If I Was Your Girl (4 page)

He made an ambiguous sound in his throat and I heard him jot something on his pad.

“So when you wrote ‘I should have been a girl,' did you mean that you're afraid to come out as gay, or embarrassed that you want to wear women's clothes? Your mother said you're Baptists; do you think the way you feel is wrong from a religious perspective?”

“No,” I said. “I don't think God actually cares about that kind of thing, and I think I could deal with just being gay or whatever. It feels wrong that I'm a boy, though. When my hair gets long and people mistake me for a girl, I feel happy. I try to imagine what kind of man I'll grow up to be, and nothing comes. I think about being a husband or a father and even if it's with a man I feel like I'm being sucked into a black hole. The only time I feel like I have a future at all is if I imagine I'm a girl in it.”

“I see,” he said. I heard more scratches as he wrote more notes. “Gender identity disorder is in the most current diagnostic manual,” he said. “It's a real thing that lots of people experience.”

I forced myself to make eye contact with him. He was no longer leaning forward. He was sitting back, feet together, hands in his lap again.

“I have it?”

“I'm not really prepared to diagnose anything at this point,” he said. “And I have to wait until I've taken a look at your questionnaires, but if you don't have major depressive disorder and panic disorder I'll eat my hat.”

“You don't wear a hat,” I said. He winked, and I smiled despite myself. “What happens next?”

“I'm going to refer you to a psychiatrist to see about some medicine for your anxiety and depression. I also want you to do something this Saturday, if you aren't busy.”

“I don't really have friends,” I said.

“We'll see how long that lasts,” he replied. “There's a small support group that meets here at six on the first Saturday of the month. I think you should come.”

 

4

By the time I reached the football field on Thursday after school, cars filled the dust-choked parking lot. Parents and teachers milled outside the field, their long shadows hinting at the coming autumn.

Anna greeted me with a warm smile, her blond hair pulled back into flowing pigtails.

“Game doesn't start for a bit,” she said as Layla strode into view, looking underdressed in a black T-shirt and black aviators.

“Hey!” she said. “What did I miss? You tell her Parker still has the hots for her yet?”

“No,” Anna said, shifting her feet uncomfortably. “It ain't my place.”

I felt red splotches run up my neck. Parker seemed harmless enough, but something about him made me uncomfortable. He reminded me too much of guys who had beaten me and thrown me in lockers for so much of my life.

“Where's Chloe?” Layla flipped her short bob.

“Not sure. I thought she'd meet us here, but I guess she'll just find us in the stands.”

We passed through the gap in the fence near the bleachers. The athletic equipment shone with a surprising cleanness and the grass was lush and even. Too many dads seemed interested in us as we passed, and for just a moment I missed the near-invisibility of life as a boy.

I noticed Grant as we passed the bench. He gave me a wide, lopsided smile, the same smile he'd been giving me whenever our eyes met in homeroom or the halls. “Amanda! Hey!”

“I'll save you a seat,” Layla said, pushing me toward him. I stepped forward gingerly, reminding myself that there was nothing to be afraid of.

“You came.”

“I did.”

“Do you even like football?”

“No,” I admitted, shaking my head and laughing. “Why, is there something else to do in this town?”

“Ouch!” He put his hand over his heart, but then turned more serious. “Don't know if you've heard, but some people are gettin' together Saturday night. Think you might wanna come?”

Saturday night.
I thought about what Saturday night had looked like for the last ten years. Dinner with my mom: Chinese takeout if we were feeling adventurous; pork chops with cornbread, black-eyed peas, and turnip greens if we weren't. Video games in my room: all alone, late into the night, until my fingers ached and I was tired enough to fall asleep without my thoughts swirling. An actual high school party had always been a distant, exotic thing, something that only existed in movies.

I nodded slowly. “I could do that, I think.”

“Well, all right then,” he said, smiling and scratching his temple.

Parker sauntered over from the bench and handed Grant his helmet.

“Game's about to start,” he said. He glanced at me quickly and turned away.

“Sorry.” Grant shrugged. “Gotta go.”

He grinned as he trotted over to the bench.

Layla and Anna looked ready to explode when I joined them in the bleachers.

“I think Parker has competition,” Anna said, smiling brightly and twisting her long, blond hair in her fingers.

“Three words.” Layla raised a finger in the air. “Awkward. Dorky. Adorable. I loved it.”

I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. I felt, at least for a moment, what it was like to be a normal teenage girl.

*   *   *

By the end of the first quarter I desperately needed to pee. I glanced behind the bleachers to where the bathrooms stood, two low, squatting buildings, one bearing the telltale stick figure in a skirt. I had only used a women's room a few times since I'd been attacked, and the idea still made my heart race. But there was no avoiding it now.

“Want company?” Layla asked as I excused myself.

“No,” I said quickly. Layla leaned back and pursed her lips. “Sorry. I'm fine, thanks.”

I left the bleachers and headed for the bathrooms. When I pushed open the door, the smell of paint and bleach invaded my nostrils, reminding me how much cleaner girls' bathrooms were than boys'. The stalls were empty, and I let out the breath I'd been holding. Outside two female voices whispered back and forth, their words too soft to make out. One giggled. I washed up quickly and as I exited the bathroom, I found Bee and Chloe rounding the far corner. They stopped midstride. I froze with my still-damp hands mid-wipe on my thighs. Bee nodded in my direction. Chloe's eyes widened. Her fingers curled and uncurled at her side. She kept her eyes locked on the field, never turning them to me.

“Hey!” I said, forcing a conversational tone as if we'd just met in the halls. I couldn't tell what they were hiding; drugs, probably, but I also didn't really want to know. “Anna and Layla are near the benches, you can't miss them.”

“Thanks,” Chloe said. She glanced at me as she walked away, her red curls bouncing and her face as stony and unreadable as always. “Glad you came.”

When it was just me and Bee, I turned to her. “I didn't think you were the football type.”

“I'm not,” Bee said. “I come here to watch great apes in their natural habitat.” She unwrapped some gum and slowly put it in her mouth. “Enjoy the game.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering if “great apes” applied to just the athletes or to everyone, and if that generalization of the popular kids included me. “See you later.”

When I returned, Chloe was between Anna and Layla, leaning back on her elbows and looking down on the game below. Our gaze met as I climbed the bleachers and she went stiff again. I waved, pretending it was the first time we'd seen each other. She mouthed
thank you
as I sat down.

As the girls went back to talking, my attention drifted to the field below. I'd never sat through an entire game before; football was something I associated with the great apes, as Bee called them, the people who'd dedicated their lives to destroying mine. But today, the sound of the girls' happy chatter washing over me, sun glinting off the bleachers, and the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air, I couldn't help enjoying it. At the end of the third quarter, when Grant ran the ball into the end zone, I stood and cheered until my voice grew hoarse.

I wondered what Dad would think if he knew I was watching sports of my own free will. I remembered when I quit Little League after the first game and cried in my room, how angry and disappointed he had been. This felt different from Dad and all of his buddies—always buddies, never really friends—sitting around quietly watching “the game” with beers in hand. This felt like something else, like friendship or acceptance or maybe fitting in. This felt like fun.

 

5

On Tuesday I found Bee behind the art building like always. She slouched against the wall, eyes closed, bobbing her head in time to the music blasting in her ears. My backpack thudded into the grass and I joined her. She opened one eye and wiggled her fingers in greeting.

“What are you listening to?”

“The Knife. They're this awesome Swedish experimental … thing. Here, listen.” She handed me the earbud and leaned in so I could share. I held it to my ear. I expected a cross between ABBA and Daft Punk, but instead a low, soulful voice sang about doomed love.

“So I heard Grant's all about you,” Bee said once the song ended.

“It's nothing,” I said, even though the thought made my heart pound. “He just invited me to a party.”

“He's a guy,” she said. “You're new and you're pretty. It's not exactly rocket science.”

“I'm not pretty though.”

“Oh my God, whatever, yes you are. Jesus. The only thing worse than attractive people is attractive people who refuse to admit they're attractive.”

“I don't think we're making good use of our time,” I said, but I was fighting a smile. I doubted anyone but Bee could make a compliment sound so grouchy. “I mean, if we get caught I'd like to point to some projects we've done and say, ‘We used art class to make art.'”

“Insanely naïve, but I'm bored so I'm still with you.”

“Okay, so I spent last night on Pinterest getting ideas,” I said, pulling out my phone.

“Of course you've got a Pinterest. I bet you've already planned like three different wedding themes.” Bee grabbed the phone from my hand and swiped at the screen, her brow knitted. “Half these are pinecone jewelry. This isn't art,” she said, handing me back the phone. “This is crafts. They're different.”

“It's called arts and crafts.”

“Art,” Bee said, slipping her feet back into her shoes, “expresses something deeply personal and private. Art shares your world with other people so they can feel even a momentary connection with you. Crafts are pinecone hats.”

“I didn't pin any pinecone hats,” I said indignantly, reaching into my backpack and pulling out an old sketchbook with a few blank pages left. Bee sat up and looked over my shoulder. “I sketched some designs you might like more—”

“Go back,” she said. I went back one page, to a piece of Sailor Moon fan art I'd drawn two years before. I thought it looked amateurish and tried to turn the page away, but Bee put her hand over mine and stopped me. “You drew this?”

I nodded. “It's just fan art. Nothing original.”

“Stop,” Bee said. “There are enough people waiting to crap in your cereal without you doing it for them. You're talented.” She stood up and scratched her back where her bare skin had touched the grass. “Come with me.”

I took a deep breath and followed her to the parking lot. She unlocked a worn-looking red pickup truck and hopped in the driver's seat.

“Where are we going?”

“You want to make art,” she said. “So let's get serious. Art is about exposing yourself. I'm going to share some things with you. You don't have to share anything with me unless you want to, you know, create something worth creating.” She lit a cigarette as she started the car and blew a gray cloud into the wind.

“You can't tell anybody what I'm about to show you,” she said as we pulled inside a cemetery gate. “I mean you can, obviously, but I'm trusting you not to.”

We parked and I followed her up the hill along the main path. Eventually it opened onto an overgrown clearing. I shielded my eyes and saw a run-down plantation house, its windows shattered and its paint long peeled away.

“This is my place,” Bee said. “I come here to get some privacy and develop my photos.”

“It's creepy,” I said, rubbing my arms despite the pleasant weather.

“I know, right? I looked it up in town hall—nobody's lived in it since the '50s.”

The grass pushed back like water as we walked. “Why was it abandoned?”

Bee lit another cigarette, cupping her hand around the flame as a strong wind kicked up. Her cheeks sucked in as she shrugged. “Damned if I know.”

The wind gathered strength, rippling across the grass. I looked up at the second-floor balcony, with its darkened windows and pillars disintegrating from rot. For the first time all summer the cicadas' song completely faded. The world felt bigger and lonelier than it had a moment before.

“I found some graves out in the woods last year,” she said.

“You think they buried slaves there?”

“Or soldiers. They turned it into a hospital before the war ended. Can you feel it?” She sat on the porch's groaning top step as she finished her cigarette and removed a professional-looking camera from its case.

I stood a few feet away from the steps, still waist-high in the grass. Bee pointed her camera at me and clicked the shutter four times in quick succession. “I don't believe in ghosts,” I told her.

“I didn't ask if you believe in ghosts,” she said. She flicked her cigarette into a rusted-out bucket near the door and headed inside. An anxious shiver ran up my back as I followed her. “I asked you what you
feel
. You can't have art if you spend all your time forgetting pain.”

Broken glass littered the floor inside. A small plastic table and a camping chair stood to the left, an electric lantern casting a bright ring in every direction. I wondered if Bee knew how privileged she was to be able to feel anything at all, if she knew just how scary numbness could be. How it felt, sometimes, like a darkened room with no way out.