Will Robinson

♫ Raincheck - Jachary ♫

In middle school, I had a friend named Emmett Hammond. He was the hyper, uber-creative type, in stark contrast to me, who thought things through to the degree of compulsion. I kept my head in my homework and my novels–I worked through a new one every day–but around Emmett, my ears were always open, and my lips were always smiling.

It was an unseasonably warm March day, and my tiger mom had sent me to school with a freshly-ironed outfit, extra classwork, and a perfectly organized schedule. Yes, I was that guy. I walked into Mr. Atwood’s homeroom, sat down next to Emmett, and silently started my work. My parents had planned my life out to the degree where I was working on an essay that wouldn’t even be due for another month. If your middle school teachers didn’t give out syllabi, then you didn’t have a mother like mine. “If you’re always working,” she used to say, “then you’ll never feel without purpose.”

A couple of minutes into our first-period class (I can’t remember which subject; I wasn’t paying attention regardless), I glanced at Emmett and noticed he was wearing a bow in his hair. Like, a frilly pink bow. It totally didn’t go with his wiry short hair, and the pink clashed with the bright green in his eyes. I didn’t understand why he’d wear something so garish… and so feminine. It seemed to be asking for trouble. In the middle of class, the teacher broke us into groups, and I seized the opportunity to ask about Emmett’s choice of accessory.

Emmett started talking first, though. “Hey, Will,” he mumbled into his notebook, clearly nervous. He was blushing. That, plus the bow, almost made him look cute.

I gave him my trademark weary-eyed stare, but periodically snuck glances at the bow. “Yeah?”

“Um, so, I guess I just wanted–ugh.” While I didn’t care about the way I phrased things, or how they made those around me feel, Emmett was so worried about his words that he rarely spoke coherent thoughts at all.

I decided to cut off his stuttering with my own question. “What’s the deal with the bow?”

Emmett’s eyes widened, and I knew that whatever he wanted to tell me was related to his choice of accessory. “Uh–do you like it?” he asked, his hands flicking through his hair.

What a strange question. Obviously, I couldn’t like something he shouldn’t have been wearing in the first place. That just didn’t make sense. “It’s fine. Makes you look a bit, you know,” I said, making a gay little hand motion (yes, that’s a thing). I wasn’t that homophobic back then; it was 2016, and gay marriage was legal. But I had heard the popular kids saying stuff like that, and so I incorporated it into my role of snotty middle school kid.

Emmett’s body tensed up. “Well, I’m not gay,” he defended, lowering his voice to a whisper as he said the accursed g-word. “It’s… different. I think.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So you’re something, then?”

“Well, uh, I guess so?” Emmett let out a shaky laugh. I’d never seen him have a total nervous breakdown before (though he’d gotten close), but it looked like he was on the verge of one. “Listen, this is–this is really hard for me to talk about.”

“Then don’t talk about it,” I deadpanned.

He tugged on his scalp in exasperation. “No, but I have to! Ugh, can you just, like, come to my house later?” My parents didn’t like letting me visit Emmett’s house–they said it distracted me from my work–but even I could tell that whatever he was stressed about was urgently important.

So, I nodded. “Okay. Whatever.”

During lunch, I tried to distract Emmett from his worries. Luckily, given his short attention span, that wasn’t particularly hard to do. We sat in our usual spot: the new growth forest behind Byron Creek Middle School. Emmett straddled a boulder in the middle of the eponymous stream, while I sat off to the side, under the shade of a tree, eyes in a Bob Woodward exposé. He continued orating a story/make-believe/roleplaying thing that he’d been improvising all week. “–so, we’re in my house, right? Surrounded by zombies on all sides. ‘They’re closing in on us!’ you yell. ‘There’s nothing we can do!’ I look around my kitchen, but I can’t find anything to use as a weapon–you know my dad locks up the knives where my mom can’t find them. Then, in one of the cabinets, I find a butter knife–”

I looked up from All the President’s Men with a doubting gaze. “You’re going to use a butter knife to kill a dozen zombies?”

He smiled his starry-eyed smile. “Two dozen.”

Emmett continued his story, going on about the epic Butter Battle until recess was half over. But he stopped suddenly after we heard a loud rustling in the trees behind us. I figured from the look on Emmett’s face that the source was none other than Machiavelli’s twelve-year-old son himself, Duncan MacMillan. Duncan was a bully, but not the stereotypical, 80’s-style “gimme your lunch money” kind. He’d probe your sensitive spots and push your buttons, but only to the point where he could pass it off as an innocent joke. Since the principal only handed out suspensions to titty twisters and swirlies, which hadn’t happened at Byron Creek since whenever The Breakfast Club took place, Duncan always got off scot-free. Ironic, considering his name.

“Hello, Emmett. Will.” Duncan said in his Tennessee brogue.

“Fuck off, Duncan!” Emmett said. For whatever reason, he never actually seemed scared of Duncan. I’m sure the fact that he wasn’t a particularly violent sort brought Emmett some degree of solace.

“Oh come on, don’t kick me out so quickly. That would be so boring.”

“Don’t care. Go away.” Emmett looked away in distaste and scoffed.

“No way! You’re one of the most interesting people I know.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. In stark contrast to your boyfriend, over there.” He gestured at me. “Speaking of which, you’ve made some… interesting fashion choices lately.” Emmett winced but stayed silent. “Women’s cut shirts? Skinny jeans? Now an actual pink bow? Is there something you want to tell us, Emmett?” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Emmett’s face pleading for help. Help that I refused to give.

“N-no. Nothing.”

“It’s okay to be gay, Emmett. It’s 2016. If you decide to come out of the closet, we’ll all be there for you.” Duncan gave me a look. “Though I don’t know about Will.”

“Will’s my best friend. He’d accept me.”

“Ouch,” he tsk-ed. “That’s sad. Your best friend is a robot. That’s only cool in sci-fi.”

“He’s not–“

“He’s ‘not a robot,’ I know. But when his empathy chip shorts out, don’t come crawling back to me.” With that cryptic tease, Duncan turned on his heel and loudly backed into the bushes.

“I don't even know what that means!” Emmett yelled. Then he gave me the same pleading look he’d given during Duncan’s onslaught and stayed silent for a couple minutes. He was probably wondering why I didn’t defend myself, or him, for that matter. But it made sense to me. After all, it was Emmett’s fault for wearing something that he knew would bring him scorn. If he didn’t enjoy being a laughingstock, then he should’ve either changed or learned to live with the ridicule. I quieted the strange urge to protect him with the promise that he’d eventually learn to live on his own. He started telling his zombie story again, but the energy in the woods had changed.

That afternoon, I went over to Emmett’s house. His house was big and modern but felt so empty inside. It was the complete opposite of my house, which was small and cozy, perfect for studying in. His living room, ensconced by white quartz walls, was empty save for two uncomfy chairs and a television. The items in his kitchen were organized in an uncomfortably clinical way, the cabinets labeled with stickered Helvetica font. It almost felt like no one actually lived there. Much like my memories of my eighth-grade year, Emmett’s house felt frozen in time.

Although Emmett was the one who invited me over, he was nowhere to be seen. I walked around his cavernous house, calling his name repeatedly to no avail. After helping myself to a glass of water, I made my way up the stairs and approached the door to his room. “Emmett?” I yelled through the wall. “You in there?”

“One minute, Will,” Emmett responded. At the time, I don’t think I noticed how his voice wavered as he spoke, how he sounded like he was on the verge of tears. He cleared his throat and called out to me again. “Okay, you can come in. But please, don’t laugh at me.”

I didn’t understand what he meant, but I cracked open the door anyway. Emmett was lying on the floor, his eyes red, and wearing a white satin dress. It clearly didn’t fit him. His shoulders stretched out the top. At the time, I remember thinking he looked a little pathetic. I froze in the doorway, my normally stoic facade completely broken. “What are you doing?” I said, with derision clear in my voice.

Emmett stuttered as he spoke. “Um, I-I just–”

“Is that your sister’s dress?!” I know the way I reacted was wrong–mean, even–but I couldn’t help but be shocked.

Emmett started tearing up again. “I’m not a pervert, I swear!” He yelled, trying to defend himself from what he knew I was thinking. “I don’t know how to explain it. I just… I just feel better like this.”

“But you’re a boy!” As always, my analytical side bubbled to the top. I don’t know why I couldn’t see his distressed face.

“I know, but I don’t want to be!” Emmett bawled. Through sobs, he explained the brunt of his dysphoria. “My body’s changing now. My body–my shoulders are so wide. I used to be able to fit into this dress, but I-I’m too big now. I see my sister, and I just…” Emmett took a deep breath, trying and failing to hold the tears at bay. He spoke in a whimper, now. “Will, why did I have to grow up so fast?”

“...but you’re a boy, Emmett,” I maintained, my voice now measured and stern. I enunciated my words like I was teaching him something he refused to comprehend.

Emmett’s voice got louder and more belligerent. “You don’t understand. Of course, you don’t.” He was in the midst of a hysterical sobbing fit, wiping his fast-flowing tears with the fluffy part of his sister’s dress. “I know I’m a boy, I tell myself I’m a boy, but it just–it feels wrong, Will! Why do they get to act feminine while I’m treated like a freak? It hurts! It really hurts.” His crying started to subside. But a new emotion began hanging in the air, and it felt even worse. Resignment, maybe? After my rejection, he now seemed resigned to his mismatched, uncomfortable existence. I could see him planning out a life of fatherhood, with two-and-a-half kids and a picket fence, as unthinkable pain flashed behind his eyes.

I couldn’t handle his emotion–how could I?–and I realized at that moment I would never be able to help him. I ran out of his room, out of his house, and out of his life. For the remaining years Emmett lived in my town, he kept up that blank face of resignation. His eyes were empty and he never talked to anyone, especially not me. It was like he hadn’t felt anything since the day he realized he had to be a man. Two years later, his family moved, and I never heard from him again.

In middle school, I had a friend named Emmett Hammond. But in eighth grade, Emmett broke.

My bad.

---

After Emmett moved away, I tried my best to forget about him and return to my normal routine. For the next four years, it was just school, home, sleep. And I was fine with that, for I had become dependent on knowing the whens, wheres, and whys of every event in my life. Until, much like Emmett years earlier, something within me snapped.

There’s a reason most buttoned-up Christian dudes go to college and promptly get addicted to weed. When you’re constrained by the people around you in ways you can’t consciously understand, any amount of freedom feels like ecstasy. I chased that feeling all the way to New York City, a thousand miles from home. I talked to my parents a bit when we were all quarantining last year but hadn’t called them since. Their response was a simple, “if you won’t talk to us, then I guess you don’t need our money.”

Now that it was September 2021–the future*–and the coronavirus had mostly subsided, classes for Bradshaw College had finally continued in person. I was vaccinated, and my job no longer required it, so I’d naturally become pretty lax about wearing a mask outside. (*If you’re wondering why I’m calling my subjective past “the future,” it’s because The Future really began in February 2013, when Popular Mechanics reported that “Virtual Reality Is Coming To Your Home.”)

Freshman year was a miasma of isolation and wage slavery, but I was prepared for the fall of 2021 to be the (metaphorical) Hot Boy Summer I’d been waiting for. People in New York City were outside again, and whatever energy had left the city at the start of the pandemic was back in full force. I started working out in the mornings, kept my apartment clean, and joined as many clubs as I could think of. Yes, that included the GSA; even though I’m mostly straight, queer people tend to make great friends.

Case in point: Zoe Sepulveda. During the year of remote learning, I spent a lot of time analyzing and reanalyzing my political beliefs, including my… regressive thoughts on gayness. Which weren’t actually that regressive, but hey, I was a product of my time (that time being early-2000s, suburban Michigan). I met some queer students in a discord group for my college, and even though quarantine made it nigh-impossible to see them in person, I still learned a lot. I wanted to be a good ally, to give back to a community I’d misunderstood for so long. I’d hoped joining the GSA would allow me to assert, at least to myself, that I wasn’t the neurotic transphobe I was a few years ago.

My parents didn’t support my decision to move to Brooklyn, so I had to support myself with the money I got from various part-time jobs. This meant that the only apartment I could actually afford was six subway stops from campus. If I wanted to make it to the GSA meeting on time, that meant leaving forty minutes before it started.

Bradshaw College was in Williamsburg, and I was a couple miles east in Bushwick. Luckily, I’d managed to get an apartment close to the J line, the same line that serviced Bradshaw’s Welsh Street Station. Not so luckily, the subway train was delayed. According to the MTA app, a new species of rat was making its nest on the third rail, and a crew of biologists and nuclear scientists were being dispatched to remove it. But within a few minutes, the rat and her daughters had been purged, the trains were free to run again, and I was free to make the six-stop jaunt to Welsh Street.

The J line is exactly like its more popular cousins. It’s more run down and a little less busy, but it’s just as trashy and just as humid. At seven-thirty on a Wednesday, the only people in my car were tired workers getting back from a late shift, stragglers using the subway as a mobile hotel, and me, languishing amongst the perspiration.

I sat down on a seventies-patterned seat, a respectable distance from any other passenger. Apparently, native New Yorkers cared little for the etiquette that you should never, ever talk to anyone on the subway, because less than a minute later, I was approached by a hippie with a scraggly beard and relish-covered bagel. “Hey, wanna meet God?” he said, before immediately showing me his cock. It was veiny, and I imagined it smelled faintly of asparagus. Like the giant wheel in The Price of Right, a million choices flashed through my head. It came disturbingly close to landing on “land this dude flat on his pale fucking ass” before ticking over one more option to “run away.” So I did just that, hightailing it out of the train four stops before I was supposed to get off, trying to get the image of the man’s surprisingly large dick out of my head.

Then I had a mini-breakdown. There I was, standing on the gum-laden platform of Flushing St., rain pitter-pattering on my jacket. I was alone in the city, shacked up in the middle of fucking Bushwick, and working a dead-end job at a glorified convenience store. The only friends I had were either online or cat-shaped, and I’d just been sexually assaulted by someone straight out of the Summer of Love. At that moment, I hated New York, I hated myself, and I desperately wanted a life of my own. A real life, not whoever’s simulacrum I was trudging through.

I locked those feelings in the part of my brain I kept my trash (lyrics to Ska songs, knowledge of calculus, etc.) and forced myself to catch the next train. Somehow, I managed to arrive at campus with ten minutes to spare. It’s funny how stark the contrast can be between the subway and the campus. On the way up the stairs, I bumped into a dude trying to walk his guinea pig. Like, an actual guinea pig. On a leash. Then I entered the surface world, where skyscrapers gleamed like diamonds, lit up by the string lights of dorming students. Contrast.

There were two people I vaguely recognized once I arrived at the GSA meeting. A stout, non-binary lesbian named Jules Azarian, and the aforementioned Zoe Sepulveda. Despite being one of my closest friends (not that I had many, but whatever), I’d never met Zoe in person, and the only reason I actually recognized her was because she looked similar to the Picrew avatar she used on Discord. She was confident, kind, and always willing to explain something to a clueless cis dude.

She noticed me before I had the chance to approach her. “Hey, Will! I’m so glad you came!”

“Yeah, just trying out some new stuff. It’s good to finally see you in person.”

“Well, we’re happy to have you! I know it doesn’t seem too exciting right now,” she said, gesturing to the nearly-empty room, “but I think this meeting’s gonna be special.”

“I hope so!” I tried to force a smile and hoped she wouldn’t see through it. If she did, she didn’t say anything.

Zoe did, however, notice my eyes fall on the folding table of refreshments across the room. “Go get some food,” she said kindly, sympathy underlying her expression. I thanked her for understanding and gathered as many weird powdered donuts as I could. A minute later and Zoe was occupied with her girlfriend and... some other girl? Was she a girl? I thought so, though she sure didn’t dress like one. I decided it was best to just sit down and wait for the meeting to start, rather than ask questions I wasn’t capable of answering.

A couple awkward minutes later, the pronouns circle began. I’d never been part of one before, except maybe during the odd freshman orientation event, but I always enjoyed the idea. Letting people say their preferred pronouns made it so easy for allies like me, who didn’t like assuming someone’s identity but often did regardless.

When it was my turn to go, I clearly spoke the words I’d practiced in my head. “My name is Will Robinson. He/him, please.” Everyone gave a quick nod, and I prepared to zone out, my job complete.

I was distracted by the distressed face of the girl from across the room. “Where’re you from, Will?” she asked. I gave her a weird look. I didn’t understand why she was asking me in particular... unless? Did she know me from somewhere? I briefly scrutinized her face, trying to remember where I recognized her from. Her voice seemed familiar, but–

I decided to just answer her question and hope mine would sort itself out. “Uh, it was this town in Michigan, right outside Grand Rapids.” She seemed lost in thought, and I hoped I’d cleared up whatever issue she’d been having.

Two minutes later, right before it was her turn in the circle, the girl not-so-silently slipped out to use the bathroom. It was only once she never came back that I realized I’d done something very wrong.