Alex as Well (2 page)

ALEX AND I are waiting in the office of
Some colourblind person decorated the place in 1982. It’s lemon with a dusty potted plant in a cane stand and a picture on the wall of a person under a palm tree on a beach, except it’s all triangles. It looks like a clipart, or an Icehouse album cover.

I am regretting coming here, because if
were any good then their office would be flash, wouldn’t it?

There is a receptionist behind a wall. She has an opaque glass window between her desk and the waiting room, which she has shut. I guess she sees some unsavoury types.

Like us.

I should stop here, because it’s not Alex and I, not really.

We’re just the one person. Did you get that already? You guessed it from the blurb, right? I put in some clues.

Alex and I are the one person, but I feel like two people, and this is the problem. It’s always been like that, but since I stopped taking my medication five days ago it’s so totally clear that I can’t be the other Alex anymore. And that’s why my dad left us.

Me.

The receptionist slides the window across. ‘Mr Crockett will see you now.’ She tilts her head towards the narrow, lemon Icehouse hallway.

I tiptoe into the cluttered office. Crockett has hairy eyebrows, and a little snub nose, like a koala. He’s probably sixty. He looks over my shoulder for the real client, and when he sees it’s only me he looks irritated, and I am embarrassed.

‘What can I do for you?’ He’s bored already, as though this is a prank he doesn’t have time for. He thinks I’m going to try to sell him crappy fundraiser chocolate. He’s shuffling through papers. He puts one stack of manila folders on top of another stack. He tucks a ballpoint pen behind his ear.

‘I need a new birth certificate.’

‘You can get that from Births Deaths and Marriages. You fill out a form. It’s quite straightforward. Heidi at reception can help you with that.’ He looks at his watch.

I open my mouth but I’m not sure where to begin.

Ok, the beginning is this: ‘No, I mean a
new
birth certificate. I want to have my gender legally reassigned.’

He stares at me. Then he really stares at me, and he’s doing what people have always done as long as I can remember. He’s trying to figure out if I am a boy that wants to be a girl, or a girl that wants to be a boy.

I’m staring at him right back because Crockett has hairs growing out of his nose. I don’t care how busy or important you are, you can attend to stuff like that.

Why does it matter whether I am a boy or a girl?

But it does. It really, really matters. People want to know which one you are. They want to be able to decide what you are, even when they are just walking past on the street and will never see you again. It’s crazy. Most people don’t see it as a grey area. They are physically affected when there is confusion.

They are repulsed.

For me it’s a very grey area. Greyitty grey. We are the Earl and Countess of Grey, Alex and I.

Now that you know, you’re probably wondering what I look like. I kind of have that Tilda Swinton Cate Blanchett Cooper Thompson–ish ice-queen, cleaved-from-stone look. I’m beautiful/ugly. Pale, long and bones. Like a duck carcass. People get an emotional response when they look at me. It’s fascination and loathing. Because they can’t figure out what I am.

‘How old are you?’ he asks.

‘Sixteen,’ I answer, biting my lip. ‘Soon,’ I clarify.
‘In a year…and a half.’

He puts the papers down and folds his hands on the desk. ‘I’m sorry. We do wills and contracts, and property title searches. That’s our thing here. You are obviously going through something’—Crockett waves his hand, searching—‘profound, but we’re not the right fit for you.’

‘Where do I go then?’ I ask. I pick at my fingernails as I explain. ‘I want to go to a new school, but I want to go as a girl, and now they want to see a copy of my birth certificate. It says I am a boy.’

‘You could just tell them.’

‘Just tell them?’

‘Yes.’

I curl my lip. Alex says, ‘They’re going to go, “Yeah, that’s fine, come on in! None of our parents have any problem at all with a transgendered freak getting changed with our little boys and girls. Why, our English Master wears French knickers, and our Scripture Mistress has a very handsome Fu Manchu. You’re going to fit right in!”’

Crockett looks at me for a long time. I’m wondering if I’ve overdone it, and he’s pissed. Finally he says, ‘Getting your gender reassigned is not something you can undo. Adolescence is a very confusing time. You should probably think about it for a while longer before you make any decisions.’

Now I am pissed, because I wasn’t just walking past
his shop and thinking,
I know, I might get my gender reassigned today.

Ok, maybe I did, but it’s been a long time coming.

You know what it feels like? It’s like someone got it wrong to start with. That’s what I feel inside. When I was born they went
it’s got a noodle, it must be a boy
, but I’m not a boy on the inside.

I say to Crockett, ‘Have you ever heard someone sing the wrong lyrics to a song, like that Beatles song, “She’s got a chicken to ride”? It’s wrong and it seems so silly to you that the other person could think that’s how the song goes. But then imagine you heard everyone sing it, like, even the actual Beatles. So you assume that, ok, they must be the real lyrics, even though it’s absurd. It’s like that.’

The whole time I’m talking, Crockett watches me, but I don’t think he gets it. I don’t know why I thought he would.

‘Have you talked to your parents?’ he asks.

My head drops and I stare at my hands. I have painted the nails a dark purple colour, but I bite them and it’s half worn off, so it looks more like I slammed my fingers in a door.

‘I told my mother,’ I say slowly. ‘She says I am a pervert and I am killing her.’ I pause because the next bit is harder to say out loud, like when you fall off your bike and skid along on your elbows and you’re afraid to look because you know there’ll be no skin there.

Because at least my mother has the delusion that I can change, that it’s some naughty thing I am doing to annoy the crap out of her because I am a teenager and one day I will wake up and I won’t feel like I am a girl trapped in a boy’s body.

But my dad, he knew it wasn’t a joke.

‘You should do up your office. It makes you look daggy. It looks like you don’t care about your work. Paint it a different colour. And the pictures should be at eyelevel because they’re for looking at,’ I tell him, looking around the room. ‘I saw that on one of those renovation shows.’

‘What about your father?’ he asks.

‘I told my dad and he left.’

My lip does this weird, involuntary stretch to the right, so I grab it.

Crockett just looks at me. I don’t know what he’s thinking. He’s all inscrutable, and I am out there on the ledge. I think most people know, just by looking at me, that I have a screw loose, but this is the first time I have opened my mouth and asked for help.

He says, ‘I’m sorry.’