First Time for Everything (10 page)

I can’t see her face through the curtain, but I imagine her lips spread and teeth jutting out as she grins at her own unusual choice of words. The visualization pulls at my own cheeks a little, if just for a moment.

I turn off the water and slowly pull the shower curtain to the side. My swimming trunks stick to my legs, and I bend my knees awkwardly to hide my body the best I can. Marina hands me a fresh towel.

“I just don’t fit in,” I say with a voice muffled by the towel across my face. “I’m not like any of you guys.”

Marina is silent, and I don’t dare remove the fabric from my eyes to see her expression. Finally she speaks. “Not like us how?”

I move the towel a little so I’m able to speak. Or would be, if I knew what to say. Part of me wants to lie to her, tell her that I’m just a loner, a loon, nothing to be concerned with. But I can’t lie.

“Like….” I search for the words in my head, for reasons that are entirely clear in my internal mind but somehow fail to take any sort of graspable form when I try to vocalize them. “I don’t know, it’s just, like… there are all these groups of kids, and the groups are all different from each other, but none of them are like me. There’s something binding each group together, something they have in common. I don’t know if it’s the same in every group or something different, but I know it’s something I don’t have.”

I sit down on the edge of the bathtub, and Marina soon joins me. My throat is burning, and I press the towel harder against my eyes to force the tears back in. I’m not entirely sure why I’m crying. I’m worried that I’ve offended her somehow, but mostly, I think, I just feel lonely. This was not how it was supposed to go. I knew I shouldn’t have come to the party.

Marina doesn’t speak, and eventually the silence starts feeling harrowing to me. I swallow.

“Everything was a lot easier when we were young,” I say, “and everyone played together in one big group. Boys and girls. Now there’s just a bunch of secret boy clubs, and I need to choose one, but I don’t understand how to get a membership card.”

“We still hang out in big groups,” Marina argues. “What do you think we’re doing tonight?”

“I know, I know. But it’s different. Everyone is here as a member of either a boy club or a girl club. You all interact with each other, but you still wear differently colored uniforms and have different mottos or whatever. Even you and I, when we sit here alone—we’re not the same.”

I throw the towel on the floor and wrap my feet in it.

“Wow, that’s a really stupid analogy,” I mumble.

Marina pokes at the towel with her own naked foot. “Maybe you don’t need a membership card to one of the boy clubs. How about the girl ones?”

I turn my face toward her and search for a hint of joking in her eyes, but she looks entirely sincere.

“What do you mean?”

“If it’s really like you say—and I’m not so sure it is, but I’ll humor you—maybe none of the boy clubs are right for you because you’re not actually a Michael. Maybe you should have been a Mary or a Michelle or….”

Her face suddenly lights up as though the wittiest thought in the world occurred to her.

“Hey, maybe you’re even a Marina!”

I furrow my brows and close my mouth as soon as I notice that it’s hanging open in bafflement. Without saying anything, I turn my gaze to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall opposite us. In it I can almost see myself with shiny hair and long eyelashes, mascara and rosy cheeks. Round, soft features to replace the patches of coarse stubble where I’ve missed with the razor. There’s a flutter of recognition. I’ve imagined myself as a girl before, like everyone else has. It’s a particular game of pretend that’s impossible to go through childhood without being exposed to. Yet, I’ve never done it like this. Looked at myself as what should be a completely different person and wondered, is this the real me?

I blink; she’s gone.

“No,” I say, slowly, “I don’t think I’m a girl.”

I wiggle my foot so it comes loose from the towel. Marina’s is tiny and pink next to mine, but they look generally the same.

“…But I’m not quite sure I’m a boy, either.”

I release the air from my lungs. I’ve been holding it subconsciously. It gives me a temporary relief, but soon my chest feels cold and tight all over again. I’m not making any sense.

I’m not a girl, I’m sure of that. But what other options are there? I can’t help but feel that just beyond my reach there’s an answer that would make perfect sense, make everything easier and simpler, but I can’t for the life of me spot it through the fog.

“I just wish I was like everyone else,” I say.

Marina’s answer comes abruptly, as though I had said something entirely different.

“Did you know that May’s first kiss was with Clara Gaiman?”

“What?”

“Yeah, they had math together. Two years ago Clara told May she liked her, and they kissed. May was freaking out about the whole thing at first, but they dated for two and a half weeks until Clara said she didn’t want to be girlfriends anymore. My sister never found out the reason. She was heartbroken.”

I’m confused. Not only does Marina’s story seem to have no relevance to anything, but it doesn’t make sense in and of itself. “Are you telling me May Young is a lesbian?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m just saying she’s like you. Like everyone else. None of us knows what’s going on. We just have to trust what we feel and hope for the best.”

“What we feel…,” I repeat to myself.

What do I feel? Right now—cold, mostly. I never finished drying off. I pick up the towel from the floor and slide it over my body.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I ask Marina. She says of course almost too eagerly.

“I can’t swim,” I admit. “I never learned how. I think I almost drowned once when I was little, but that’s not the only reason, because I never wanted to go in the water even before then. I didn’t even want to change into swimwear.”

I look down at my soaked swim trunks and pull at the rubbery, gross fabric with one hand. I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

“I hate these. I hate swim trunks.”

“Yeah, I always thought they were pretty ugly too….” Marina ponders. She bends her neck back and looks at the ceiling, suddenly deep in thought, then at once she leaps up with such vigor that, for an instant, I’m worried she’ll slip on the wet bathroom floor.

She tells me to wait, rushes out of the room, and soon returns with something blue in her hands.

“Maybe this will suit you better. Try it on,” she says and unfolds the dress. It’s a simple long dress with straps and gathers at the waist. I frown, many years of subtle lessons on gender norms guiding my initial reaction.

“I told you, I’m not a girl—”

“I know, but who says only girls can wear dresses?” Marina shrugs and sends me that stupid smile of hers. “You did a big thing and put on some ugly boy swim trunks today. I figured you should get to try something from the other end of the spectrum.”

The dress looks soft in her hands, and certainly much more comfortable than the dripping rubber I’m currently wearing. Still, something inside me makes me recoil instinctively.

“Come on, Mike,” Marina says, waving the dress in the air in front of me like a carrot for a donkey, “I wear pants all the time. You can wear a dress.”

And it slowly dawns on me that she’s right. I stand up and wordlessly, still somewhat hesitant, reach out for the dress. Marina lets me have it, a pleased expression on her face.

“It’ll be a gift in exchange for the one you brought,” she says. I refrain from telling her that I only bought the swim ring as a way to unsuspiciously stay out of the water.

But now I’m jumping in headfirst. I pull the dress on from the top, Marina helping me where its unfamiliar shape is giving me difficulties. It feels tight and awkward around my waist and shoulders at first, and I fear it’s going to rip or strangle me, but thankfully there’s a more experienced girl in the room with me. She pulls down at some strategically chosen spot and then, like magic, it’s perfect. I look down, taking in the dress from an entirely new point of view (I never realized my stomach could have a curvature like that), and then I turn my head toward the mirror.

It’s a little too short for me, cutting off at the middle of my shin where it’s supposed to be ankle length, but it doesn’t matter. The blue fabric falls from my hips like a vast ocean, and farther up it firmly hugs my figure. My rib cage sticks out and the dress is struggling at my chest where it has clearly been sewn for someone not quite as broad across the shoulders; but my waist, my hips, my legs have never looked more beautiful. In fact, this is the first time I feel beautiful. The thought that this is a word that could be used about someone like me has never even entered my mind, as “beautiful” has always been reserved for movie stars or princesses in fairy tales.

Marina nods appreciatively. “Not half-bad. Blue is just your color. Who knew?”

I don’t reply. I feel strange. I stare at my reflection with my mouth open. I twist my body slightly, almost afraid I’ll ruin the dress if I move, and the long skirt gently swivels around my legs. It sends ripples through the skin at my hips.

“I can feel it move if I turn just a little,” I say. “How do you people wear this all the time?”

“It takes some getting used to, I guess,” Marina admits. “Just be glad it isn’t windy in here.”

I look to her for an elaboration, but before I can say anything, she points a thumb over her shoulder. “So what do you say? Wanna go show off your new outfit?”

Even I can tell she’s joking. Despite this, I mull over the possibility in my head. I imagine Peter and Sebastian staring at my new look. “Gee,” Sebastian mutters, “all those years, you oughta have played as Princess Peach.” The idea is actually more amusing than horrifying. Maybe one day, but for now, no; this is mine.

I chuckle. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, how about a swim, then? Preferably a dunking-free one.”

I glance down at my hands while I consider the offer. They’re stroking the soft fabric of the dress almost of their own free will. “No thanks,” I say after a pause. “I think I’ve had enough first times for today, to be honest. But I’ll gladly go get something to drink with you. We can go see what the others are up to. If you want.”

She does. I tell her to give me a moment to get out of the dress and turn my head back toward my reflection one last time.

My face in the mirror looks distorted and absolutely comical as I smile. The most laughable, genuine smile.

R
ENEE
H
IRSCH
has been writing since ey was first taught the alphabet and been making up stories for even longer than that. In addition to being a writer, ey is a linguistics student, an illustrator, a martial artist, and a tea enthusiast. Ey prefers character-driven stories rather than plot-driven ones. Renee Hirsch writes using a pseudonym, and eir real identity remains hidden, even to emself (but rumor has it that ey can be found at http://queerdeer.blogspot.co.uk/, and can be reached at thequeerdeer @outlook.com).

N
ICK
H
ASSE

I.

I’
M
NOT
sure when I fell in love with Billy Roth, because it’s not the kind of love that jumps out and slaps you across the face with a big red “
Here!
” It was the slow, sure warmth that spread inside my chest every time I saw his goofy, boyish face.

You see, the Roths moved in just three houses down when I was only four years old and their son, Billy, was the only boy my age in what felt like three counties. We grew up together, terrorized the neighbors together, and when school began, it was always “Billy-and-Toby” for field trips, for projects, and eventually for the state playoffs. At some point, back in the sixth grade, Billy decided we should try out for basketball. That was six years ago.

But something changed this year… not in Billy, and as far as I could tell, not in me either. But here I was, standing in the Senior Lounge, buying a candygram for Valentine’s Day. It was really kind of stupid. You give up five bucks so the Cheer Squad can hand out two dollars’ worth of chocolate with a print-out label in the middle of class. I filled in the “To” line boldly, but like a chickenshit, I left the “From” line blank.

Here was when the maniacal doubts poured in. What if he didn’t like it? What if he didn’t want to be friends with a fairy-boy? What if he became allergic to chocolate and went into anaphylactic shock in the middle of economics and his last dying words in the ambulance were “stupid candygram”?

I shook my head. “This is ridiculous,” I muttered mostly to myself and handed back the clipboard and the lone Lincoln in my wallet. I
didn’t
sign the card.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to. Jeannette burst into class just after lunch and rattled her delivery bag with a sing-songy “Caaannnndyyyygrammmmms.” She was one of those mostly unremarkable, middle-of-the-pyramid-type cheerleaders, with fake highlights and an unnaturally huge, fake smile.

As she started to pass out the candy in her annoyingly high-pitched, fake sickly sweet voice, “Onesie-twosie….” I couldn’t help counting just how much cash the squad made off my class alone. Shit, maybe I should get boobs and sell chocolate.

I watched Billy carefully, seeing his pale blue, almond-shaped eyes narrow just a bit beneath the messy brown mop of bangs covering his forehead as Jeanette moved closer, sashaying down our row. His gift arrived in a horrid pink cellophane bag, with a hearts-and-flowers gift tag I read with trepidation:

“To: Billy Roth. From:
A Secret Admirer
!”

Shit!

A
S
WE
walked home, Billy wouldn’t shut up about it.

“Who do you think it is? Is it Carol? You know, the one with the big…. Oh, I wonder if it’s Jenny. You know, she had that crush on me back in third grade when she told me I had cooties. Ugh. I hope it’s not Myrtle. Who names their kid Myrtle these days anyway? You think it’s a family name? Hell, I’d never name my kid after family. We got too many B-names already. Hey! Maybe it was Becky!” He chattered on excitedly, paying no attention to how many times I rolled my eyes or said something noncommittal. We got about halfway home before he lost steam and chucked his shoulder against mine. “What’s eating you, man? Not like you to be so quiet. Are you pissed you didn’t get a candygram?”