Symptoms of Being Human (3 page)

Solo steadies me with one big hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, regaining my balance. “Thanks. Who was that?”

“Jim Vickers,” Solo says, frowning as the chase proceeds around the corner. “Prank enthusiast-slash-running back. But he's out for the season.”

“Running back? As in football?”

Solo shakes his head. “Chess.”

I snort. “Is he always such an asshole?”

But Solo doesn't seem to hear me as we round the corner and push through the double doors that lead out to the quad. It's a bright day, already approaching the mideighties. The sun feels good, and I stand up a little taller.

“You know where you're going next?” Solo says.

I dig into my bag and pull out my schedule. “Precalc, then French, then lunch.”

“Well,” Solo says, “then we part ways.” He puts his palms together and makes a mock bow. “May you survive your first day.” I feel slightly nauseated at the thought of being on my own again; even though it's only been two hours, I was getting used to having a massive bodyguard. I turn and mirror his mock bow.

“May you endure the horrors of Algebra,” I reply.

Solo smiles.

“So, see you at lunch?”

At that, Solo's eyes drift to something in the distance behind me.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”

IT TAKES ME FOUR TRIES
to get the combination right when I stop by my locker before third period because I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched. I glance to my left and catch the brunette girl with the perfect nose staring at me from her own locker about ten rows away. I expect a glare—but her look shows more curiosity than contempt, as though she's observing some fascinating animal at the zoo. When our eyes meet, her expression doesn't change—and then, after a moment, she walks away. Feeling unsettled, I unload the books I don't need and set off for Precalc.

Mr. Hibbard is ancient and mind-numbingly dull. The only redeeming quality of his class is that he's so old-school he's brought in actual blackboards. The smell and the clicking of chalk on board are comforting, but I still hold out little hope of getting an A.

In French, I sit behind a blond girl named Casey Reese who notices the stitching on my Ramones shirt and asks where I got it. Feeling slightly suspicious of her motives, I tell her I bought it online and then pretend to look for something in my bag.

At first, I like Madame Bordelon—she's French-Canadian, and her accent sounds exotic and sophisticated. But halfway through the period, she realizes I'm the only student who hasn't chosen a French alias—and then she asks me to pick one in front of the whole class. When I respond with stunned silence, she quickly refers me to a list in the textbook, and then moves on with her lesson.

I avoid further interaction by pretending to study this ridiculous list, which contains a blue column for boys' names and a pink column for girls'. I glance up only to check the clock; on one hand, I can't wait to get out of this room. On the other, I'm dreading the arrival of lunch.

Park Hills High is big; there must be four thousand students here. The thought of being seen by even a quarter of those people at once in a single, massive room makes my heart contract. A low buzzing starts up in the back of my head, as if wasps have begun building a nest inside my skull. It's the beginning of an anxiety attack—and I can't have one now. Not on my first day.

I close my eyes and take three slow, deep Doctor Ann breaths. My heart palpitates one more time, then settles back into its normal rhythm. I've delayed the attack for now, and maybe I can fight it off indefinitely—or, at the very least, until I've made it through lunch.

At Immaculate Heart, I avoided the cafeteria at all costs. During the first week of my sophomore year, Ben Haskell slapped my tray when no teachers were looking, splattering my uniform with tomato soup and showering me in Diet Mountain Dew. Two days later, Patricia Shea tripped me as I was walking past her table. I landed on my wrist, and it swelled to the size of a softball. After that, I never went back to the cafeteria again. I would have lunch in Miss Kerns's English classroom—but then she moved to Arizona, and I had to eat on the stoop behind the art supply room.

When the bell rings at the end of French, I'm the last one out of the classroom. The quad is already crawling with students, all of them swarming toward the outdoor eating area like ants descending on the remains of a discarded Popsicle. Maybe I don't have to do this; maybe Miss Crane will let me eat in her room. I turn and start in that direction—and then I stop. I told myself it was going to be different here. I told myself
I
was going to be different. That I was going to blend in, to find my place. And I don't want that place to be hiding in a teacher's room every day at lunch. Not again.

I turn and start across the quad, not stopping until I reach the top of the stairs that lead down to the lunch area. From here, I can see everything. The “cafeteria” at Park Hills High is actually an enormous covered patio, half the size of a Costco and twice as ugly. The gray concrete wall is punctuated by three takeout windows and a giant graffiti-style mural reading “Roar, Lions!” In the open area, students sit crammed shoulder to shoulder at green fiberglass picnic tables arranged in seven long rows with a wide aisle down the center.

I stand at the top of the stairs, observing the arrangement of all the cliques, trying to find a safe place to sit. The table in the back-left corner has been claimed by a congregation of guys, and a few girls, with Seven Seize and Bleeding Out Slow T-shirts, prominent piercings, and dyed hair. If I don't manage to spot Solo in the crowd, this table might be my best option. To their right, there's a group of students mostly dressed in thrift-shop chic. No way I'd blend in with them. The other two corners are occupied by, respectively, band people, as distinguished by their bulky instrument cases, and a group of what looks like senior AP students studying while they inhale their pizza pockets and pudding cups.

The center of the room is dominated by a swath of green and gold, students in various team shirts and jerseys: the student government people, the cheerleaders, and members of the football team. To get to the food line, I'm going to have to walk down that center aisle, a gauntlet of Park Hills High's social elite. Before I make my approach, I scan the room one more time, trying to locate Solo. He's twice the size of the average student, so I figure he won't be hard to spot—but I don't see him anywhere. It's okay; I've already made my plan B. I'll grab some food and head straight for the pierced and dyed contingent, who I've affectionately nicknamed “the Hardcores.” There are quite a few open spots at their table, and my Ramones-T-shirt-and-Doc-Martens ensemble might grant me some cred.

But first, the Gauntlet.

Halfway down the stairs, I notice how tightly I'm grasping the rail. I relax my grip and try to control my breathing—but
when I make it to the bottom, I can't help walking faster.

The comments start halfway down the aisle.

“Nice hair, bro.”

“Dude, that's a chick.”

“Oh shit, sorry, bro!” A burst of laughter.

I can't tell who's saying what, because I'm not looking—but it doesn't matter. If this is as bad as it gets, I can handle it. I just lock my eyes on the menu board above the café line and keep moving. To either side of me, whispers persist, but after a few moments, it appears that I've survived the worst of it. And then:

“Dude. Is that the new tranny?”

It's like someone pours a bucket of ice water directly into my stomach, freezing my guts. My head jerks in the direction of the voice.

I immediately recognize the blond guy with his arm in a cast, the one who practically bowled me over in the hallway: Jim Vickers. He regards me with sharp contempt, and I'm unsurprised to see that the brunette hanging all over him is the same one who called me “it.” Seated on either side of the couple are a thick-necked, stringy-haired guy with the name “Cole” printed across the back of his jersey and another, smaller guy with red hair and wire-rim glasses.

Finally, I locate Solo. He's sitting across from Vickers, staring down at his tray in silence. I don't know how I missed his big form, stuffed in between two guys in football jerseys. And then I notice that his Darth Vader T-shirt is gone—Solo is wearing a jersey, too. I stop in the aisle.

Solo's on the football team?

At first I reject the idea—but I quickly reconsider. He's certainly built like a football player. And back in the hallway, he not only knew Vickers's name, but his position on the team. I should have realized it then.

As if he can hear my thoughts, Solo looks up and makes eye contact with me. He shakes his head once, then looks back down at his tray like he's trying to find a hair in his mashed potatoes. The ice water feeling spreads to my chest, and I turn and start walking again, as fast as I can. Somebody shouts, but I can't make out the words over the sound of blood pumping through my ears.

I walk past the lunch line and turn left. Just beyond the Hardcores' table, I see an outdoor hallway that leads away from the cafeteria and bends left behind the auditorium. I head for it; only a few more yards to go. Tears build up behind my eyes, and this time I'm powerless to stop them leaking down my cheeks.

As I'm passing the Hardcores, I notice a guy in a black peacoat sitting at the table—the one who sits in front of me in Government. He's pale, with a long, narrow nose and a ring in his bottom lip, and he's locked in heated conversation with another boy. But, as I walk by, he cocks his head and gazes at me with intense blue eyes. He turns to watch as I pass, but if he says something to me, I can't hear it; I've already lowered my head and started to run.

I TAKE THE BUS HOME,
riding with my face pressed against the window and my eyes closed so I don't have to see anyone looking at me.

I'm grateful to find the house empty; Dad is speaking at the groundbreaking ceremony for a new elementary school in Acacia Heights, and Mom is taking the day off from teaching to be with him. I suspect my mom hates being in the public eye as much as I do, because on days when she makes appearances with Dad, she gets this hollow look on her face and compulsively chews cherry-flavored antacids. I don't understand how she maintains her sense of humor under all the pressure and attention that comes with being a congressman's wife; I get only a fraction of the torrent she has to endure, and I can barely cope with it.

I guess that's why, since my little meltdown over the summer,
they haven't asked me to attend any events. But after my six-week stint of “recovery” at Pineview—which sounds like a quaint hotel in the mountains, but is, in fact, a psych hospital about an hour away—my weekly follow-ups with Doctor Ann, and my carefully administered cocktail of antidepressant and antianxiety meds, I'm supposed to be better now. I'm supposed to be able to function. So I know it's only a matter of time before they ask again.

Dad got home from Washington late last night after being in session for a month, and Mom has a special family dinner planned for tonight, just the three of us. I don't even want to think about the first-day-of-school cross-examination I'll be facing in just a few hours.

Closing the door to my room behind me, I cross to my record player—a vintage Marantz turntable my dad got me last Christmas—and pull out an appropriately angst-riddled Police album from 1978. I revel in the hiss and crackle as the needle rides the groove into the song I've chosen, “So Lonely.” I lie back on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, letting the thumping, jangling rhythm wash over me. The lyrics, at once desperate and determined, bounce around inside my head, and I'm overcome with a sudden pang of doubt:
Am
I alone? I try to think of who I might call if I wanted to go out and do something—like, I don't know, browse records at Stray Cat, maybe—but I can't come up with a single name. For a moment this morning, I let myself hope that Solo might fill that role—but his behavior at lunch ruled out that possibility.

The doubt seems to congeal in my throat, sticking there like a half-swallowed pill, and I try to think of
one person
I
can call my friend. The only one I come up with is my old wardmate from Pineview, but somehow, remembering Murph brings me no comfort. I think back to last year. Who would I have called then?

There was Derek Yu, my one and only real friend from Immaculate Heart. Before he moved away, he would eat lunch with me behind the art supply room. Sometimes we'd sneak cigarettes. A couple of times, when his dad wasn't home, I went over to their McMansion in Acacia Heights and we went swimming in their Olympic-sized pool. Derek was a serious swimmer, the only sophomore on the varsity water polo team, but he was never cruel to me like his teammates were.

He had these amazing lat muscles; they were like wings. I remember the way the water would bead up and roll off his skin when he got out of the pool. It was beautiful.

Sometime during the summer, Derek stopped asking me to come over. His replies to my texts became colder, more infrequent. I felt him detaching, but I didn't know why. Then, during the last week of July, he failed to reply to six texts in a row, and I threw my phone at the kitchen tile as hard as I could. How could he drop me like that? What gave him the right to just cut me off with no explanation? I didn't know how, but I knew I'd driven him away.

I pull my phone out of my pocket now and run my thumb over the screen, feeling the nicks and indentations in the spider-webbed glass. Remembering that moment stirs something inside—anger, at first, and then a deep, hollow sadness that ripples through me in its own spiderweb pattern.

A few days after the phone-throwing incident, I went to
Pineview, and I figured I'd never hear from Derek again. But then, to my surprise, he showed up during my third week. He had this look on his face when he walked into the visitors' lounge, like he was afraid he might catch whatever I had. After a few minutes of uncomfortable small talk, Derek told me his dad's company was relocating them to India, and that he was leaving the next day.

I wished there had been a pool we could swim in—but, you know, mental patients and deep bodies of water, not so much. That was the last time we talked.

I bring up a picture of Derek. Looking at his face on the cracked screen rekindles my old anger; he shouldn't have dropped me like that. I shouldn't have let those girls get to me this morning. And Solo should have stood up for me at lunch.

The thoughts ricochet frantically off the edges of my mind. The buzz of anxiety grows louder now, making my head hum like an electrified fence, threatening to break out and return in full force.

I close my eyes and focus on the big three—the coping mechanisms Doctor Ann says I'm supposed to employ when I start to feel out of control. One: breathe. This part I seem to have mastered. I take a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. It helps, a little. Two: practice acceptance. This seems impossible after the day I've had. Who am I supposed to accept—the girl who called me “it”? Jim Vickers, who referred to me as a “tranny”? Or Solo, who sat by and watched it happen? No. I don't think I can accept any of them just now.

That leaves number three, the one I've been resisting since Doctor Ann insisted I start a journal blog, way back when I was
still at Pineview:
share.
She told me that, in the old days, she made her patients keep journals; but for me, she prescribed an anonymous blog so I could interact with “people like me” in a “risk-free” way.

So, when I got out of Pineview in the middle of September, I started a Bloglr account under the username “Alix,” which I picked at random from a baby name website, altering the spelling to make it more ambiguous. Over the past month, I've read and “liked” and reblogged dozens of posts by “people like me” all over the country. But I have yet to attract any followers, and the closest I've come to posting a single word of my own was this morning's aborted attempt.

But lying here, listening to the frenetic, unapologetic wailing emanating from my speakers, I figure desperate times call for desperate measures.

Miss Kerns always told me she liked my compositions; she said it was a gift to be able to work things out with words the way I did. So maybe I can work this out. It's not like anyone is going to read it.

I sit up, pull my laptop toward me, and open the Bloglr log-in screen. The green frog logo blinks at me as I enter my password, and then I open a new post and begin to type.

NEW POST: BOTH AND NEITHER

OCTOBER 1, 4:45 PM

My name is Alix. And the first thing you're going to want to know about me is: Am I a boy, or am I a girl?

Don't worry. I'm used to it; it's the first thing everyone wants to know—even when I'm standing right in front of
them. And, even if they don't come right out and ask, I can tell they're thinking it, because they narrow their eyes or tilt their heads slightly to one side. At best, it's invasive curiosity; at worst, open condemnation. Either way, they want an answer: Girl. Or. Boy.

I look up from the keyboard and read what I've typed out so far. It sounds sort of defensive, almost like I'm pissed off at my imaginary reader—but at the same time, it feels good to get it out.

Anyway, it's not that simple. The world isn't binary. Everything isn't black or white, yes or no. Sometimes it's not a switch, it's a dial. And it's not even a dial you can get your hands on; it turns without your permission or approval.

“Okay,” people say, “but you were born one way or the other. Like, biologically. Anatomically.”

As if they have a right to know! As if, since I've so rudely failed to make it obvious, I ought to wear a sign.

Well, it's none of their damn business.

You think I'm unaware that my gender isn't immediately apparent to you? You think I didn't choose these clothes and this haircut specifically to avoid being stuffed into one pigeonhole or another?

I'm gender fluid. Not stupid.

/rant

Okay. I'm sorry. I don't actually want to antagonize you, imaginary reader. It's just hard to explain—but I'll try.

Ugh. How do I describe this without sounding like a Wikipedia entry? I've read dozens of posts on Bloglr and sites like QueerAlliance, but none of them get it quite right—at least, not right for me.

I walk over to the turntable and put on a new record, something a little rawer, and then sit back down at the keyboard.

NOW PLAYING: “Where Is My Mind?” by the Pixies

The truth is, some days I wake up feeling more “boy” and some days I wake up feeling more “girl.” And some days, I wake up feeling somewhere in between. It's like I have a compass in my chest, but instead of north and south, the needle moves between masculine and feminine. I know it's not like that for all gender fluid people—but that's the best way I can describe how it is for me.

But no matter where my internal compass points, my body remains the same. And some days—maybe half the time—I feel alien inside it. Like the curves and angles are in all the wrong places. Like I was born with the wrong parts. It's a heavy, suffocating feeling—my doctor calls it dysphoria—and it makes concentrating in class (not to mention surviving in the halls) nearly impossible.

On days when it's really bad, dressing in a way that fits how I feel inside—a way that matches the direction my masculine/feminine compass is pointing—seems like the only thing that might relieve the dysphoria. But I can't always present myself how I want to. If I show up feminine on day one, people will assume I'm always a girl.
Then, if I show up the next day dressed like a guy, they'll react: taunts, ridicule, even violence. I've seen it happen. Because I live in the most gender binary place in the known universe: Park Hills, California.

And let's not forget my parents. If I were to start ping-ponging all over the gendersphere, my dad's blood pressure would skyrocket, and my mother would chew off her fingers—because I haven't told them yet.

I'm just not ready.

So I have to settle for looking “neutral.” My safe zone is in the middle of the masculine-feminine continuum, somewhere between a tomboy and a feminine-looking guy; which means I always feel slightly fake, like I'm in costume. I can't remember the last time I felt comfortable in my own skin.

And, okay, I get it; it's confusing. I understand why people wonder, and why they give me weird looks and ask me invasive questions. But the thing is, they do a whole lot more than just wonder and ask questions. People can be cruel.

People can be very cruel.

So, imaginary reader, while I'm certain that you're a unique unicorn, you are not the first person to wonder what's between my legs. And maybe this blog can be a place where I don't have to address that particular issue. A place where my identity is not constrained by my anatomy, or by the gender binary confines of my concrete-and-stucco suburban prison. A place where I'm free to be what I am.

Whatever that is.

#firstpost #genderfluid #GenderFluidProblems

I sit there for a minute with my finger hovering over the trackpad. My mouth is suddenly dry. Sure, I've disguised my identity by making up a fake username and choosing a vintage photo of David Bowie as my avatar, but suddenly, it feels like clicking Post is the equivalent of outing myself to school, Mom, Dad, and the entire US House of Representatives. I scroll up, delete “Park Hills, California,” and replace it with “Stucco Town, USA.”

I click Post.

Then I stare at the wall for a long moment, feeling something between excitement and terror. I don't know whether to fall onto my bed and bury my face in my pillow or jump around the room, squealing like a guinea pig on meth. On the one hand, it feels good to have said it “out loud.” On the other hand, I feel exposed. Like I've just broadcast my darkest secret over the school PA system. It's true, no one reads my blog. But they
could.
It's out there now.

I exhale a long breath and reach for the keyboard to log out, when I notice that there's a little blinking icon in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. The text hovering next to it reads:

yell0wbedwetter is now following you

I feel a smile of satisfaction spread across my face—and that's when I notice that the buzzing feeling has receded way into the background. It's almost gone.

Son of a bitch; blogging
is
therapeutic.

I log out and close my laptop. I'm reaching for my French textbook when my mom suddenly calls up from downstairs.

“Riley!”

I flinch in surprise and drop my book. I didn't even know she was home.