but JT doesn’t miss an opportunity. “How do you know she ain’t got one?”
Tiyana purses her lips. “Whatever. All I know is this is everyone’s weight room. Dicks, chicks, and,” she sizes me up, “whatever Kay is.” She feigns straightening her ponytail.
My awkward smile does nothing to thaw her stare.
JT’s mouth opens in a giant guffaw, but the sound is overpowered by a shrill blast. Coach Wendell blusters in, spitting the whistle out so it bounces against his rounded midsection. Thundering out commands for us to gather around him, he slams a hand down, silencing the music, silencing leftover laughter at my expense.
“Listen up. Every day I need to know you’re present, and you’ve got a plan.” He proceeds through the list of twenty-eight names, glaring up at each of us in turn.
Kayla Kinkade. Here.
He hesitates before going to the next name. He has a comment for me, I can tell, but he stuffs it down and moves on. Is it stupid for me to hope that he wants to ask what I prefer to be called? What my pronouns are? He/him. Ask me.
When he’s finished, he spends far too long explaining workout goals and setting them. We need them for each day, week, and month of the semester. Nothing about a training partner or anything stupid like that.
Once he’s done, the music starts up again. I step back, waiting to see who goes where, watching the coach file in among the football players. He gives a few of them hell for standing around instead of pumping iron. After all, they’ve had a whole minute. The five of them have taken over the main free weight area. No one else gives them so much as a glance before they choose another location in the room.
Across the room where there’s a second, much smaller free weight area, I place myself between two of the class’s other misfits. I hold a ten-pound dumbbell straight up, bend my arm at the elbow, and flex my arm up and down. A boy shorter than me watches too closely. He holds a similar ten-pound weight, which he thrusts skyward, mimicking my motions. After only three reps, his other arm goes up for support.
Weak. Once the judgment fades, I recognize him. Danny. Elementary school. We were friends back when I could be a boy, and no one tried to fix me.
“Hey,” he says. At first, I’m not sure he’s spoken.
“Hey, yourself.”
“I haven’t seen you in a long time, Kayla.”
I close my eyes, shutting out that name. Focus on the movement. Arm straight. Bend. Push.
“I think maybe back at Oak Grove Middle School.”
His breath sputters as he presses up the ten pounds again. “You look … different.”
I suppress my laugh. Is that the best he can come up with? The real question is why he’s bothering. I don’t want to let my guard down just to have him make fun of me. “Is there something you want?”
Danny struggles to bring the weight down, sputtering a bit. “I saw you at the talent show. Your band’s pretty good.”
“Thanks.” I doubt Danny knows music at all, but I won’t turn down a compliment.
“I didn’t recognize the song.”
“Oh, no, I wrote it.” I probably shouldn’t have said that. I try not to give out any personal information so it can’t be used against me.
His eyebrows rise. “Wow. I liked it.”
Whatever. There’s not much else he could say without being an asshole. “Thanks.”
“You know, my uncle has a pub. They do live music on Saturday nights.”
Across the gym there’s a tremendous clank of metal as JT puts down the barbell again. He has to make a show out of everything.
Halting his dumbbell, Danny runs a hand through his long dark bangs and shoots a look over at JT’s group. “I don’t like those guys.”
I snort. “You and me both.”
“At least you’re an athlete.”
I bite my lip.
“I mean, you were.” He lets the weight fall to his side. “Why’d you quit? You were really good.”
I put the ten-pounder back and take a set of twenties, then position myself on the edge of the bench.
“You could hit a three pointer every time. You were the free throw goddess … god.”
I bring the weights to my chest. “That was junior high.” I lie back to do presses. Instinctively, I pull my knees up, feet on the bench. I hate the way my shorts lie flat against my pelvis.
“I guess.” Danny’s eyes slide up and down my body like he’s looking for something. Maybe he wonders how far my transformation has progressed.
Fuck off. Arms ready, I press the twenties skyward, my pecs straining. Jeez, it’s been too long since I worked out.
“You want me to spot you?” He moves up by my head. Too close.
I sputter out, “No,” feeling a little guilty for judging him before now that he’s being so nice.
“Ever think about joining the team again?”
The girls’ basketball team? Really? I am not explaining myself to him. Does he really want to know that changing in the locker room became utterly too embarrassing? That getting my period made everything too awkward? It’s impossible to tell myself I’m a boy when I have cramps and have to account for bleeding. And the massive discomfort when I change clothes with girls whose bodies are not little girl bodies anymore. Danny can’t understand that. Even Libby doesn’t understand that.
I press the dumbbells upward over and over until my muscles numb.
Chapter 5
ART CLASS. CHRISTINE BETTER BE in this section of Accelerated Drawing. Though our conversations over the last week have been short, this could be a new start, a do-over. Scanning the slanted drawing desks and backless stools, I can’t find her. Come on. After JT, can’t something go my way?
A hand closes around my forearm. “Hey, jerk face.” Libby.
“Takes one to know one.” I hip check her. Lightly.
She pulls a little before releasing me. “Let’s take these spots by the window.”
I plant my feet.
Libby marches ahead alone, then scowls at me. “Seriously?”
I know she can read my plan across my face.
She says, “Don’t you think you’ve barked up that tree one too many times?”
I can’t explain, though. If she could’ve seen the look in Christine’s eyes the night of the talent show, surely she’d understand I can’t let that go. Whatever was there could be there again. I just have to find it. Or inspire it.
Christine whisks into the room, ignoring Libby and me completely. She takes one of the desks Libby had designated for me and her. I hear Christine ask a friend to come sit with her and the disappointment when her friend has already partnered up. She tosses her sandy hair as if it doesn’t matter.
Christine’s here. A smile spreads across my face. The rest of my senior year will be art class with Christine. What could be better?
And now that she has no partner, I can save the day.
Strolling up beside her, I gesture to the empty stool. “This seat taken?”
Her eyes search the room. “I don’t …” When someone comes through the door, Christine’s face lights up, then darkens. Some new girl with too many pins announcing her bumper-sticker causes, not a friend. Libby talks to the new arrival and secures her for a seat mate.
Wait a minute. Who the hell is that? What’s she doing with my best friend?
Christine, gesturing toward Libby, angles her body awkwardly toward me. “Guess you should sit.” In her eyes, we’ve both been thrown over. That could work for me.
I settle onto the stool, trying to savor the moment. Christine and me, together again. Then I hear Libby’s screechy laugh, the one that makes her shade her face in horror. That new girl’s laughing too. What’s so funny? From what I can see of her clothes from here, she isn’t going to fit in too easily. Are those all from the back end of Goodwill? Guess Libby will take her under her thrifty wing. My friend treats thrifting like it’s part of her production design. How does this piece fit into her overall “concept?” Neither of them has to worry about what their clothes say the way that I do.
Focus. Art. Christine. She already has charcoal, paper, and her favorite eraser. Fingers gray and dusty. Not sure what that’s supposed to be yet. A landscape? I’m sure it’ll evolve into something glorious.
Taking out my supplies, I sketch an outline—four legs, a tail, short snout, drooping ears.
Horvath saunters over to my desk with a too-sweet grin on her face. “Starting off the semester well, Miss Kinkade?”
I cringe. “I was thinking about switching to charcoal this semester.” I just want to catch her off guard. Or maybe solicit some help from my desk partner.
This stops her. “Switching?”
“Sure. Something new.” Not really. But think of the training I could get. The time with Christine. After-school meetings, our fingers covered in charcoal as we make art together.
Ms. Horvath stoops down beside me as if this will make our conversation private. “This is not the time to switch media.” She glances at my tabletop, closes her eyes for too long. “But if you want to try something new, you could try a new theme.”
My pencil works at the ears, shading the curves as I keep my mouth shut. Sasha’s ears were always so soft. When I’d talk to her, they’d perk up so she could take in my words, as if every sound made absolute sense to her.
Ms. Horvath’s knees creak as she stands. “We’ve seen enough of this dog, haven’t we?”
I choke when I force down what I want to say, and luckily for Horvath, she’s far enough away when I find my voice again that she wouldn’t be able to hear me.
Christine’s fingers have slowed over the palm leaf. “I can’t believe she said that.” She sits a little straighter. “I like the dog, Kay.”
Ms. Horvath would never call out Christine for using the same theme.
I keep my head bent over the sketch like I’m focused. I shouldn’t take anything Horvath says to heart. Anyway, she must not understand dogs. How much room they take up in your heart. How much space is empty when they leave.
Christine pats my nondrawing hand briefly. “And you draw her so well.”
My stupid face grins.
She reaches in her bag, handing me a tissue. Shit. She knows I’m crying. “Don’t listen to Horvath. Who is she anyway? A high school teacher?” Christine snorts, or whatever it is pretty girls do when they laugh that way.
The cafeteria is a bit rowdy, but it’s only noise. Too many people with too many issues having to eat lunch too quickly. I grab a tray, follow the line, select the lesser of two evil entrees, and make my way to our table. Libby’s there already, cell phone in hand, putting some of her own music through an editing app. It’s not exactly my taste, but it’s interesting.
Before I reach her, one of my old friends from middle school basketball, Elise, steps in my way. A chill moves through me. She’s standing too close. “You ought to go to that audition the school’s having.”
What?
“Your band is the one everyone will want.” She nods knowingly like we’re both in on a secret. But I have no idea what she’s talking about.
As I slide into the chair across from Libby, I shake off that strange interaction and set my tray down hard. “You didn’t waste any time finding a replacement in art class, did you?”
Lowering her phone dramatically slow, she licks the fronts of her teeth. “You were the one who turned your back on me for some girl.”
“You don’t get it. This might be my only chance.” If she had been there after the talent show—
“Speaking of chances, how about our last art class together? Ever?”
I didn’t think of that. I drop my façade. “Right, right. I was an idiot.”
Libby nearly spits out the fry she’s biting. “Are we going to design our first album’s cover or flirt with some …?” She thankfully doesn’t call Christine one of the names she’s used in the past.
My face warms.
“You need to pull back a bit.” Libby lowers her voice. “You’re going to scare her.”
“Too late.” I stab a fork into a shrimp popper. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“That’s obvi—” She stops herself. “Just give her some time. Or better still, don’t. Move on.”
As if fate wants to test my restraint, Christine passes by our table with her friends. Choking on my water, I stifle a cough.
Christine’s tall friend whispers, “Why is she staring,” as she glares at me, which forces out my cough and the water. Luckily, it’s the table that suffers and not my clothes. Still, the tall friend seems to find me repulsive now. Christine, thankfully, gives me a smile.
Libby reaches over and flicks my hand. “Ignore them.”
“How am I supposed to—”
A lunch tray with a soy burger arrives at our table with an awkward girl. “Couldn’t find you at first.”
Who the hell is this?
Pushing her bobbed chocolate hair behind her ear, she sits down between my best friend and me like she’s been invited.
Wait. This is the girl from art class. Libby’s new partner. I note a few of the buttons on her bag. One white button has love is love is love is love written in cursive rainbow-colored letters. Another has a series of raised fists in varying skin tones. There’s a peace symbol and a Planet over Profit logo.
“I hope this is okay,” she says to me. When she’s level with me, I can’t ignore her light blue eyes. On me. Unwavering.
I look over at Libby, who chomps another fry. “It’s fine. I told you my best friend would be here.”
