If I Was Your Girl(12)

“Remember when you saw me and Chloe at the game?”

“Wow,” I said, my eyebrows shooting up. I wondered if anyone else knew about Chloe. I doubted it; she was a little masculine, of course, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything, and it didn’t seem like anyone was out and proud at Lambertville High. “I thought maybe you were smoking.”

“Nah,” she said. “Chloe’s a huge jock, so she refuses to corrupt her body or whatever.”

I nodded, processing what she had told me. I had been so caught up with my own secret, I realized, it hadn’t occurred to me that my new friends were keeping secrets of their own.

We sat silently for a few moments, listening to the rain pound the roof. It reminded me of the time Dad took me hunting with some buddies from work and a freak storm kept us trapped in our cabin all weekend. I tried to make oatmeal cookies like in Mom’s recipe book from the ingredients on hand, but all it seemed to do was make Dad uncomfortable. He never took me hunting again.

Bee’s voice cut through the quiet. “Your turn. It’s your fourth, so better make it a good one.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to control my breathing. “Just give me a minute, okay?” She shrugged.

I thought again of that weekend, and how I threw the cookies away even though there was nothing wrong with them. I thought of how I’d stopped doing so many of the things I’d enjoyed so Dad wouldn’t be mad. I thought of going the rest of my life pretending I sprang to life from nothing at sixteen years old and felt my cheeks flush with shame and anger. I was so tired of cowering. I was so tired of hiding. I wanted to tell the truth, to say it out loud.

But when I went to speak, nothing came out.

“I’m sorry,” I said finally. My eyes felt dry. “I know what I need to say, but I just … can’t.”

She waited a moment. Lightning flashed outside the house. I expected her to prod me, or maybe try to guess. But she just leaned back and said, “The rain doesn’t look like it’s gonna let up anytime soon. Get your sketchbook.”

I set the pad on my lap. “What should I draw?”

“Whatever you want.”

I put a pencil to paper and licked my lips. Within a few seconds the outline of a sad-eyed little boy appeared. Minutes passed as I sketched, the only sound the pattering of the rain on the roof.

“It’s okay, you know,” Bee said quietly, taking a long drag of her cigarette. “Whatever it is you can’t tell me.” She met my eyes. “It’s gonna be okay.”



DECEMBER, THREE YEARS AGO

I was an hour early for the support group. The door was locked and the lights were off, so I crouched on the stoop. I played Final Fantasy on my handheld while I waited. My fingers were numb but my character in the game was named Amanda and she was beautiful and powerful, and watching her kill monsters helped calm me down. The only time I got to feel like myself was when I played pretend.

It was the first week of December, and every house but this one was draped in twinkling white lights like snow and ice. I had only seen snow twice before we moved, and it never snowed in Georgia. It was very cold, though, which was nice. When it was cold outside I could wear thick boots, thick jeans, sweaters, scarves, and hats. I could cocoon myself so that the only visible parts of me were my nose and my eyes and a few strands of brown hair. Nobody could tell if I was a boy or a girl.

“Well, hello,” a voice called from the yard. I paused my game and looked up. A girl a few years older than me in black leather boots strode down the garden path toward the porch, waving. She was tall and long-legged, with a cloud of natural hair bouncing with every step. I put my handheld away and stood, tucking my hands under my armpits. “Are you new? I can’t really tell.”

“I am,” I said. Even my voice was sexless when filtered through my wool scarf. “New, I mean. I haven’t been here before.”

“Good!” she said, beaming. She unlocked the front door and motioned me in. The front room was uncomfortably warm, but I didn’t want to leave my cocoon yet. “I’m Virginia, by the way. Coffee?”

“You don’t have to make me anything,” I said. “I’ll just get water.”

She brought me to a kitchen that looked like something out of the 1940s, all white and blue tile and high windows. I sat and sweltered while she ground coffee beans.

“Listen,” she said, “by all means wear whatever makes you comfortable, but it’s hot as Santa’s butt crack in here and I just know you’re cooking in there. I promise, whatever you’re hiding, in this place, what we see is what you know you are inside.”

I stood blankly for a second and then took off my hat. My hair was damp and stringy with sweat. I unwrapped my scarf, the scratchy wool pulling at my skin like a Band-Aid.

Virginia smiled. “See? You’re gorgeous.”

She sat beside me and took my hands in hers. The size of her hands was the only thing that might have given her away, but next to my bony, pale fingers hers were beautiful and dark and alive. “Listen, a lot of the people you’re going to see tonight are pretty … rough. Don’t let them scare you off, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“But don’t treat them like freaks either,” she said. “Just open your eyes and see them the way they really are. They’re all beautiful, okay?” I nodded. She squeezed my hand.