Snow smells bullshit.

        There are some things an adult should be more knowledgeable about than a child, and this is definitely one of those things. At twelve years old, Snow already possesses more knowledge than both her parents. She doesn’t mean this in an arrogant way, and certainly there must be some things her parents know more about than her. It just seems to her that adults are so ignorant. All they care about is being right, and making sure their kids know they’re right, even when they’re not. At home, it’s hard to have an opinion. No matter what Snow’s opinion is, it’s always wrong: according to her parents, anyway. They think Snow is stupid. They think, because she’s young, she doesn’t know anything.

        Snow remembers the way her parents treated her oldest brother. They’d yell at him to be more like Lynx, or more like her, and that’s probably one of the worst things someone can say to their child. If Snow ever has kids, she’ll never compare them to each other. And she’ll never compare them to their friends, either. Birch used to try so hard to make their parents proud. But after a while, he just gave up. Snow knows nothing any of them do will ever be good enough, but still, they try. She doesn’t know why they try.

        “Monty Whitby,” says the pastor at the front of the room. He’s solid and white, a clerical collar around his neck. “we haven’t heard from you yet. How are you doing?”

        Snow isn’t surprised she’s here. It was either this, or get kicked out, and she’s too young for the latter. Birch had the option to do this, too, Snow remembers their mother bringing it up. It was always either go to therapy or get kicked out, and the choice was easy for Birch. Snow wishes she could be brave like him. “Uh…” Everyone looks at her, which makes her uncomfortable. It’s a large white room, with rows of chairs, and a photograph of Jesus on the wall. It reminds Snow of her parents’ bedroom. “Fine, I guess?”

        The day started off terribly – Snow was dragged out of bed by her mother, and driven to this place, where she’s been all day. It’s lonely and dysphoric, which is just the way they want it to be. They want you to think you’re all alone, with nobody except them, so you’ll do anything to keep them from going away. Snow just wants to go home.

        “You’re all here,” says another man, a short one with an ugly crew cut, “because you’re sick, and we want to help you get better. But we can’t do that without your cooperation, you understand. We want to help you, and God wants to help you.”

         This is a lie. Even Snow knows that much. God isn’t real, and if he were, she doubts he’d want kids to be locked up and emotionally tortured. Snow has always thought of religion like a cult, something you’re forced into then and then forbidden from leaving. That’s the way it was for her. She’d never dare tell her parents this, of course; she’d never hear the end of it.

         When Snow and her siblings were young, they were forced every Sunday to sit around in the living room, reciting prayers on rosary beads and reading from the scriptures. When Snow was much littler she didn’t have a problem with this, as she was too young to understand, and no one ever said anything about it. They’d be woken early on the Holy Day, and dragged to masses, and this is the way it’s always been in the family, only now, Snow is old enough to make her own decisions. Well – you’d think so, anyway. She hasn’t forgotten what happened the last time she refused to participate.

         The man at the front of the room starts to speak again, his voice loud and clear. “Now, some of you are here because you’ve chosen same-sex attraction, or you’ve chosen to pretend you’re a boy when you’re a girl, or a girl when you’re a boy. We all are entitled to our choices, of course, but to indulge in these fantasies is to go against the word of God -” He stops, his arms raised to the ceiling as if somebody up above is listening. But there’s no one, and there never has been. There’s no one to pray to, and there’s definitely no one to care whether you’re suffering or alone or confused.

         It’s quiet. Some of these kids want to be here, and Snow will never be able to imagine why. Maybe they’ve become brainwashed by their cult. That’s what cults do, after all. 

        Snow raises her hand. “May I go to the bathroom?”

        The short man looks at her. It’s almost like he expects her to be intimidated, or something, by his face.  “Of course. The men’s bathroom is down the hall. I’ll come with you in case you can’t find your way.” This is a stupid excuse. Snow has been coming to this church since she was a baby; she knows where the washrooms are. Even a five year old could follow the arrows down the hallway. Anyway, using the boys’ bathroom is nothing new. At school, she gets screamed at if she even thinks about using a different one. Sitting down makes it a little easier. At least that way, Snow doesn’t have to look at her dick.

        “I’m not Monty,” she’d said, three days prior, after her mother called for her. “I know that’s what you named me, but it’s not my name.” Saying this was hard enough. Her mother has always been frightening, and a thousand times more so when she’s angry. No one ever wants to make her angry. “My name is Snow. I’m not your son-” But her hands had been shaking violently, and her breath caught in her throat so that it was hard to continue speaking.

        It’s a little bit ironic: expecting parents always say they don’t care if they have a boy or a girl, as long as it’s healthy. And then years later, when they find out they have a girl, all of a sudden, they care.

        Her mother had laughed, a look in her eyes that said Snow was on thin ice. “Oh, Monty, you’re thirteen. You’re too young to understand something like this. Now stop being so ridiculous, and go pick up Heron from his crib.”

        Birch says Snow should stop responding to her birthname. He says that’s what he would do. The thing is, Birch is much more assertive than Snow – he always has been. She loves him, of course, but everyone knows he’s kind of an ass. She can’t really blame him for that. While Birch has no problem standing up for himself, Snow is a timid girl, and she hates to be confrontational. People probably expect this of her by now. Like how they all expect Birch to be shy and passive just because he’s an introvert. But Birch is full of surprises.

        Arriving home that day is hard. Snow’s parents greet her as happily as always, but the room feels different. She knows she can’t win. Maybe years from now, when she grows up and moves away, things will be okay, but it’s painful to think that nothing will change until years from now. She thinks of Birch, how their mother would always try to set him up on dates with girls when he was younger. At first, it wasn’t really her fault; she didn’t know he likes boys. But even when she did, nothing changed. She’d still come home, day after day, insisting he take out a girl she met at work, and giving him the silent treatment when he refused. “Nah,” he’d say, and shrug, “I don’t think she’s my type.”

        In the past, there was a point when Snow thought she might just be confused. Maybe she was going through a phase. But she remembers being five years old and wanting her parents to buy her a dress, and she remembers being six years old and sneaking some of her mother’s makeup out of the bathroom. It was cute when she was little. It was harmless fun. Now, she’s old enough to know better.

 

. . . . . . . . . .

        Gray was born on the twenty ninth of February, which is a strange day to have a birthday. If you count the years in which February has twenty nine years, Gray is only three years old. People find this fascinating, when they hear about it. It’s not that interesting. Nothing about Gray is very interesting.

        They’re cold. Of course, they’re always cold, even bundled up under their coziest sweater. They can never sleep, and when they do it’s never very well. But Gray doesn’t talk about it, and nobody asks. It’s hard to tell Gray has an eating disorder just by looking at them.

        Rome’s fraternity house is called Phi Delta Gamma. His room is large and overcrowded with things he doesn’t even use, but won’t get rid of. Gray can see him through the bedroom window when they step into the house; he’s beating the punching bag, which he does a lot of when he isn’t playing sports. Rome has always loved exercising, but he won’t get up early in the morning to do it. Gray supposes even gym rats have their limits.

        “Hi, Gray.” Barrett Younge is the only one of Rome’s friends Gray actually likes. He can be obnoxious, sure, but you can’t expect much more from a frat guy. “How’s it going? You’re joining us for game night?” He stands on the couch, doing pullups on a bar hanging from the roof. Some guys just like to show off, and Rome is one of them.

        Gray shrugs. “Yeah. I have nothing better to do.” It confuses a lot of people, when they find out Gray and Rome are siblings. Gray doesn’t understand what’s so confusing about it. Nobody in the family looks alike: except for Gray’s fathers, who are from the same country. But Rome is dark, and Gray is light, and still, he’s the best brother Gray could ask for. “Is that okay?”

        Rome emerges from his bedroom, unkempt and slightly sweaty. “Gray, you came! I kinda thought you were gonna bail on me.” He grins, drinking from a black water bottle on the kitchen table. Gray has no idea why all the girls like him so much. He’s an idiot: not to mention, he looks just like every other college dude. On the table, Gray spots a bunch of bananas. It’s strange, but the mere sight of the fruit makes Gray feel nauseous and unsteady.  

        “Um…” They follow Rome, who’s pretty good about staying close in social situations, “could I borrow one of your sweaters? I’m cold.”

        Rome has the strangest things in his room. Workout equipment, game consoles, random collectables. It’s so crowded, Gray can hardly find their way through the room. “Wow, your room’s a mess. There’s way too many things in here. Have you ever considered cleaning?” It’s not that the room is messy. It’s just… full.

        “Nope.” After rummaging through the clothes, hanging haphazardly from hangers in the closet, Rome tosses a sweater at Gray. “That’s my warmest sweater… if it doesn’t keep you warm, I don’t know what will.”

        Gray knows Rome’s friends ask about them. Why are they so quiet, how come they don’t eat, what gender are they: they’ve heard it all. It hurts less when it comes from strangers, but of course even family has an opinion. Everyone is so obsessed with gender. It’s like they’ll die if they don’t know, but it’s not like it’s a big deal, and it’s not like it’s any of their business. It was hard for Gray to understand how they feel about their identity. Some days, it still doesn’t make sense. But not everything needs to be binary, or labeled, or even understood, for it to be valid. Gray is starting to understand that they’re valid, but it’s taken a long time to get here.

        It’s difficult to explain what it feels like to be agender. It’s difficult to explain how that’s even possible: to be a person without a gender. Everything in society is made up: virginity, gender, culture, fashion, roles. For Gray, it’s become pretty much common knowledge that people only want labels to make themselves feel comfortable, even if it has nothing to do with them. They could try to explain, but it’s hard. Most people feel like a boy, or a girl, or a combination of both – but it’s not like that for Gray. They’re not a boy, or a girl, or even both at different times. They’re just…a person. A person who doesn’t need a label to feel comfortable.

        Rome has posters on his walls, containing athletes, ripped men with no shirts and women in leggings with big asses. That’s another thing, Gray thinks. Society is obsessed with sex. Everything revolves around it, even something as arbitrary as the color of a woman’s lipstick. But what if you don’t like sex, or you put up with it only out of obligation? What if, like Gray, you’ve never had a moment of sexual attraction in your life? It feels so invalidating, sometimes, like the whole of Gray’s identity is being erased, and they know that sounds silly. Guys like Rome, who workout avidly and sleep with anything that moves, they’re the cool ones. Sometimes Gray wonders about everybody else.

        Rome’s school has a games room: the living room, they call it, where students gather to study and socialize. Juni is dark-skinned, her hair short, pink, and sleek. Rome slaps her ass, getting comfortable in one of the room’s armchairs. Gray has been to game night before, and didn’t hate it. It helps that Rome is always here, so Gray doesn’t have to be alone with strangers. It’s surprising, he’s been dating Juni for three months and still hasn’t called it quits. Gray likes to think Rome will stop fucking around someday and settle down, but even thinking it feels so ridiculous. Sometimes he dates three or four people at once, and takes them all on group dates, or brings them all to parties. It sounds exhausting. Gray couldn’t stand to date even one person; the thought, it just isn’t appealing to them.

        Gray was born in Ukraine, but they don’t know much else about their life before adoption, and they don’t know much at all about their birth mother. According to their father, she was the victim of sexual assault, and gave Gray away because she couldn’t stand to look at them. They can’t really blame her for this. Gray doesn’t remember the adoption center. They were there very briefly before being taken in by Lyron and Abbe. As far as they’re concerned, those men are the only parents they’ve had or needed.

        “Take your turn,” Rome says to Juni, who’s folded over him like a jacket, or a parasite. Rome isn’t all that into her; Gray can see this by the way he interacts with her. Of course, Rome’s not ever really into anyone. Juni unfolds herself from Rome, picking a card from the pile. Gray has played Taboo before, but not with their brother’s friends. It’s not the same with them. They’re getting hungry. These days, their safe list is so small, it barely feels worth eating at all.

        “Hey.” Juni nudges Gray, her elbow pointy and hitting them right in the ribs. “You okay?” She’s pretty, but not exceptionally. She’s pretty in an ordinary type of way, if that makes sense. Gray and Juni don’t know each other well. They probably wouldn’t hang out at all if it weren’t for Rome.

        “Uh-” Casek, another of Rome’s frat brothers, is eating a peanut butter sandwich. Gray can handle the smell. It’s the thought of the peanut butter, and the texture of it in their mouth, that makes them feel ill. Gray has a thing about textures. It started years ago, and now it feels overpowering. “Yeah. Fine. I’m just… going to go to the bathroom.” It’s challenging finding a washroom to use in public. Once in awhile, Gray finds a gender-neutral washroom, but not often. They suppose the best thing to do in situations where it’s unavoidable is to just use the one that corresponds with their birth gender. But the dysphoria – it’s sort of always there anyway. These days, it doesn’t bother Gray as much.

        If you look close enough, it’s easy to tell the gender Gray was assigned at birth. You could listen to their voice, or look very closely at their face, or search for any sign of gender on their body. And this happens quite often, so it certainly wouldn’t be anything new. 

        In Florida, Gray had tons of friends. They liked it much better there: the weather, the people, the schools. But Gray has never been very good with change, whereas Rome loves it. Gray was fourteen years old when their parents packed up the family and moved them north, leaving all of their friends and hobbies behind. See, Rome’s always been good at making friends; he talks to everyone, and he’s an athlete, which apparently makes you popular automatically. Nobody cares about artists, or musicians, or people who keep to themselves the way Gray does, and that makes it hard to make friends.  

        “Where are you from?” People will stop to ask Rome this, while he and Gray are out minding their business. “You speak English so well.” No one ever says this to Gray.

        Every time he receives questions like this, Rome just smiles. “I’m from Florida.” He is certainly more gracious about it than Gray could ever be.

        Sometimes, the person will shrug and move on. Other times, they’ll look closer at him, and frown. “No, where are you really from? I mean… where is your family from?”

        Gray knows questions like this aggravate Rome. He smiles politely, or he rolls his eyes. “Florida.” He knows they mean his ethnicity. Everyone knows that. Because Rome doesn’t look like most people around here, and people are nosy. Even the Inuit are a dark people, and nobody questions them. Sometimes he’ll tell people the truth. This hasn’t happened in a while. 

        It’s starting to snow. Yule is coming. It’s Rome’s favorite holiday, but Gray could do without all the food.

 

. . . . . . . . . .

        For months after the accident, Grace was terrified to step foot in a vehicle she had no control over. She used to have a license, but since the accident, she hasn’t really been able to drive. She likes to walk, but it gets cold in the winter, and Grace isn’t used to the cold. Usually, Birch drives her, but he doesn’t go out much, and Grace feels bothersome asking for too many favors.

        It’s snowing. Grace has begun to like the snow, especially because it means Christmas, her favorite holiday. She stands on the edge of Main Street, a large box of homemade sweets in her hands, a holiday tradition she started with her mother years ago. Grace’s parents live in North Douglas, her sister in Thane. As a girl in Italy, Grace and her mother would make some homemade treats and bring them to the city center, for anyone who wanted some. Grace doesn’t remember when this started, but it’s been so long she suspects it’d feel strange to stop. Cujo, of course, sits nicely by her side, his leash wrapped around her hand, his vest red and thick. “Good afternoon,” says Grace to each person who passes, “would you like a baked good?”

        Grace has hundreds of absence seizures a day. Most don’t notice them, but others, like Birch, have learned what to look for. They aren’t particularly cumbersome, but Grace dislikes the effect they have on her attention span. She can be sitting in class, trying desperately to pay attention and copy down her notes, when they come on. In split seconds, a lot can be missed. The world moves by quickly and everyone is always in a rush. It feels like if you blink, you’ll miss out.

        It’s nearly time for her evening class. She used to take the bus, but now just the thought of it gives her anxiety.

        “Good afternoon!” Grace beams at a man and a boy, walking past her on the street. Most people are receptive to her. Others walk by without as much as a second glance. “Would you like some baked goods?” She tilts the box toward them: it’s filled with cookies, brownies, tarts, everything she used to bake with her mother. “I made them all myself.”

        The boy is about half her size, holding his father’s hand as they stand in the street. He glows, reaches a small hand eagerly toward the box – the man pulls it away. “Why are you offering us these?” Several times already today, passersby have asked to pet her dog. This occurs regularly, despite Cujo’s outfit; they either don’t see it, or they don’t care. And so Grace has to explain, every time, that he’s a service dog, and so she’d prefer it if he wasn’t pet, and people stare at her, a blank look in their eyes when they say but you’re not blind.

        Christmas is Grace’s favorite holiday. When she was a little girl, her parents would take her and Bronte around the neighborhood to sing carols and hand out candy canes. Grace misses childhood, and Italy. Mostly she misses her old self from before the accident. “Why not?” She looks at the man: a short man, pudgy, bald. “It’s holiday season, and I like spreading holiday cheer.” This is, without a doubt, the best part of the holidays. Grace would so much rather give gifts than receive.

        She feels a seizure coming on. Likely, it won’t be anything serious. Nobody ever know how to react when they witness a seizure. It happens when another man walks up, begins to speak; Grace can’t hear. Her eyes roll; sometimes, she speaks in a garbled tone. Soon, she has an appointment with her neurologist, who says she might need new medication. She takes too much already, but there’s nothing anyone can do about this. That’s the price you pay when you make stupid decisions.

        Downtown, Birch meets her when it’s time for class. Grace’s box is nearly empty, but she’s disappointed with the few treats she didn’t manage to give away. "Hey, Curls!” This has been her nickname for her best friend since they first met, and it’s easy to see why. His hair, white and thick, rests in flyaway curls on his head. Sometimes, it looks like a cloud. “Lots of people took treats! I feel accomplished. Want one?” His favorite are her blueberry tarts, which he takes without hesitation.  He’s dressed strangely – but he often is. If he isn’t wearing sweater vests and khakis, it’s jeans and suspenders, or a fanny pack around his waist. Grace pokes fun at him. “You dress like my grandpa.”

        "Thanks.” They walk to his car, a used yellow Honda with almost nothing in it. “Guys love how I dress.” Birch doesn’t joke around a lot, even with friends. He’s minimalistic, testy, not the friendliest of people. In fact, many find him quite unpleasant, but Grace sees through all this. Under that rough exterior, he’s just a kid who wants to be loved.  

        Grace leaves the box on the back seat. “I’m sure they do." Birch is thinner and shorter than her, which sometimes makes her insecure. He isn’t feminine, but he isn’t manly either. Her grandfather is a groundskeeper back in Florence, a thoughtful and soft-spoken man. Grace misses him. “What are you gonna do when I’m in class?” He shrugs. It’s a question nobody knows the answer to until it happens. Birch has always been a bit spontaneous like that. His car is dark and tinted, as even the smallest amounts of light seem to hurt his eyes. At home, he doesn’t use his bedroom light, ever: only lamps and flashlights. It’s good he likes the dark, Grace supposes, because he’s always in it. 

        Cujo slumbers on the floor at the back of the car, his paw twitching while he sleeps. Grace wonders what he dreams about, and wishes he could tell her. Talking to animals would be the coolest skill ever. On the twenty minute drive to school, she sits back in her seat. “What kind of guys do you like, anyway?” He’s had boyfriends, but none she’s met. None she’s heard of, either. “Athletic guys? I love athletic guys.”

        “Meh.” He drives like her grandmother, leisurely, even during rush hour. “I guess. I’m into wolves.” Grace has heard this term before, but isn’t sure if she remembers what it means. He uses terms like this a lot when out in public. Grace thinks. Birch gives her a side-glance. “You do know what a Wolf is, right? Look it up." Grace wants to be a good ally. Sometimes she isn’t quite sure what that entails. 

        The university isn’t busy. But it’s eight thirty at night, and those who aren’t in their dorms wander the halls. Mostly, just athletes and nerds are out here this time of day. Grace is neither of those things. She studies about the same amount as everyone else, and can’t stand to play sports. “Thanks for the ride.” Grace walks quickly, her large bag slung over her shoulder. She’s ten minutes post-seizure and still feels a little off. “I don’t know how I’d ever make it here without you. Oh my God -” She stops, tugging Cujo to an abrupt halt. “The whole basketball team is here. Rome is so hot, don’t you think?” Birch complains about him a lot. Then again, he tends to complain about everything.

        "Ugh.” He wrinkles his nose, looking like a child. “Rome’s a douche. All he does is sit around and think he’s the king of the world just because he happens to be captain of the basketball team.” He picks up his pace, forcing Grace to speed up.

         “Yeah, okay,” says Grace, inquisitive, “but do you think he’s hot?"  She’s got him there; it’s obvious from the way he falls silent, no longer arguing. Grace grins. “Yep, that’s what I thought. You know, have you ever considered he’s doing it on purpose?”

        Cujo is restless, wagging his tail and running quickly up and down the hallway. He needs to go outside, maybe. Birch considers leaving them behind, but changes his mind at the last minute. “What?”

        “You know -” Grace seems more like her old self today, but they all know it’s only temporary. She drops, seizes, lies on the floor for a few moments before Birch helps her up. “-ugh, I drooled on myself. Anyway, maybe Rome just annoys you on purpose. Maybe he likes it. I mean, face it,  you aren’t hard to annoy.” She’s tired, disorientated; it takes a while to gather herself. No one has noticed this seizure, which relieves Grace.

        “Why would he do that?”

        “I don’t know. Maybe he’s into you.”

        At this, Birch snorts. Loudly. “He’s not gay, Gracie. I saw him making out with some chick at the party. Anyway, you seem to be forgetting that I fucking hate Rome. Can we talk about something else?” He hates everybody. This is the most he’s said all day . Grace shrugs, but doesn’t speak. Tightening her hand around Cujo’s leash, she steels herself, one foot in front of the other, leading the dog into her zoology classroom.