None of the Above(11)

“If there’s a risk of cancer, shouldn’t we do it right away?” asked my dad. “Can we see this specialist tomorrow?”

“We’ll have to check with her schedule,” Dr. Johnson said.

“What do you mean, you’ll look at her schedule?” my dad said, his voice growing louder. “This is an emergency.”

“Well, it’s not technically an emergency, Mr. Lattimer,” Dr. Johnson started, but when she saw my dad’s face getting red, she backpedaled. “However, I’ll place a call to Dr. Cheng.” She picked up my chart and headed toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

After she left, my dad slumped into his seat, and put his hand up to his forehead. I hurried over to his side, knowing that if there was anything that could break him, it was the thought of another cancer. “It’s okay, Dad,” I said, my face pressed up against his coarse brown hair.

“But what if it isn’t?” His voice caught. “I couldn’t handle it again, sweetie. I just couldn’t.”

“She said the tumors only develop when people are older,” I reassured him. It felt weird to be the one comforting him, like somehow I was the adult and he was the teenager.

A few minutes later Dr. Johnson came back in and told us that the specialist had an appointment the next Monday at four o’clock. “Dr. Cheng will be able to talk to you about surgical options,” she said. “She’ll be able to give you more details about cancer risk.”

At the C word, my father’s face sagged again. But to be perfectly honest? Even knowing what cancer did to my mother, sometimes I think it would’ve been so much easier if things had been as simple as cutting out a tumor.





CHAPTER 5


When we got home from Dr. Johnson’s office, I collapsed onto our couch, sinking into a cocoon of worn cushions and handmade afghans. The shock and fear had worn off, leaving me empty. Dazed. Numb.

None of it made sense. I didn’t understand how I could be part boy. Did it even mean anything, if I still looked like a girl on the outside? I had boobs and hips and cheekbones and lips that Sam loved to kiss.

Sam. Just thinking his name made a ripple of pain go through my body. I would have to tell him. Except . . .

Maybe I wouldn’t.

I didn’t have to tell anybody. For months after her cancer diagnosis, my mom kept it secret except for my immediate family. The only way for someone to know that I wasn’t a girl was if he had ultrasound vision, or was able to look at my cells under a microscope.

Or was it more obvious? I stared at the childhood pictures on our mantel. Was it just that all babies look alike, or did I look like a boy in that nine-month-old portrait? All of a sudden, I remembered the time when I was eight and cried when my aunt Carla got me a pink pair of sneakers instead of the blue ones I wanted. Then, the day my mom gave me a spanking when I made a mess in the bathroom because I wanted to see if I could pee standing up like the boys in my summer camp.

Had these all been hints of what I might be?

“A hermaphrodite,” I whispered. Saying the word out loud gave me the creeps. It made me sound like a bug, or something that belonged in a rock collection. I couldn’t remember the name of the syndrome Dr. Johnson had mentioned. My dad would have remembered, was probably burning bandwidth looking it up now. But what was the point of looking it up when they weren’t sure I had it, yet? All Dr. Johnson had done was do a quick ultrasound and mash on my crotch.

It’s a mistake. I repeated it over and over in my mind until I actually believed it, the way Coach Auerbach had us chant mantras before meets to get the team into a winning mind-set. Say something often enough and you’ll believe it.

I forced myself to pull out my copy of The Merchant of Venice. It was the perfect thing to get my mind off doctor’s visits and blood tests, because deciphering Shakespeare took every ounce of my brainpower, when I did it right.

Act 1, with all the haggling and usury and blatant anti-Semitism was only okay, except for the part when Portia dissed all of her suitors, which was pretty enjoyable. Then, in act 2, scene 6, good old Will stabbed me in the gut.



But love is blind, and lovers cannot see

The pretty follies that themselves commit;

For if they could, Cupid himself would blush

To see me thus transformèd to a boy.



I knew it was stupid for that sentence to hurt. It wasn’t like Shakespeare wrote it with me in mind—he was talking about how Shylock’s daughter disguised herself as a boy to escape his house. Even so, I couldn’t stop the tightening of my throat as I read it, or the acceleration of my heart.

Cupid himself would blush, I was such a freak.

I tucked The Merchant of Venice back into my knapsack and pulled out my precalc book instead. In math, there were no cross-dressers, no girls turning into boys. I lost myself in the numbers, and in the equations that I could actually solve.

Halfway through my problem set, our doorbell rang. It was Darren Kowalski. He had the faintest sheen of sweat on his forehead, and wore sweats and a long-sleeve cross-country shirt saying MY SPORT IS YOUR SPORT’S PUNISHMENT.

“Ms. MacDowell said you needed someone to take notes,” he said. “There’s a handout, too.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his CamelBak hydration pack.

“Thanks,” I said. It made sense for Darren to have volunteered. He only lived a half mile away—the equivalent of a chip shot for a distance runner.