Happy Families (8 page)

What. Is. Going. On
.

If I can tell who he is, everyone will be able to when they see him. They can’t see him. I can’t let them look. There is a roaring in my ears as I step off the podium. Callista leans forward, her dark eyes fixed on me. She’s watching me, so I don’t look at him again; I can’t. I step off the podium, and I fall and fall and—

Shut it down, Justin. Inhale, exhale. Just breathe
.

I suck in air and wait for my heart to slow. The rest of that
day had been hell. Mr. Lester had been shocked when I’d come to him with a drop slip for debate. “Justin, everybody chokes at least once. You have so much potential, so much promise that I really hate to see you do this. Are you sure you won’t let me help you?”

“I’m sure, Mr. Lester. I’m just under too much stress. I can’t do debate on top of everything else.”

“You can always come back to the team,” Mr. Lester had said, and I’d hated seeing the regret in his face. “You’ll always be welcome.”

Then later, it was my girlfriend’s turn.

“Justin, I don’t understand.” Callista’s nervousness showed in how she fiddled with the end of her braids. “What’s going on? Why are you dropping out?”

“It’s—look, Callista, I’m just going through some stuff, all right? I can’t really talk about it.”

Callista had clutched my arm. “Justin, please! I can keep a secret. It’s not like I’m going to tell everyone what’s going on. Just … talk to me!”

“I can’t,” I’d said, knowing I was throwing everything away and powerless to stop myself. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

We had that conversation too many times to count. Sometimes crying, sometimes angry, Callista kept asking me to trust her.

She said she’d never give up on me, but she doesn’t ask me to trust her anymore.

The whole school, it seemed, wanted to talk to me and ask what was wrong with me and why I’d thrown everything away. I dropped off of my social networking sites and stopped answering
my phone, but there was no escape. Even Poppy told me he thought I was being selfish and letting everybody down. I almost told him what I’d seen then. But I didn’t.

Why did I keep Dad’s secret?

Dad knew I knew. Ysabel couldn’t have cleaned up his stuff that well. The mug was pretty well smashed; it doesn’t even hold water anymore, but Dad didn’t ask us what had happened. He never said anything. It was as if this was all a crazy dream, that I’d imagined everything.

And that was the worst thing of all.

I kept thinking I’d screwed up, I’d seen it wrong. Maybe it was just somebody’s mom. Maybe nothing happened at all. I kept praying that it was nothing, that it was just my imagination. It was all a nightmare, something that wormed into my brain and made things wrong. Dad could have made it right, if he’d just asked a question or said something. Instead, he said nothing, and I felt insane.

I must have finally fallen asleep, because I wake up with a little trickle of drool drying on the side of my face.
Ugh
. I wipe my mouth and sit up, trying to figure out what woke me in the first place. I hear another soft knock at the door a moment before it opens. Dressed in a pin-striped shirt and faded jeans, my father leans into the room.

“Ysabel—” he begins, then breaks off, a broad smile on his face. “Morning, Justin.”

I rub my face and draw my knees to my chest. “Dad.”

“You sleep okay down there?”

I shrug, hoping he’ll get the message and go away, but he
only grins. “I remember when you and Ysabel turned six and got your own rooms. We found you like this every morning for months.”

I just grunt. Dad’s expression is amused. “Right. Well, breakfast is almost ready. You’ve got about an hour, but we’re going to need to hustle. We have an appointment with the therapist this morning.”

“What therapist?”

“Belly? Wake up now,” Dad says, ignoring me.

“I said, ‘What therapist?’ ” I repeat, my voice louder.

Dad raises his brows quizzically. “I told you we’d be seeing people this week, didn’t I? Dr. Hoenig is a family therapist who specializes in transitioning families.”

Panic claws at me, and it feels like my stomach drops through the floor. I cover the sick fear with anger. “Why do we have to go to the therapist when it’s
your
problem? Why can’t you go by yourself?”

Dad’s eyebrows jerk, and I can see he’s deciding what to say to that. He puts his hand on the doorknob and glances at his watch. “Fifty minutes now. Whether you have breakfast or not is up to you. Good morning, Ysabel.” He pulls the door closed behind him with a decisive click.

Ysabel is sitting up, her bedhead hair a kinked and fuzzy frame for her tense face. “What’s going on?”

I flop back onto the mattress, an arm in front of my eyes. “We’re going to his therapist.”

“A therapist?” I hear the mattress rustle as Ysabel moves. Her voice is closer. “Oh, okay, then. Good.”

“What’s ‘good’ about it?” I move my arm and glare up into her face. “Why should we have to listen to someone tell us all the
things we did to screw up Dad’s life? I don’t want to hear some crap about his bad childhood.”

“You really think it’ll be like that?” Ysabel stands and picks up her duffel bag. “Probably we’re just going to talk to someone who’s supposed to help us adjust or something.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” It’s stupid, but her calmness is making me angrier. “I don’t want help, and I don’t want to adjust to anything.”

Ysabel puts her bag on the bed and digs out a notebook and her Bible. “Yeah, well, life sucks, and then you find out no one cares what you want. You taking the first shower?”

“What are you doing with a journal? We don’t have time for that.”

Ysabel’s mouth tightens. “Could you go somewhere else? Maybe to your
own
room? And mind your
own
business?”

I bounce up from the floor and drag my mattress toward the door. “Fine, whatever. It probably doesn’t matter if we’re late anyway.”

“Would you shut up? I’m not going to make us late.”

I open the door to my room, then pause. “Come get me before you go upstairs, okay?”

Ysabel’s expression is mulish. “Why?”

“Because I’ll wait for you. I’m not going up to stand around with Dad by myself.”

“Like I had to last night.”

I drag the mattress across the hall and throw it in the general direction of the box spring in my room. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I fell asleep.”

“Fine, whatever.” Ysabel bends over her journal. “Close the door.”

I dig through my bag for clean jeans and
The Constitution: I Read It for the Articles
T-shirt, and head into the bathroom, annoyed to see myself in the mirror, scowling. I’ve got to find my game face before we meet this therapist. This isn’t going to be like the times when Mom dragged us to see Pastor Max, who only prayed with us and told us that we could just sit and listen to music or talk, if we wanted.

As I stand under the shower spray, I wonder what else is on my father’s agenda. He mentioned outings and meeting transgender families. Is this what it’s going to be like every time we come here? Does Dad seriously expect we’re just going to fit in and hang out with these people? I feel another pulse of anger at Poppy and Grandmama. I still can’t believe Poppy said they couldn’t get involved. Why couldn’t they have given us an out?

Breakfast is boxes of assorted cold cereals, fruit, yogurt, and bakery sweet rolls. Ysabel pours herself a bowl of some kind of granola clusters and eats it dry, like she always does, scanning the nutritional information on the side of the box, alternating each dry bite with a spoonful of yogurt.

Even annoyed with each other, we automatically double-team Dad. Despite his hovering, Ysabel and I drag out the meal as long as possible. Dad hates to be late even more than I do and finally insists that we have to leave
now
. Ysabel simply shrugs and carries her bowl of dry cereal with her. My father gives her an exasperated look, but doesn’t say anything as he bundles us into the car and drives us downtown to a large suite of offices.

In the empty waiting room, which is a sickly mint green, we wait in silence, Dad standing relaxed by the door, Ysabel perched on a chair, reading a magazine, with her cereal balanced in her lap, and me, trying to pretend that all I’m doing is getting ready
for a debate. The receptionist offers us coffee or tea, but I’m already wishing I hadn’t eaten the roll I had for breakfast.

There’s no clock in the waiting room, but I keep track of the minutes on my phone. I scroll through my email and see a notification from the Kids of Trans site; someone is requesting to chat with me off-line. I have begun to text a response when the door opens.

“Chris,” the small gray-haired woman says happily, as if seeing Dad is the highlight of her day. “And these must be your twins.”

I now realize why the waiting room is empty. There’s a closed door on the other side of the doctor’s office. The people she saw before us are already gone.

As the doctor and Dad exchange greetings, Ysabel stands, reaching into her bowl for a cereal cluster. She munches placidly as Dad introduces us.

“Guys, this is Dr. Hoenig. Dr. Hoenig, this is Ysabel, who is eldest by six minutes, and this is Justin.”

“Nice to meet you both. Ysabel, I’ve got a spoon and some milk for that cereal if you’d like.” Dr. Hoenig smiles.

“I’m good,” Ysabel says, still maddeningly calm, following the woman into the office. “Thank you.”

Dad glances back at me as I hesitate in the doorway. “Justin?”

It’s only an hour
, I remind myself. “Coming,” I mutter.

“ ‘Once more into the breach, dear friends.’ ” Dr. Hoenig smiles at me and gestures at the couch, love seat, and chairs set at angles to each other around a small rattan coffee table. “Sit anywhere, Justin. Let’s get acquainted.”

At first it seems like the therapist isn’t that bad. Dr. Hoenig is small and freckled and wrinkled like an apple doll, but her bright blue eyes and wide smile make her seem very young. Her slight accent, oversized red-framed glasses, and sleek gray bob remind me of the eccentric fashion designer Edna Mode in my favorite animated movie. I halfway expect her to try putting us in cape-free superhero costumes.

So far, Dr. Hoenig seems easygoing. She won’t let Dad rush her to get started, and she hasn’t let Justin’s silent act throw her off. She even compliments me on my outfit—red hoodie, khaki
cargo pants, and my rose-covered boots—which shows she’s got style.

After a general chat, Dr. Hoenig moves on to the usual questions adults seem incapable of avoiding when talking to kids: what class we like best at school, what do we want to study in college, what are our plans for when we’re done. Justin, who is Mr. Goals List and who came up with a comprehensive five-year plan when we were in the eighth grade, says “I don’t know” in answer to her every question.

Dad’s not taking that too well. Each time Justin opens his mouth, Dad shifts his shoulders against the back of his armchair, like he’s forcing himself to stay in the seat. I glance at the clock above Dr. Hoenig’s head, making a little bet with myself how long Dad will be able to keep his mouth shut.

“Do either of you have any idea where you want to attend college?” Dr. Hoenig asks.

“Penland or some craft school like it,” I announce, and crunch another granola cluster.

“Justin?” Dr. Hoenig raises her eyebrows.

My brother shakes his head helplessly. “I don’t know,” he mutters, his eyes on the floor.

Dad’s hand smacks against the arm of the chair and I glance at the clock to confirm. Yep. Sixty seconds.

“You ‘don’t know,’ Justin?” my father bursts out.

“Chris?” Dr. Hoenig’s bright blue eyes over her glasses are inquiring.

“I just can’t believe he’s going to sit there and lie to you,” Dad sputters, shaking his head. “This boy was born knowing what he was going to do. I’ve never been as certain of anything in my whole life as—” My father breaks off and pinches the bridge of
his nose, his eyes closed as he reins himself in. “Just answer the question, son.”

“I did.” Justin’s voice is flat. “I don’t know where I’m going to college.”

“Stanford,” Dad flashes back, his expression frustrated. “I’ve got the five-year plan on your wall practically memorized, just like everybody else in the family. Come
on
, Justin. It was a harmless, getting-to-know-you question. Would you just give this a chance?”

An elastic moment of silence stretches taut, and I tense, preparing for the inevitable, stinging snap as it breaks. My mouth dry, I stop fiddling with my cereal and pull my sleeves over my hands, waiting.

“Justin”—Dr. Hoenig’s voice is kind but intent—“is there any reason you’re not comfortable with talking about your future?”

I roll my eyes silently. Oh, man, here we go. Next she’s going to ask him how he
feels
about his future.

“What about you, Ysabel? How do you feel about talking about your dreams and your future right now?”

At the word
feel
, a laugh slips out before I can control it. Dr. Hoenig just smiles at me calmly, but Dad’s embarrassed expression piques my temper. What have
I
done that’s so embarrassing? Irritated, I pick up another bit of cereal and scrutinize it before popping it into my mouth. I speak with my mouth full.

“Justin took down his five-year plan about six months ago, Dad. Just so you know.”

Dad shoots a glance at me, then turns to face Justin. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and sighs deeply. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.” There’s a pause. “So, you’ve changed your mind? About everything, Buddy?”

Justin shrugs, but his shoulders are so tight, it’s more of a
twitch. Dad hasn’t really called him Buddy since he was ten. I wonder how Justin
feels
about that.

“It’s kind of hard to be certain of your plans when so much else in your life has changed, isn’t it?” Dr. Hoenig observes quietly.

Suddenly, it’s not funny anymore. Justin exhales and looks up at Dr. Hoenig, misery in his expression.