“I love you no matter what.”
Those were my dad’s words at the end of our conversation last night. As a matter of fact, those were his only words for the entire “conversation.” He listened quietly while I told my story. It went faster than it had with Mom. And without nearly as much crying (very little on my part, none on his).
Then this morning he acted like everything was normal. It wasn’t though. Here’s the thing. My dad ends almost every sentence he says to me with “son.” “Pass the salt, son,” “How was your day, son?” “I love you, son.” He’s always done that. Or rather, had always done that.
He hasn’t called me “son” since last night. I didn’t notice it at the time. It was when I got to school that I realized it. I played back all the conversations as best as I could, to be sure. I’m pretty sure.
I broke Dad.
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Alex is in English today. They wave at me as they come in the room. I ignore them. They sit down next to me at lunch. Somehow they have a tray of food that’s not vending machine crap. For a second I wonder why, then I remember that I don’t care. I ignore them.
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They’re waiting by my car after school. I want to tell them to go away, but I can’t bring myself to. They look sad and uncomfortable at the same time. I get in the car and wait.
They don’t get in. The door is locked, but that hasn’t stopped them before. I wait some more. They win. I reach over and unlock the passenger door. They get in without a word.
We’re halfway home when they speak. Somewhere in that first half, without me noticing, they became he again. I think this is the first time they’ve done that in my presence, but I still didn’t see it. If I weren’t still angry with them, I’d ask how it works.
“I’m sorry,” they say.
Why should they feel sorry? All they did was betray my biggest secret. While I was helping them. No big deal.
“I shouldn’t have let you make that deal,” they continue.
“What?” I ask. That’s what they’re sorry about. Why did I even let them in my car? I don’t want anything to do with them. They should just go away.
“And for,” they wave their hands around, indicating, well, pretty much everything, “everything else, too.”
“Why are you in my car? Why did I let you in?”
The car behind me honks. Right, the light is green. I need to not have these discussions while I’m driving.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” they say. Apparently this should be obvious. “I know you don’t want anything to do with me at this point, but we made that deal. We’re both stuck with it.”
I can’t process this while I’m driving. I stay quiet the rest of the way home.
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By the time we walk in the front door, I almost get it. I’m supposed to let them hang around to recharge, or whatever, and they have to help me get a date with Gina. But that doesn’t mean they have to stay at my house. They don’t need to be around me that much do they? I thought it was going to be a few minutes every day or two.
When I finally get my thoughts organized enough to ask them, I get the most annoying answer in the world.
“I can’t explain.”
“So you don’t know either.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So you know, but you won’t tell me.”
“I didn’t say that either.”
I wonder if deicide is illegal in Texas. I’ll have to look that up. Still, my parents sort of like them, so even if I got off legally, I’d be in trouble at home. “Let me guess,” I say, “You can’t explain why you can’t explain.”
“Close enough.”
“I’m going to do my homework. Then I’ve got to go to work. Don’t give away any more of my secrets while I’m gone.”
“I—”
The slamming of my bedroom door cuts off the rest of whatever they were going to say.
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My favorite thing about my job is that there are no other people there most of the time. Sometimes one of the regular staff will be working late in the front office, but back here with the animals I’m almost always people-free. It’s just me and the animals.
I like them. The animals don’t judge me. Occasionally one of them will try to kill me, but I don’t hold that against them. I don’t like me that much sometimes, either. Mostly they’re happy to see me and bask in whatever attention I can give them. I like them.
When it’s time to clock out and Alex hasn’t dropped in, I’m almost disappointed. We have a german shepherd that we just got in that’s particularly antisocial. I wanted to introduce them. The deal didn’t say anything about not getting them maimed.
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Everyone’s in bed, or at least in their rooms, when I get home. Once I shower off the animal stink, so am I.
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I’ve talked to Gina like two times since the school year started. Once I said “Hello,” and the other time “Excuse me.” I did say “Hey,” once, but she was standing with a couple of her friends, so I don’t know whether to count that.
The point is, I’m not exactly trying to do anything about my feelings. I may not be the most self-observant tool in the shed, but I think I’m noticing a pattern here. A pattern that I have no idea how to break.
I try. I see her at lunch before she sits down and I think about waving. Or I see her already at a table, by herself for the moment, and imagine asking if I can join her. But I don’t. It’s like I’m standing at the edge of a drop-off, and I can’t move an inch forward. I felt the same way every time I thought about telling my parents about being trans.
I felt the same way about telling them I was going to take the welding class. I felt the same way about taking that class at all, at first. But I psyched myself up and pushed past it. How did I do that? Why was that different? I don’t know, and I can’t figure it out.
I’m not going to figure it out, either. Not right now. Not standing in the cafeteria trying to convince myself that there’s no cliff right in front of me. Trying to take one step toward Gina, who is sitting on a chair in the corner, reading A Deadly Education, one of my favorite books.
I could walk over there. I could go the obvious route. “Hi Gina, I love that book. Have you read any of her other books?” Or the more subtle. I could go grab the sequel from the library and sit down in her line of sight, reading it. Hoping she’d notice. That’s more my speed, but the idea of sitting there hoping makes my stomach clench.
I’m stuck.
Goddess is this an uncomfortably real mood.