Madison (she tells me to call her by her first name) is not my first therapist. When I got really depressed a couple of years ago I saw this really annoying old guy. There was no way I felt comfortable taking to him about my real issues, so I just talked about having trouble adjusting to high school. The fact that my best friend had moved away. Stuff like that. Eventually I figured out how to pretend I wasn’t sad, and I got to stop seeing him.

I almost did that with Madison. Reflex, I guess. When you get used to hiding something all the time, it can be hard to let it out into the open. But I did. She said maybe five whole sentences in the whole session, until we got to the end. It was just my life and feelings pouring out. I ran down as the session was almost finished. “And I guess I just don’t know if I want to transition,” I concluded.

“Are you sure about that,” she asked, “because that’s not what I heard, just now.”

I must have looked confused.

“What did you feel when your father told you he’d support you if you decide to transition?”

“Um, happy,” I said, “Really, really happy.”

“You can want contradictory things. Just because you want things to stay the same, or want to avoid the possible bad outcomes, that doesn’t mean you don’t also want what you think could make you happy.”

“Transitioning?”

“Is that the first thing you thought of when I referred to something that would make you happy?”

It was. So, yeah. I do want it. I want to be me. I want to stop pretending to be a boy. But . . .

“And wanting to transition doesn’t mean you don’t also want to not transition.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“That’s what you’re here to find out.”

📎 📎 📎

I drive straight from therapy to work. When I walk into the kennel area, Alex is already there.

“So you really didn’t tell him?”

They should really get a phone. This is our first chance to talk since the trip. We dropped them off ‘at home’ when we got back into town. I knew they were lying, of course, but I think Dad suspected it, too. He didn’t say anything, if he did.

“I didn’t,” I respond, “but he isn’t stupid, and it’s not like I have a lot of experience smuggling people. Or anything else, really.”

“Hmmph.”

They seem genuinely put out. Oh well, they’ll get over it. Probably.

I wonder if they’re doing anything to hold up their end of our bargain. It seems like they must be, considering that I couldn’t seem to not hold up mine. But maybe the rules are different for them. I guess I could ask.

“So—”

“I’m working on it.”

“But—”

“I can’t tell you anything else, or it won’t work.”

That’s just annoying. I don’t think they’re lying. I’m still not one hundred percent sure that they’re not fooling me. After all, they are a trickster, supposedly. I don’t bother asking why telling me would keep it, whatever it is, from working. I’m sure telling me that would ruin everything, too. Convenient.

We talk about English class. We’re reading Paradise Lost. Alex thinks it’s hilarious. They try to explain why it's so funny, but can’t quite get the point across.

“Some non sequitur about God and stuff”

I don’t ask for further explanation. It might break my brain. More than it already is, that is.

📎 📎 📎

Friday evening I’m lying in bed, frustrated. I had another therapy session this afternoon. In one way it was really good. Talking to somebody that has no stake in my situation is freeing. Whether I transition or not, her life goes on the same. There’s no past history between us for me to betray. No expectations for me to meet, or fail to meet. No hopes to dash.

But I didn’t come away with an answer. Not that I expected to, of course. Not exactly. But it would have been nice. I knew it wouldn’t happen in the first session. I guess I knew it wouldn’t happen in this one, too. Madison says it could be months. But I don’t want to wait months.

I write all this down in my journal. I could have done it on the computer. It’s not a secret from my parents anymore. But Maggie stuff goes in the journal. That’s how it is. Besides, writing it by hand seems more real than just typing it on a keyboard, and Madison thought it was good idea.

📎 📎 📎

I work Saturday. It’s a rare day shift for me. That means there will be people there, checking out the animals. Hoping either to find their lost pet, or to find their feline or canine soulmate to come home with them. It also means less cleaning and more calming. A lot of the animals can get over-stimulated when too many strangers come through in too short of time. I help calm them down. I soothe them. Talk to them. Even the newer ones at least know my smell. It was already in their pens when they got there.

It’s not a busy day. Some big music festival is going on, and most people not going to that are wise enough to avoid the traffic jams it has caused in the area. I was ten minutes late because I ended up parking a half mile away and walking in. It wasn’t a lack of parking, I just couldn’t get into the area.

A few souls who are braver, or maybe just luckier, than me to come in. There’s an older couple looking for a dog for their grandchild. I point them toward Randy. He’s probably at least a quarter retriever, but the other three quarters are god knows what. Maybe some unholy mix of Pekingese, chihuahua, and Rottweiler. He’s three or four years old, and super gentle. But a bit weird looking. They fall in love with him instantly, and I send them up front to deal with the paperwork.

📎 📎 📎

If I’d left on time I would have escaped. But no. Since it was going to be a pain and a half to get out of here anyway, I’d volunteered to stay until close. It was only an extra hour. Mistake.

At fifteen minutes until six o’clock,. She walked in. Gina.

📎 📎 📎

“Dan!”

She seems happy to see me. That’s weird. We share a class and see each other in the halls at least every couple of days. She hardly pays any attention to me then. What’s the difference now?

“Hi, Gina,” I say, “What are you doing here?”

“Um,” she pauses. Apparently my question has stunned her with its insipidity, “I’m looking for a cat?”

Is that a question? Or does she just sound uncertain because she’s wondering why else she would be here. I mean, she could be looking for a dog. But she isn’t. I should probably say something.

“Oh.” Something better than that. “Do you want to see who we have?”

No, of course not. She just wants me to hand her a cat in a plain brown bag and she’ll be on her way. If there’s a god of social awkwardness, I must be their greatest achievement. Before she has to pretend that that wasn’t a stupid question, I gesture for her to follow me.

We have seven cats ready to adopt right now. DM has been here the longest. When he first came in, we called him Pint Size, because he’s tiny for an adult cat. Within a couple of days everyone was calling him Darth Maul, or DM for short. At least everyone who wasn’t hospitalized with massive lacerations. That’s not as big of an exaggeration as it should be.

Of course Gina heads right for him. Most people do. He’s so cute and fluffy. The evil is completely hidden. Unless you know what to look for. Gina leans up the the cage. I’m prepared to yank her back if her face gets in striking range and DM attacks. Instead, the rolls onto his back, exposing his belly.

“Can I pet her?” Gina asks.

“Are your shots up to date?”

When she looks confused I continue, “He’s a vicious little thing. Two people have had to get stitches.”

She looks dubious, so I go on, “It’s not that he’s evil,” Much. “He can be really affectionate. But once he’s done, he’s done, and his method of letting you know is to do as much damage as possible in as short a time as possible. Here,” I say, moving between her and DM’s pen. I open the door and reach part way in. I don’t touch the belly of the fluffy beast. He meows. So cute. Maybe this time he won’t—

No, I can see the glint in his eyes. I hold my hand near the door. After a few more plaintive mews, he rolls to his feet and paces over to my hand. Sniff. Sniff. He convinces himself that I’m still me. He rubs against my hand. I scratch him behind the ears, not taking my eyes off him for a second. There.

He’s way faster than I am, but I saw it coming, so his claws pass through the air right where my hand had been. I close the door to the pen. “See?” I say.

“Can I try?” She’s clearly not convinced.

“Sorry,” I shake my head, “Against the rules. Only employees and volunteers.”

“Which are you?”

“Intern,” I say, “But that counts as an employee.”

“Come on. Please?” She doesn’t bat her eyelashes, but she might as well.

“Seriously, he’s a menace. I wasn’t joking about the stitches.”

She’s going to keep asking, and I’m going to eventually give in, then she’ll be maimed and hate me forever and I’ll lose my job and I won’t be able to afford the materials for my sculpture and I won’t get into college and my life will be over.

“Okay,” she says. Then, spotting another cat, she moves along, “What about this one?”

“This one” is a much safer option. To the best of my knowledge, Geraldine is responsible for no injuries and no deaths.

“That’s Geraldine. She’s been here a couple of weeks. She’s on the older side, so she’s a little harder to place.”

“But she’s so cute.”

I wouldn’t exactly call her cute. Geraldine has more of a quiet dignity. As long as she’s sitting still. If she’s moving you can see that she’s a major klutz. But I’m not going to stand in the way of any of our animals getting a good home. And I feel like Gina would provide that.

“You can tell Helen in the office that you want her, if you do. Do you want to see the others first?”

But she’s already petting Geraldine, and Geraldine is putting on a nice show of enjoying it. I guess she’s found a friend.

“I have to clear it with my parents,” she says. She pulls out her phone and fires off a text, then looks back at me. “I’ve seen you hanging around with Alex, right?”

What? “Yeah, I guess,” I say.

“What’s up with them?”

“What do you mean?”

Wait a second. She said “them.”

“Who are they? Or what are they?”

Crap. How do I answer that? Can I tell her the truth? She’d think I’m crazy, of course. I don’t have to say that I believe it, though. I could just say that Alex thinks they’re a god. Or I can deny everything. But I doubt she’ll believe me, then she’ll be pissed at me for lying.

“Are they fey?”

“What? What’s that?”

“You know, fey, like Faerie, the Fair Folk.”

No, I don’t know. Now I truly have no idea what she’s talking about. Aren’t fairies little people with wings?

“Not that I know of?”

“Then what?”

Her phone buzzes. She reads the message, then continues, “Damn, my Mom said no on the cat. Now—”

Helen leans in from the office and calls out, “Daniel, we’re closing up. Come clock out.”

Saved by the bell.

“I gotta go. See you at school?” I say.

“But—”

I’m already out the door.