Symptoms of Being Human (14 page)

“No.” I'm surprised at the strength of my voice. “I think I just need to sort of push through, if that's okay.”

“You bet it's okay,” Kanada says. “We're here for you.”

The group murmurs their agreement. I close my eyes and take three long breaths. I look up and glance at Bec. She nods encouragement.

“I was inspired by what Mike/Michelle said, about having to dress a certain way around her family. Such a normal thing, for us, feeling out of place. I feel that way all the time. Like I'm from some other planet, you know? Like my soul was stuffed into the wrong body and then dropped off here by mistake.”

The group responds with murmurs of assent, and Morgan nods. But Mike/Michelle narrows her eyes just a little. Her gaze is curious, but intense. I swallow. Why is she looking at me like that? I look away and try to pick up the thread of what I was saying.

“I think everybody has moments like that. It's not just us.
Everyone feels lost. Everyone is just . . . looking. Looking for somewhere to stand. For someone to stand next to.” I look at Bec. “And even though we're on the outside of everything, maybe we're the lucky ones. Because we already have that.”

Bec nods slowly, but doesn't smile. I look around the circle. Kanada is nodding, too, her mouth tight. Chris wipes at the corners of his eyes with his sleeve.

Then I glance at Solo. His head is inclined, his brow furrowed. I realize I'm holding my breath.

“I'm gender fluid.”

I hear the words echo off the concrete before I realize I've spoken them. The whole room seems to freeze in place.

For a long moment, Solo is still as a statue. Finally, he glances around the room and then leans closer, as if it's just the two of us having a conversation.

“I figured it was something like that,” he says. “I've sort of been doing homework on gender stuff.” He shakes his head. “God, I hope my mom never looks at my browser history.”

I laugh, and that seems to give everyone else permission to laugh, and they do. Bec does smile now, then turns and punches Solo's arm. A few people applaud, and Herman blows me a kiss. Kanada stands up and gives me a long-armed hug. I hug her back as hard as I can, and tears creep into the corners of my eyes. I've never been so accepted by a group of strangers—or friends, for that matter. I've never felt so . . . normal. And, other than some raw nerves—understandable after sharing something so personal—my body feels amazing. Whole. Almost like I belong in it. It's the first time I can remember not feeling a single trace of dysphoria; but, rather than exhilarating me, the
realization kind of depresses me, because I think about how much time I've spent feeling
wrong
.

When the meeting is over, a few people come up to me and congratulate me on coming out. I smile and try to be polite, but I'm sort of emotionally exhausted, and I'm sure I seem distant. Kanada stands near the refreshments table with Herman and Solo, having an animated conversation I can't hear. I look around for Morgan, but he or she must have slipped out as soon as the meeting ended. I wish I could do the same. Bec seems to sense my fatigue, because she leans in and whispers, “I'll get Solo,” then crosses the room to retrieve him.

“Hi, Riley.”

The voice comes from behind, and I turn to find Mike/Michelle walking toward me.

“Hi,” I say.

“Can we talk for a minute?”

“Sure.”

She leads me away from the ring of chairs. “I want to ask you something. But if you don't want to answer, it's okay. And I won't share this information with anyone unless you specifically ask me to. Okay?”

I don't know what she wants—but the way she's asking is making me nervous. I glance around the room to make sure no one can overhear. “Okay.”

“What you said tonight, about feeling like your soul had been stuffed into the wrong body. That was . . . very moving. It reminded me of something Alix wrote on
Hiding and Other Social Skills.
Do you know that blog?”

My breath catches in my throat. So
that's
why she cocked her head at me when I said that. She recognized it from my blog. She knows.

After a moment, she continues. “I think you're Alix. I think you're the one who responded to Andie Gingham. And I would really like to know if I'm right.”

I don't say anything, but the heat rushing up my neck tells me that my skin and my blood vessels have already spoken on my behalf.

Mike/Michelle nods. “Okay,” she says. “You don't have to say anything. This is between you and me. I am not in the business of telling other people's secrets. But I have an invitation for you. Or, maybe it's a request. You don't have to decide tonight, but I'll need your answer soon, because it's in two weeks.”

I swallow hard. “What's in two weeks?”

Mike/Michelle clasps her hands, almost like she's praying. “I'd like you to be on my panel at Trans Health Con.”

At first, I mistake the sensation that rushes through me for anxiety—but there's a hopeful edge to the feeling, a lightness instead of the usual darkness. I realize it's not panic I'm feeling; it's excitement.

“Riley, you have a gift for words. The way you write, and the way you speak—you have the ability to move people. You saw it tonight, the way the group responded to you. The way I responded. The way Andie Gingham responded.” She puts a hand on her chest. “I know you haven't come out to your parents yet, and you would probably want to do that before you spoke at the Con. I know you're only sixteen, and I know it seems like I'm asking an awful lot. But, Riley—there are so
many more Andie Ginghams out there. And they need to hear someone like you.”

I blink at her. The blood rushing past my ears sounds like an army marching on dry leaves. My mouth is dry.

Come out to my parents. Speak in public. In two weeks.

“Please consider it.”

I feel my head nod as though someone is pulling an unseen string. “I will.”

ON SATURDAY MORNING I WAKE
up to the sound of knocking on my bedroom door. I grab my phone and check the time: it's almost nine thirty.

“Riley, are you awake?” It's my dad's voice.

“I am now,” I say, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “Come on in.”

He opens the door and takes a step in. Standing there in his blue pajamas and bathrobe, he looks like a dad from some old TV show. He sips from his University of Notre Dame coffee mug and surveys my bedroom over the rim of his reading glasses as if he's never been in here before.

“I didn't know you were home,” I say.

“Got in late last night, decided to sleep in.” He walks over to my record collection and starts flipping through albums.

“How did your meetings go?” I ask.

A giant grin spreads across his face. “Better than I'd hoped. The teachers' unions are on board, and that makes a big difference. There's still a long way to go, but we might just pull this thing off.”

“And that's good for the campaign?”

“It's good either way.”

“That's awesome.” I smile at him, and he smiles back. He pulls out
London Calling
by the Clash, flips it over, and starts reading the back cover.

It's been a long time since my dad came into my room while I was still in bed—and longer since I felt so . . . I don't know,
normal
about it. I'm usually pretty self-conscious in the morning, at least until I've had a chance to read my internal compass and figure out how I want to present myself. But right now, it's not so bad. I'm already feeling extremely guyish—like the needle is all the way on M—and I tend to feel less vulnerable on guy days.

“So,” Dad says, putting the record back, “your mother and Shelly are off to some sort of baking expo and then to the spa.” He puts one finger on the turntable and gives it a spin. “And I'm going to get my lazy butt dressed and head into the office. I have a thousand emails to catch up on, then meetings this afternoon.” He glances up at me. “Want to come with me? We could get bagels.”

I can tell he really wants me to go—but I haven't spent much time alone with my father. I don't know what we'd say to each other.

“No pressure,” he says, taking an intentionally nonchalant sip of coffee. “I was just thinking you could keep me company.
Bring your laptop. Do some homework. When you get bored, Elias can take you home.” I consider. The game isn't until five thirty, and I was planning to do some reading anyway. Dad stares down into his now-empty coffee cup. “I want to pick new walk-in music for Tuesday. Something . . . different. I could use your expertise.”

As usual, he's reserved a carrot to dangle in front of me—I've been bugging him to let me pick his walk-in music since he announced his candidacy last year.

“Can we get On the Vedge instead of bagels?”

He looks up at me, and I can tell he's pleased. “You've got yourself a deal.”

An hour later, Dad's bald and burly head of security, Elias, picks us up in his black SUV. When I get in the car, he hands me a paper bag emblazoned with the On the Vedge logo. It smells amazing.

“You rule,” I say.

“Good to see you too, Riley. How's school?”

“It needs drastic reforms, Elias.”

He laughs. “To the office, Congressman?”

Dad nods. “To the office.”

Dad spends the morning behind his giant mahogany desk, catching up on emails. I sit at the small conference table by the window, trying to get through Act 2 of
The Crucible.
But, after rereading the same page three times, I give up and start clicking around the internet.

Shortly before noon, Dad stands, takes off his reading glasses, and rubs his eyes. “If I read one more email, my eyeballs
are going to pop out of my head.” He walks over to where I'm sitting, plops down in the chair next to me, and puts his feet up on the conference table.

“You're in a weird mood,” I say.

“I'm in a
good
mood. You're just not used to it.” He smiles. “So, what do you think for walk-in music?”

I bring up my list. “I figured you'd want something education-themed.”

“Good thinking.”

“How about ‘Another Brick in the Wall'?”

Dad frowns. “Isn't that the ‘we don't need your education' one?”

I smirk.

“Very funny.”

“Not safe enough? Okay. How about . . . ‘ABC' by the Jackson Five.”

He wrinkles his nose. “No, come on. That's too . . . I'm, I don't know, I'm edgier than that,” he says.

“
Edgier?
” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“Yeah. Edgier.” Dad gives me his best TV face, cocks his head at an angle, and says, “It's time for an
edgier
Orange County. I'm Sean Cavanaugh, and I approved this message.”

I roll my eyes. And then my dad emits this weird bark of laughter.

“Sean Cavanaugh,” he says in a caricature of his congressman voice, “your
edgy
-cation candidate.”

And he starts to laugh, a deep, booming chuckle, until his eyes get moist. At first, I just shake my head, but I feel a smile forming. This seems to egg my father on, because now he's
leaning forward, slapping the conference table with one hand, laughing so hard he's gasping.

“Call Shelly!” He motions helplessly at the phone. “We're changing the posters!”

Now I'm laughing, too—not a full-on belly laugh, but the closest thing I've had in a long time. It feels good—like something that's been building up inside me finally finds a vent, and the pressure lessens.

Finally, Dad manages to get control. “Okay,” he says, wiping away tears and putting his glasses back on. “Seriously. Next suggestion?”

“How about ‘School's Out' by Alice Cooper? That's your generation.”

“Wrong message,” he says. Then, he sits up straighter. “Wait . . . the Ramones!”

I frown. “Which song?”

“You know . . .” And then he sings in a horrible imitation of Joey Ramone. “Rock, rock, rock, rock, rockin' the high school!”

“Oh my God, Dad. Please don't ever do that again.”

He feigns a hurt look.

“Now I know where my lack of musical talent comes from.”

“All right, all right. But seriously, that's an upbeat song. It's sort of silly, but it's catchy, and it's education-related.”

“Um, have you ever listened to the words?” I bring up the lyrics in a new browser tab and angle the laptop toward him so he can read. He scans them, frowns.

“Wow,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “I almost pulled a Reagan.”

Oddly, I immediately picture Solo inhaling his chocolate malted. “As in President Reagan?”

Dad nods. “He used ‘Born in the USA' during his campaign. Springsteen was huge, and he thought it sounded patriotic, but it's actually a protest song. Made himself look like an idiot in front of the whole country.” Dad sits back and gazes out the window, tapping absently on the tabletop with his index finger. “I guess I'm pretty out of touch.” His voice sounds soft and uncertain, not like him at all—at least, not like any part of him I'm allowed to see. He turns his head away from the window and looks at me, and it's as if he's seeing me for the first time since I was a little kid. We sit there for a while, looking at each other. Then his eyes drop to his lap and he clears his throat—but before he can say anything, the phone rings. He reaches for the extension on the conference table.

“Cavanaugh.” He looks at me, mouths the word
edgy
, and gives me a thumbs up. I shake my head at him. “Yeah, okay,” he says, glancing down at his watch. “I'll still be here. Okay.” He hangs up. “Superintendent Clemente will be here in five. You want to stay, or . . .”

“No, that's okay. I need to head home. I'm going to the football game tonight.”

Dad raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yes, Dad, really.”

“With whom?”

“My friend Bec. We're going to go watch Solo play.”

Dad frowns, folds his arms. “Bec is a boy?”

I turn the laptop back toward me. “Bec is a girl, Dad.”

“Oh, right. So, are you two . . .”

“I don't know yet,” I say, feeling my cheeks get hot. Dad cocks his head, and I can almost see the wheels turning.

My breath quickens. Is this my opening? My moment to tell him? I don't feel ready—and yet, I've known the truth for a long time now. I've been in therapy for months. I've come out to two friends, half a dozen strangers, and the entire internet. For Christ's sake, I've been invited to speak about it publicly in two weeks. If I'm not ready now—will I ever be?

I open my mouth to speak—and then all at once, I change the subject. “You want to finish picking a song?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” Dad says. He sounds as relieved as I feel. “What else have you got?”

“Well,” I say, turning back to the screen and swallowing the lump in my throat, “this one isn't about education, not at all, really, and it's kind of weird. But it might work.”

“What is it?”

I bring up the lyrics and turn the laptop back toward him.

“‘Changes.' David Bowie.”

He pulls the computer closer and scrolls down, reading. A faint smile turns up the corners of his mouth—it's the same smile I have—and he nods.

“It's perfect.”

The phone bleeps, and Elias's voice comes through the speakerphone. “Congressman, Superintendent Clemente is here.”

“I'll be right out,” he says, and punches the hang-up button. He turns back to me, folding his hands. “Okay, well. Thanks for the song.”

“Don't thank me. Thank Mr. Bowie.”

We stand, and he waits till I've packed up my laptop and tossed my copy of
The Crucible
into my bag. Then I follow him through the door into the outer office.

“Felicia,” he says, striding across the small lobby and extending his hand. I walk behind him.

“Good to see you back on the home front, Congressman,” she says. She's tall, and the heels she's wearing make her even taller than my father; I can only see her shiny black hair over the top of his head. I step out from behind my dad, and the superintendent looks from him to me with a bright smile. “And this must be your . . .” She pauses for a split second—but in that time, I see her smile falter just slightly.

Dad, being the consummate politician, jumps in a millisecond later, defusing the awkward moment with his usual charm. “Riley,” he says, “this is Superintendent Clemente. She's here to hold me accountable for all my campaign promises.”

She recovers her smile immediately, but I know my dad noticed.

“Nice to meet you, Superintendent Clemente,” I say. We shake hands. Her grip is weak.

Dad turns to me. He smiles, but it's that no-teeth smile, and his eyes have gone distant. It's as though I've already left the room, or as though he wishes I had. The warmth of the last few minutes evaporates.

“Have a good time at the game, Riley. Be safe. Text before you head home.”

“Okay,” I say, and then Elias ushers me out of the office, and the door closes behind us.