The next day, as I got off the bus at school, I marched right to the senior classroom.

I’d come to a decision. Well, not really a decision, actually, it was just… A feeling. Something deep in my gut, which somehow told me I had to talk to Troy. If only to figure out what was up with him – why he’d behaved like he did, both at prom and at the school board hearing, instead of his usual self.

That’s why, startling everyone, I flung open the door to Troy’s classroom and strode in.

Everyone recognised me instantly – I’d become quite famous after what had happened at prom, after all – and a hush fell over the students; I could feel their eyes as I walked over and stood in front of Troy’s desk.

Like the previous time I’d seen him, the evening before, he was… sullen. He was just staring down at his desk, seemingly lost in thought: he didn’t even notice me standing there, not until I called his name.

“McPearson.”

Troy gave a start of surprise, and slowly raised his eyes to meet mine; it was only a brief moment, though, before he looked away again, but I noticed something I couldn’t quite place in his stare – the same thing I’d seen the previous evening.

“Wilson,” he mumbled, his face neutral – apparently my presence didn’t even merit a frown.

“We have to talk,” I said.

He hesitated; he turned his head to look at me again, he looked at my face, but I noticed he was deliberately avoiding looking me in the eyes.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I want to understand why you’re like this,” I replied. “Seeing you behave this way… it just doesn’t sit right with me. It bothers me.”

Troy’s expression didn’t change, but he snorted out the beginning of a laugh. “Selfish much?”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Yeah, I am a bit selfish. Okay, maybe a lot. But still, for the first time in my life, I want to talk to you.”

There was a long pause before he answered. “Mr. Carlson told us not to speak to each other before the end of the school year,” he said, finally.

“Fuck what Mr. Carlson said,” I snapped. “Neither of us is the kind of person who gives a shit about his orders. And besides, it was more like a suggestion; talking to each other isn’t breaking any rules. What’s he gonna do, stare sternly at us until we apologise?”

For a fleeting moment, the barest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Troy’s mouth. Then he inhaled deeply through his nose. “Okay,” he breathed out. “Now?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Lunch break. Behind the bike shed. There’s more privacy, and we’ll have more time to talk.”

Troy gave the tiniest nod of his head, so small I’d have missed it if I wasn’t watching for it.

“See you at lunch,” I said, turning on my heel and walking out of the classroom, while ignoring the stares of Troy’s classmates.

Alright, that was part one done. Now to figure out exactly what I was going to say to him.

-----

“Are you really sure about this, Emily?” Josh asked as we made our way across the school’s courtyard towards the bike shed.

“I am,” I nodded. “I gotta do this.”

“Why?” he asked.

Why indeed. What was, exactly, the feeling that had pushed me to talk to Troy that morning? To ask him to meet me by the bike shed?

I sighed as I stopped and turned to face him. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I can’t really give you a precise reason. It’s a gut feeling. Something tells me that I have to talk to him.”

“But it could be dangerous. Don’t you remember everything Troy has done to us? Everything he’s done to you?” Josh said.

I smiled bitterly. “How can I forget?” I answered. “But despite that, I can’t shake this feeling. If I don’t talk to him, I’ll be left wondering all my life.”

“Wondering?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Thinking about what was up with him. Why he changed so suddenly. What exactly caused this shift.” I sighed. “Maybe I’m just a nosy bitch, trying to satisfy her own curiosity.”

“You’re absolutely not a bitch, Emily,” Josh said. “And you’re far from nosy. And to be honest, I get it.” When I gave him a look of surprise, he continued, “You know, when you get the feeling something is wrong, something doesn’t exactly sit right, you have to follow it up. It happened to both of us, after all.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with being trans, though,” I said with a smile.

“Still. Gut feelings usually means our brains are trying to tell us something, even if we don’t know exactly what,” my boyfriend replied. “So I understand you wanting to follow up on it, even if I don’t really approve. But then again, I can’t stop you, can I?”

My smile turned into a smirk. “You got that right, sweetheart.”

“I’ll stay within earshot though, just in case. If you need me just give a shout, and I’ll be with you in seconds.”

“Okay,” I nodded. “But don’t come unless I call for you, specifically.” Josh nodded back.

“Thanks,” I said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. Then I took a deep breath, turned around, and walked the short distance to the shed.

Showtime.

I turned the corner. Troy was right there, arms crossed, leaning against the wall of the shed; I was mildly surprised he’d come – part of me expected him to just not show up. I put my purse down on the ground (I’d brought it because I kept pepper spray in it, just in case), and spoke up.

“McPearson,” I nodded to him.

“Wilson,” he replied.

We just stood there, without speaking, a few feet apart. Again, like earlier that morning, Troy was looking at me, but also not looking at me at the same time – he was seemingly studying me, looking me up and down, on the sly, while carefully avoiding meeting my eyes.

The silence stretched on, longer and longer. And even longer still. It was actually becoming a bit uncomfortable, but I didn’t even know how to begin the conversation.

Troy saved me the trouble. “Well?” he said all of a sudden.

I raised an eyebrow and cocked my head to the side. “’Well’? ‘Well’ what? What do you mean?”

“I mean, aren’t you gonna speak up? You were the one who invited me out there to talk, Wilson. So talk.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay then,” I said; then, after a pause, I continued: “What the hell is happening to you?”

Troy’s eyes flickered upwards and caught mine, just for a fraction of a second; that, however, was enough for me to see he was still looking as he did that morning, and the evening before.

Then he looked away again. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said sullenly.

“No? You really have no idea?” I scoffed. “Very well then. How about the fact that, when you saw me at prom, you didn’t insult me like you usually do?”

“I did insult you,” he replied. “I called you… I called you a sissy and a faggot.”

I briefly took notice of the fact that he had forced those words out, almost unwillingly; then I shook my head. “No, not that. You called me a sissy and a faggot when you still thought I was a cross-dressing boy, but you said nothing about me being trans. You could’ve called me, I don’t know, a tranny–” I saw Troy very slightly flinch when I said that word “–but you didn’t: once you figured out I’m a trans woman you were surprisingly respectful.” I paused, thinking about something. “In fact, later that night, when you came back after having drunk yourself out of your senses, you insulted me again, but you called me a bitch.”

There was something else I remembered him saying as he attacked me, but I skipped mentioning it. Troy was staring intently at the ground now; he didn’t say anything, so I kept going.

“Yesterday too. When your father was insulting me and not-so-subtly implying I’m actually a boy who’s lying about being trans, you stood up to him – you stood up for me – and defended me. What the hell was that even about? I mean, we’re not friends, far from it, so why? Why’d you do it?”

I saw Troy swallow a couple times, as if to clear a lump in his throat; when he spoke, his voice sounded strange, as if he were about to cry.

“Would… Would you believe me if I told you I did it because it was the right thing to do?” he asked.

Again, I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. It was the right thing to do, granted, but it’s not something Troy McPearson would do. Not the Troy McPearson I know, at least.” I took a deep breath. “So, again. Why?” I asked.

Again, there was a long moment of silence; then Troy looked up at me.

His face was streaked with tears, and as he locked his eyes with mine, I finally recognised what was in them.

Pain.

“It’s because… It’s because I look at you, and I’m so fucking jealous. Jealous and envious.” He gulped. “Of you.”

I blinked in surprise. “Wait, why are you jealous of me?”

Troy was weeping openly now. “Because you look amazing, Wilson. I mean, fuck, look at you!” he said, gesturing at me and the clothes I was wearing – a simple midi dress, with tights and sneakers – before continuing, “You look so beautiful, so effortlessly feminine, while I…” he took a deep breath, gulped again, and gestured down at himself. “While I look like this.”

He put his face in his hands, and started sobbing.

I blinked again, and stared long and hard at Troy, comprehension dawning in me.

Oh.

Oh, this poor thing.

“Well, that is an explanation, I guess,” I whispered.

We stood there for a long time, the silence punctuated only by Troy’s sobbing. At one point, distantly, I heard the school bell ring the end of lunch period, but I ignored it.

After a while I crouched next to my purse, retrieved a pack of tissues from it, and wordlessly handed it to Troy. She took it, and loudly blew her nose.

Slowly her crying subsided, and she calmed down.

I sighed. “How long have you known?” I asked.

Troy looked at me out of the corner of her eye, then looked down at the ground again. “I’ve been sure since the first year of junior high,” she replied. “But probably even before that, subconsciously.”

“I see,” I said. “I take it your family doesn’t know?”

She grimaced. “I tried to talk to my dad about it once, when I was a freshie,” she said. “Let me tell you, the punch your boyfriend hit me with on Friday? That was nothing. Barely a love tap.” She paused. “I never mentioned it again after that.”

I nodded. “And you’ve kept it secret all this time.” It wasn’t a question.

Troy nodded in agreement. “I thought that maybe if I put up a tough front, if I behaved like the good manly son my father wanted me to be… Maybe it would all go away. Maybe I could just stop thinking about it. Maybe I could just be a man.”

She looked up at me. “But then when I saw you at prom, when I realised you’re trans, too, when I saw your body, your clothes, your hair, your voice, your make-up, your everything,” she said, “I found myself thinking… What was all it for? Fuck, I spent all these years pretending, I spent all these years performing masculinity, and what do I have to show for it? Fuck all, that’s what.”

I looked at her. I raised my arm, put it on her shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. And for the first time that day – for the first time ever – she smiled at me.

“Alright,” I said. “Well, that’s that. Now I know. Okay.” I paused. “Hold on a second.”

I crouched next to my purse again, and pulled out a notepad, a pen, and my cellphone; as Troy looked at me curiously, I scribbled two names and phone numbers on a sheet of paper, then ripped it out and handed it to her. “Here you go,” I said.

She took the slip of paper from me, and looked at it. “What’s this?” she asked.

“Those are the numbers for my therapist and my endocrinologist,” I said. “You can give them a call, and get started on transition right away if you want.”

“I can what?!” she exclaimed, looking up at me in surprise.

I nodded. “You’re eighteen, right? There’s absolutely zero reason you can’t do it.”

She frowned. “But my father…”

“Fuck him. You’re your own person. Your father doesn’t own you, and you owe him absolutely nothing,” I shot back. “Also, are you planning on going to college this fall?”

Troy nodded. “Yes, to my dad’s old university, three states away.”

“All the more reason,” I nodded back. “The hormones won’t have had that much of an effect by the time you leave, so your family won’t notice. And after that… Well, it’ll be too late for them to do anything about it.”

Troy smiled at me – a wide, true smile, not the forced smirk she usually painted on her face. “Thank you, Wilson. Really.”

“Emily,” I replied.

“Emily,” she said. “Thank you.” She gulped. “And, maybe, we can leave our past behind, and…?”

She let the question hang in the air, and looked at me hopefully.

I sighed. “No, Troy. I’m sorry, but we can’t ‘leave our past behind’ and be friends. Not right now,” I said.

Troy’s smile vanished, and she looked crestfallen.

“I mean… After everything that went on between us, after everything you said and did… No, I’m sorry,” I continued. “I gave you those numbers because I know what dysphoria is like, and no one deserves to suffer like that. But everything else? Everything else is still too close. Too raw. Do you understand?”

I showed her my right hand, which had been injured when my locker had exploded a few weeks earlier – Troy’s doing, of course; the wound had completely healed over, but the cut was still visible as a patch of discoloured skin which hadn’t faded yet.

Troy’s shoulders dropped. “Yes, I understand,” she said. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m truly, really sorry.”

I nodded in acknowledgement, silently accepting her apology.

“If you come back to visit from college next year, though, look me up,” I said. “Some time will have passed, and maybe then we can try.”

She looked up at me, and nodded.

“Best of luck for everything, Troy,” I said; I patted her on the shoulder, then bent over, picked up my purse, and walked away, without looking back.

True to his word, Josh was waiting some distance away, out of earshot; I walked up to him.

“There you are,” he said. “You took quite some time, I was getting worried. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I replied.

“What did you say to each other?” he asked.

I looked at him for a moment, then shook my head. “It’s not something I can really talk about, sorry. But Troy won’t bother us any more.”

He looked at me sceptically. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” I nodded.

“Alright. Shall we get back to class?”

I looked at my watch; lunch had been over for a while – in fact, it was almost the end of the first afternoon period.

“You know what? No,” I answered. “I feel like playing hooky today. Let’s just find a quiet corner and relax.”

“Or we could just go home,” Josh said. “I came here by car today, and my uncle and cousins won’t be home until seven at least.”

I paused, and looked at him; he had a mischievous smile on his lips.

“I mean, if you want to,” he added with a shrug.

I smiled back at him. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go home.”