Eliza Hammond

♫ Is It You? - Lee Ritenour ♫

I pushed open the worn wooden door of the bagel shop, the bell lazily jing-jingling above me. A puff of cold air from outside urged me forward into the tiny restaurant. I was tired, and all my sleep-addled mind wanted was to get my coffee and go to class. So of course there had to be a fucking line.

One of the many things I like about this (admittedly shitty) city is how transparent everyone is with their emotions. The stereotypical New Yorker is this rude, no-nonsense type, but the reality is we just don’t like pretending we’re not tired all the time. I shouldn’t say “we”–I’m from Michigan, and the only trait I shared with the average New Yorker was a disdain for life in general. The people standing in front of me didn’t give me expectant looks, trying to make small talk. We all just stood there, waiting for the food we came for, in the hopes that we could leave as quickly as we arrived.

After the gray-haired hippie in front of me finished ordering his bagel with way too many toppings–seriously, who puts relish on a bagel?–I finally approached the counter. The barista gave me a kind smile, almost immediately disproving the whole rant about New Yorkers I just made. “What’ll it be, miss?” she chirped.

I shuffled in my clothing a bit, wondering if the mild elation I felt registered in my expression. But as happy as I was to be gendered as, y’know, a girl, it was probably just because of the layers I was wearing. My denim jacket covered up my stupidly broad shoulders, and my beard stubble was blocked by my mask. It’s not like I really passed or anything. She was probably just entertaining me. I quickly realized that I was taking too long to respond and tried to get my order (physical) in order (metaphysical). “Uh,” I cleared my throat, my low voice worn and scratchy from the dry, newly-autumn air. “Just a plain bagel with cream cheese and lox, please. Oh, and a black coffee.”

She nodded; the smile still plastered on her face. But even I could see that she was making eyes at me. (The analytical kind, not the flirty kind.) Shit, my voice must’ve shattered any notion of her seeing me as a girl. God, I’m such a fucking–

My thoughts were cut off by her response. “D’you want your bagel toasted or untoasted?”

Oh! uh... “Toasted, please,” I squeaked.

“Yes, ma’am!” She turned her gaze towards the register and quickly ran the price. I swiped my credit card, gave her an awkward thanks, and left the line to wait for my food.

---

Through the magic of meticulous scheduling, the only class I had before eleven was Painting I for Non-Majors. I wasn’t normally meticulous about anything, but when the stakes were a few extra hours of sleep, I jumped into action. Even though I was a History major, because my dad fucking loves collecting Korean War memorabilia (don’t ask), I wanted to take some creative classes too. Y’know, for fun. And thank goodness, because even though that hippie made me a few minutes late, today was all studio time anyway. Just four hours of me, an empty canvas, and Alicia Cabrera. When I walked in, she was already sitting at her easel, acrylic paints in her left hand, giving me a wave with her right.

I waved back, quickly gathered my materials, and sat down next to her, resting my bagel bag on the paint-laden table.

“Hey, Eliza!” she said happily. I still can’t quite comprehend how people have energy before noon, but Alicia had it in spades. Maybe she’d stolen mine somehow, like some kind of weird vitality vampire. A very gay vitality vampire.

I took off my mask and gave her a tentative smile. “You know you don’t need to call me that, right? Especially not in public,” I whispered.

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s your name.”

“Um. Yeah, I guess.” But people could have been looking at me, and if they looked at me, they’d realize the name didn’t fit the face under the mask. And if that happened, the most likely outcome was that they’d murder me and scatter my entrails throughout Williamsburg.

After a few seconds of silence, I realized my brain’s tangent of self-immolation already had me fucking up the conversation. See, in a lot of the trans fanfiction I definitely don’t read, the main characters are always boring, anxiety-ridden self-inserts. I may have been anxiety-ridden, and I was no stranger to self insertion (if you know what I mean, winky face), but unless I stopped being boring tout-suite, I knew Alicia would make the very easy decision to hang out with someone better than me. “You know,” I said, trying to restart the conversation, “the barista at Ezekiel’s gendered me correctly today.”

I expected a little token excitement, but all I got was an unsurprised face and a gesture that screamed ‘well, whoop-de-doo.’ “Okay, and that’s cool… why? Eliza, how long have you been on hormones?”

I realized what she was getting at. “Almost three years,” I said, sheepishly.

“Right, and you’re gendered correctly, like, the majority of the time–”

“Maybe thirty percent,” I mumbled.

“–so you gotta stop getting surprised when it happens!” As much as I wanted her to congratulate me, shower me with praise for passing in public, I knew that she was right.

Still, though. “But, like, I don’t think I look that feminine. So I guess it’s still surprising when it happens, or something?”

I didn’t notice during our conversation, but Alicia had used her little vampire fingers to steal half of my bagel. “Thatsh yor dyschphoria talging,” she mumbled, lox poking out the side of her mouth. God, she wasn’t even stealthy about it!

“What?”

She swallowed her food–sorry, my food. “That’s your dysphoria talking. You should really see someone about that, by the way.” She noticed that I was preparing to protest, and quickly attempted to steer us away from a conversation we’d deliberated dozens of times. “Okay, fine. You won’t go to a therapist, for... whatever reason. Can you at least come to the GSA meeting tonight? It’s the second meeting of the semester and I honestly think it’ll be good for you.” Though she was clearly exasperated, her tone somehow remained measured and gentle. When I first met her I’d found her condescending, but I now knew her even tone was an expression of genuine sympathy. Condescending sympathy, but genuine nonetheless.

My friendship with Alicia was almost clinical, like the relationship between a therapist and their client. She was a psych major who, two years older than me, thought of herself as a mentor in all things college. I secretly appreciated her efforts to get me out of my (thankfully impenetrable) shell. And even if our friendship started as an artsy, classically beautiful psych girl taking pity on a listless tranny, she was still my closest friend. Don’t tell her I said that, though–she’s already over-confident enough.

I thought for a second–it couldn’t hurt to meet other queer people–before relenting. “Ugh, fine, I’ll go.” I put my hands up in mock surrender. “Congrats, you’ve finally worn me down.”

I could tell Alicia was happily surprised that I’d actually agreed to one of her schemes. “Oh my god, finally!” She jumped off her stool and wrapped me in a tight hug. The excited smile on her face melted slightly after she noticed my apprehension. “I promise I won’t put you on the spot or anything, so don’t worry.” She gave a disarming chuckle and tried to kiss me on the cheek. I successfully evaded. “Having you at a GSA meeting is an achievement of its own.”

“Well, congratulations.” The famous last words of most movie characters popped into my head: “What could possibly go wrong?”

---

I rapped on the door to Alicia’s apartment a couple minutes before the GSA meeting was scheduled to begin. She opened it surprisingly quickly, giving me a look that was half-glare, half-smile. “I didn’t think you’d show,” she said.

“I’d never break a promise,” I said, lying.

“Uh-huh. And what about that time you–”

I checked my nonexistent watch. “Hey, we should get going! Don’t want to be late now, do we?” I ushered her out of her doorway, and we walked outside together.

The walk to the Bradshaw Admin Building, where the GSA meeting was going to be held, was thankfully uneventful. Alicia and I talked a little bit about the paintings we were working on. Actually, she mostly talked at me, going off on a rant about some dude in her Art History class who kept pronouncing Picasso as “Piscopo.” Like the comedian. For once, I was glad Alicia was such a vocal (see: loud) person. It kept my mind off the upcoming meeting and saved me from having to embellish stories about my boring life for the sake of conversation.

“Oh my god, I was walking past Hollister and I saw this dress you’d absolutely love. It was chartreuse, which I’m pretty sure is your favorite color, and–”

“Red’s my favorite color. And I don’t wear dresses.”

“Oh. Anyway–” As we approached the Admin Building, I spent a moment taking in the chilly nighttime air. While it can be nice to revel in my depression, because I’m cool, edgy, and simply twisted like that, it can also be nice to just exist for a little bit. To be among people, and pretend to be someone else. I looked around the campus, which was lit up by yellowing street lamps and high-rise office windows. I don’t know if I could call where we stood a “campus,” since it was smack-dab in the middle of Brooklyn and surrounded by skyscrapers. Still, we had a little public plaza with some benches and trees, and that was enough for Bradshaw to put “Two Acre Campus!” on all their brochures.

Just in time for me to really start zoning out, we arrived at the Admin Building. Alicia jostled me from my reverie with a loud “come on, we’re gonna be late!”

Ignoring her slowly shoving me forward, I gestured to the dilapidated building we were about to enter. “Y’know, it’s funny. For the ‘center of student life on campus,’ they really like keeping this place as shitty-looking as possible.”

“Yeah,” Alicia responded, happy that I finally said more than a single word. “Guess they’re too busy buying out the neighborhood to renovate. Like, popcorn ceilings? Is this the fucking ‘70s?”

“I know, right?” I swiped my student ID card in one of the lobby’s turnstiles, and Alicia did the same. The college’s total reticence to renovate this building meant it was always pretty empty, especially on random Wednesday nights. There was a chandelier that was definitely way too low to the floor to be up to code, and it cast an eerie, patterned light over the rest of the lobby. We shuffled to the elevators, our feet-squeaks the only noise around us, and made our way upstairs.

The Gay-Straight Alliance is exactly what it says on the tin. It’s a place for gay and straight dudes to chill out in a totally non-gay, no homo way. And, to be honest, I don’t think I ever really got it. Not the “being gay” thing, I totally get that. I thought I was gay for a while until I realized I was a girl. What I didn’t get was the culture. In high school, I was kicked out of Queer Club for making too many self-deprecating jokes. Well, okay, I wasn’t kicked out, the president just said I should find a better coping mechanism. Joke’s on her, though, ‘cause I’ll never do that.

GSA meetings were filled with the kind of queer people I hated. The kind of queer people I was terrified of becoming. They were filled with trans girls barfing their trauma into the mouths of others, begging them to taste, for a brief moment, the vomity chunkiness of their existence. Enbies who go out in skimpy dresses looking like the Vitruvian fucking Man then cry for validation when they get weird looks on the street. Alicia said it’s healthy to share my pain in a safe environment, but I couldn’t see how an emotional, sometimes sexual orgy, filled with the flaming stereotypes I tried desperately to convince myself I didn’t fit, was at all safe.

The way I portrayed all that to Alicia was with a quiet, “I’m nervous.”

She dismissed me with a casual wave of her hand. “Don’t worry,” she said, getting out of the elevator. “They’ll love you.”

I winced. That’s what I’m afraid of.

The meeting was held inside a tiny conference room. I’d never been inside that particular room before, but I didn’t have to. It was identical to every other room in the building: slightly too cramped, with low ceilings and peeling paint. The perfect place to squeeze society’s undesirables. A folding table, chairs, and a couple of different drink options were already set up. We’d gotten there just in time, a minute or two before the meeting was supposed to begin. A pathetic number of people were milling about, either on their phones or chatting in small groups. You could feel the self-hatred hanging in the air like a stagnant, rainbow fog. The deep shame that comes from finally meeting people like you, and realizing they’re not all that great.

I saw Alicia’s eyes light up with recognition as she ran towards a tall, lanky, shaggy-haired girl, who I accidentally and immediately clocked as trans. “Zoe! Hi!” Alicia gushed. God, of course, her name’s Zoe. The only way she could be any more stereotypical was if her middle name was Luna.

Zoe turned towards Alicia with a big smile. “Hey!” I noticed that her voice was pretty husky. She must not have started voice training yet, I thought, tracking over her face. Could use some laser too. I silently kicked myself for judging her so harshly, before ardently refusing to change my habits at all whatsoever. Zoe wrapped Alicia in a hug, lifting her slightly off the ground. That earned a look of surprise from me, but I guess it made sense. Zoe was like a foot taller than Alicia, so she’d have to lift her off the ground to–oh shit. Nope, they’re kissing. Yeah, it’s definitely a romantic thing.

I made no effort to hide my shock: my eyes definitely widened with elated surprise. I wasn’t really into chicks, but I was happy that my friend found someone she liked. Alicia gestured me over to where they stood, and I awkwardly shuffled over. “Zoe, this is Eliza. Eliza, this is Zoe. My girlfriend.” I reveled in the brief turnabout where, for once, Alicia was the one sounding insecure.

I thought about putting my hand out before I realized that a handshake might be weird. Didn’t matter, though, because Zoe put hers out anyway. We shook hands–she had a really firm handshake–and I said “Hi, I’m… Eliza.” It still felt sort of weird to use that name. Not because I didn’t like it, but because it felt like everyone still saw me as a dude. “Um, you don’t need to use that name if you don’t want to, though.”

Zoe looked at me, confused. “Do you want me to call you something else?”

“Oh. No, I guess not.” As the awkward silence set in, I could see her eyes roaming over my body. I wonder what size shoes she wears, I thought. Was she analyzing me the same way I did her? I wonder how she hides her bulge. I gulped and struggled to think of something to ask. You’re a fucking creep, Eliza. “So, uh... how’d you two meet?”

“We met here,” Zoe said matter-of-factly. Shit, no cool story there. “No cool story there,” she said, agreeing with the voice in my head.

“No, it was actually really cool!” Alicia jumped in, filling her designated role as conversation counselor. “Zoe helped me realize I was a lesbian, and then I helped her realize she was trans! It was awesome!”

“That’s really great,” I said. That probably sounded insincere, but it wasn’t. I was happy Alicia found love, and I was happy Zoe had support. When I realized I was trans almost seven years earlier, I had to do it on my own, and it felt like everyone I came out to slowly distanced themselves from me, some more violently than others. I was glad, and honestly a little jealous, that Zoe had someone so supportive this early in her transition. Even if she was a little ugly.

“I’d love to tell you more,” Zoe politely said, “but we should probably start the meeting.”

“Oh yeah, sure.” I realized that it was a few minutes after the meeting was scheduled to begin. “Who runs this shit, anyway?”

“I do,” Zoe said with a smirk. I responded with a nervous laugh then quickly sat down in one of the folding chairs. Close to the door, of course, just in case I needed to make my escape.

Besides the three of us, there were probably four or five other people at the meeting. It was intimate, which somehow made me even more anxious. I tried to calm myself by repeating the lie, that I didn’t care about these people or what they thought of me.

Zoe clapped her hands, immediately quieting the scattered chatter. She sat down in a chair and gave a cursory glance around the room, her eyes briefly making contact with mine. “Okay! I see we have some new faces in the crowd, so why don’t we all go around and say our names and pronouns?”

Ugh. I’d been dreading this. It’s not that I hate the idea of people saying their pronouns if they want to, I just feel put on the spot! Since I look like a dude, saying I use she/her pronouns outs me as trans to whoever’s listening. I’d rather just stay silent and let people make their own assumptions. Luckily, Zoe seemed to notice my apprehension, and she directed the pronoun circle in a direction that allowed me to go last.

The circle started moving, but I wasn’t listening. It was the kind of situation where you’re so focused on what you’re gonna say that you don’t actually listen to anyone else. Should I use she/her? I guess I have to, right, if Alicia’s listening?

I wasn’t paying any mind to the scruffy-haired bearded man speaking across the room from me until he said something that immediately brought me back to reality. “My name is Will Robinson. He/him, please.”

It’s not him, right? No. God no, it can’t be. Wait, but. Maybe? Ice spread throughout my chest, and my heart tried its darndest to burst out my throat. “Where’re you from, Will?” I blurted out, before immediately covering my mouth. Why the fuck did I just say that?

Will seemed to be thinking the same thing because he gave me a really weird look. “Uh, it was this small town in Michigan, right outside Grand Rapids.”

Holy shit. It was him. My head started spinning. I tried really hard to keep a neutral face, but it felt like I was gonna throw up. After a minute or two of the walls collapsing in on me, I’d decided I couldn’t handle it anymore. “Ihavetogotothebathroom!” I yelled, and I ran out of the room into the hallway outside.

Tears started forming at the edges of my eyes, and I tried really hard to wipe them away. Why was I getting so worked up about this? I tried and failed to get my shit together, then slowly made my way to the elevator–I wanted to get the fuck out of there. Before I could leave, I was stopped by a hand on my shoulder, and I turned around to see what it wanted.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Alicia asked. Her eyes were piercing, and it was all I could do not to run away.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, my voice quivering slightly. I sniffled.

“Your eyes are red, ‘Liza.”

I didn’t deserve any sympathy for what was really just an overreaction. “Just high,” I joked, trying to ease the tension in the air. She didn’t laugh.

“Eliza, please. Talk to me. What set you off?”

I didn’t want to tell her anything, lest I go off on a long tangent about my sordid past, so I tried to keep things short and snippy. “I knew Will when I was younger. We, uh, drifted apart, and I guess seeing him again brings up weird memories. That’s it.”

I could tell Alicia knew there was more to the story, but, for once, she didn’t pry. “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”

I cleared my throat, trying to will the tears back into my eyes. I needed to convince her everything was fine. “I promise, it’s really nothing. I’m sorry for ditching. I’ll try to make it up to you somehow.”

She gave me a sympathetic look (emphasis on pathetic) and squeezed my shoulder. “Just… stay safe, okay? I’ll see you soon.” I gave her a nod and an awkward smile that I hoped would keep her from worrying. Having said my goodbyes, I got in the elevator, left the building, and ran back to my dorm, where I promptly bawled my eyes out.