A week later, and nothing has changed. I’m still stuck.

Dad’s avoiding me. He still hasn’t called me son since I told him. He still says “I Love you.” He doesn’t ignore me. But he doesn’t have anything else to say. My mom, on the other hand, has started calling me son. Which is weird. And annoying. She also keeps doing this weird thing. Like while we’re cleaning up at dinner tonight.

“Daniel,” she says, “I’m so proud of you.”

I don’t need to ask what she’s proud of, this time. I just grunt a “thanks.”

“You’ve been dealing with this all this time,” she continues, “and I know it was hard, but you made the right choice.”

She seems to think that this helps. I don’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. But each time she says that, the words hurt a little more. And she says it a lot.

“Thanks, Mom,” I reply. Maybe this time she’ll stop there.

“I’ve read up on transitioning. It’s hard, and you’d still look like a boy. And the surgery . . .” she trails off, shaking her head. Again. I’m pretty sure I know exactly which websites she’s been reading. At least she’s not going on about bad parents ‘enabling’ a delusion, again.

The first night she did this, Alex tried to start an actual conversation with her about it. Somehow, they know quite a bit about this stuff. Mom just blew through anything they had to say.It’s easier now that Alex isn’t here every evening. I can just nod and grunt until she winds down.

So maybe one or two things have changed.

📎 📎 📎

Alex and I are eating lunch together. We have every day since they left my house. Even on the weekend, we met for lunch. Once at my house, once in the park near the school. We’ve said maybe two whole sentences to each other during that time. 

I don’t feel like I’m being controlled. I don’t feel like I have to do it. But even though I decide each time will be the last, the next time I find myself choosing to meet up with them one more time. And, honestly, I don’t mind that much.

As angry as I still am at them, I feel a sort of peace when they’re around. As long as we don’t talk, I can let my feelings go for a little bit. Eat my lunch. Enjoy the weather. Think about the sculpture I’ve been working on. 

Once I’m cleared to use the welder at school after hours, I’m going to build it for real. For now, I’ve been working on it in miniature, at home. If placing one piece of bent wire, and agonizing over what to do next counts as working on it.

The situation with Gina is one thing that really hasn’t changed. The cliche would be for her to not know that I exist. Or, to go a little afield, to know I exist, but not care. That’s not how it is. We’ve talked before. We’ve had conversations about books. Last year we helped each other study math. Not best friends, but friends.

Once I started having feelings for her, that stopped. Or I stopped. I backed off. I tried to figure out the perfect approach. What I could say or do that would make her notice that we’re a good match. A way to find out if there was a possibility there, without risking what we had.

While I waited, what we had faded. Now what we have is that we say “hi” in the halls. We nod to each other occasionally in English class. I do little things to get her attention, and then shy away.

In theory, Alex is supposed to be helping. They’re supposed to be talking me up. Or sounding her out. Or something. I’ve seen nothing. I’ve started to ask them, once or twice, what they’re doing to hold up their end of the deal. I’m holding up mine. But I don’t ask. Maybe I don’t really want to know.

📎 📎 📎

“I don’t know,” Alex says.

They’re hanging out with me as I muck out the cages again. Somehow, their silence while I was working was worse than the silence at lunch, and I finally asked another question. The way I see it, I’ve got a bunch saved up, so I had asked the big one.

“How can you not know if God with a capital g is real,” I ask, “ when you’re supposed to be a god yourself.”

“That’s not how it works,” they answer. Then they go on, patiently, as if I’m a slow child that they’re humoring,”You’re talking omniscient, omnipotent, creator of everything. We’re not like that. Or maybe we are, all together.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

So they tell me.

There is a god for almost anything. There is a god of paperclips and other small office supplies. There is a god of the parking places. There is a god of money. A god of credit cards. A god of cash. Which leads me to interrupt.

“If there’s a god of credit cards, and a god of cash,” I ask, “then what is the god of money the god of? Checks? Money orders?”

Yes, apparently. And of cash, and credit cards, and bank drafts (whatever those are). And there’s a god of commerce who is also the god of all of those things, plus barter, and gifts, and options (once again, whatever those are). 

“So the god of commerce is more powerful than the god of money?”

“There is no more or less powerful. There’s just more influential.”

“What's the difference?”

“We don’t have ‘power’,” Alex says, “We have influence.”

“So the god of commerce is more influential than the god of money.”

“No.”

I should let this go. I’m getting a headache trying to follow this. On the other hand, it’s distracting me from the smell of the cages. It’s a tough call.

“But if the god of commerce is in charge of more stuff—”

“We’re not ‘in charge of’ anything.”

“Fine, ‘influences’ more stuff. Doesn’t that make them more influential?”

“It doesn’t—”

“Work like that,” I interrupt, “Yeah, whatever.”

I don’t know if they’re being intentionally difficult, or just really can’t explain it. I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m not getting the answers I want. 

“You are the most frustrating individual I have ever met,” I say.

“Heh. No one’s ever called me that before.”

“Really? I find it hard to believe that, even wherever it is you come from, nobody’s ever called you frustrating.”

“Oh, no”, they say, “I get that all the time. But no one’s ever called me an individual.”

I’m not going to ask. They’re just trying to bait me into asking another question so they can frustrate me some more. I ignore them and move on to the next cage. Just focus on getting this done, then I’ll go home.

“What do you mean ‘Nobody’s ever called me an individual’?” or not.

“We’re not individuals. You wanted to know how many gods there are, right?”

I nod and they continue, “Well, we’re not countable.” They stare at the wall as they talk. They really seem to be trying to help me understand. I’m dubious. “The god of commerce is the god of money and the god of credit and the god of pennies, for that matter. But the god of luck is also the god of pennies, but the god of luck is not the god of commerce. See?”

They look pleased with themself. I am not pleased with them.

“No,” I say slowly, “I don’t see.”

“Let’s see. How about this,” they collect their thoughts, or whatever it is they have in that head of theirs, “We’re not discrete, we’re a continuum with countless dimensions.”

Uh-huh. Now they’re starting to look frustrated.

“Anything people care about has a god. But what counts as anything? Right? I mean, a chair is a chair, but it’s also furniture. But something that’s not furniture can be a chair.”

“No it can’t.”

“Then what’s a chair?”

“A piece of furniture you sit on.”

“So a sofa is a chair?”

“A piece of furniture that one person sits on.”

“So if two people scrunch into a chair it’s not a chair anymore?”

“A piece of furniture designed for one person to sit on.”

“So you can’t know if something’s a chair until you talk to whoever designed it, to see if they intended it to be a chair?”

“Well, no.”

“Then how do you know it’s a chair?”

“I just know.”

“And is a stool a chair?”

“Sure.”

“How about a foot stool?”

“Maybe, if it’s made to be comfortable to sit on.”

“But it’s also a stool?”

“Yeah.”

“And maybe some people think that stools and chairs are separate things, right?”

“I guess. But what do chairs have to do with gods?”

“We could do that with just about any word. Or, hmm, category, I guess. The actual word doesn’t matter that much. Well, except to Miriam and their ilk.”

“Gods of words?” I’m not completely dim.

“And grammar, and syntax, and definitions, and taxonomy. They’re even more continuous than most.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are there lots of gods of office supplies?”

“Not as such. At least, not at the moment. Well, actually, maybe? I’m not entirely sure who got left behind.”

“Left behind?”

They gesture down at themself, “I’m exceptionally discrete, for a god.” They hold up a hand when I start to interrupt. “Thats with an e-t-e, not e-e-t,” they continue, “When I incarnated, I imagine I left a noticeable void in the Divine. I’m just not sure what was left. Because I’m only lightly connected now.”

I still don’t get it. I doubt that I ever will. I’m not even sure that there is anything there to get. I think they might well just be making the whole thing up. But they seem so sincere. Anyway, if I keep letting myself get distracted from the cages, I’ll never get done. 

“Okay, then,” I say, and turn back to the task at hand.