Symptoms of Being Human (23 page)

“You like their fries.”

“A teen of indeterminate gender cannot live by fries alone.”

“Wait,” Solo says. “So we can joke about this now?”

I shake my head. “
I
can joke about this. You must remain neutral and respectful at all times.”

Bec snorts.

“That's totally unfair,” Solo says. “You're a rich white kid, why can't I make fun of you?”

“I don't make the rules, Solo. I just represent.” I pound my chest with a fist.

Solo laughs. “So be it.”

DAD COMES HOME EARLY,
citing a long day of campaigning ahead of him tomorrow—he looks absolutely beat. My mom, who took the day off to go event-hopping with him, looks pretty wiped out herself. I
know
she's tired when she announces that Shelly will be dropping off Thai food at six.

Dinner conversation is light, and I only pick at my vegetable
pad see ew
; I'm too amped up to eat. Finally, I push the Styrofoam container away.

“Mom, Dad?” They look up at me. I take a deep breath. “There's something I want to do. But, it's kind of big, and I don't want to do it unless you're okay with it.”

They exchange interested looks.

“All right,” Dad says. “Tell us.”

So I do. I tell them about Mike/Michelle's invitation to speak on the panel at Trans Health Con tomorrow, and how
Casey's coming out today inspired me to do more than just blog about what I've been through.

When I'm done, Dad loosens his tie and clears his throat.

“Riley,” he says, “I don't know about this. You'd be obliterating your privacy.”

I meet his eye. “Dad, I've spent the last week holed up in my room, avoiding the TV, hardly even going on the internet. We've disconnected our home phone. Reporters stake out the house. You have to sneak out through the side yard and get picked up in a rental car. Our ‘privacy' is sort of over.” He exchanges a dark look with my mom. I continue before they can interrupt. “You always say the best leaders figure out how to turn a bad situation to their advantage. When life gives you gators, you make Gatorade. Remember?”

I watch his face for some sign—and after a moment, I'd swear he's trying to suppress a smile. I think I may have won him over. My mom's face, on the other hand, is tight with concern, so I turn my attention to her. “I feel like if I can talk about it—about coming out, and my situation . . . maybe it will help me process all of this. And give it a positive meaning, instead of just being a sad story about something that happened to me.”

Mom lets out a long sigh, reaches up like she's going to chew her cuticle, then folds her hands.

I go on. “I think about what Bec will say if I just hide from all this. And my friends at the Q. Andie Gingham. Casey Reese. The fifty thousand people who follow my blog.”

Dad says, “I know you feel accountable to your community. And that's admirable. But you don't owe it to them. You don't owe it to anyone.”

I look up at him. “I owe it to me.”

Finally, Mom speaks, her voice heavy with worry. “It's just so
soon
.”

I shake my head. “The timing is right. The election, the assault, it's all still in the news. I have this little window of time when I can talk into a big microphone. This is my chance to speak up for other people like me.”

Mom looks at me. Her eyes are getting moist. Dad puts his hand on hers and says, “Sharon? What do you think?”

She shakes her head. “You are your father's child, Riley.”

On Saturday morning—the day of the conference—I stand in front of my closet, staring at the palette of faded black and blue clothes hanging inside. The only brightly colored thing in here is a yellow T-shirt I've never worn, crammed way in the back. For the first time, I understand what my mother has been complaining about since I was a kid: my wardrobe has all the color of a week-old bruise.

Mom is sitting on the couch in the living room reading one of her guilty pleasures, a bodice-ripper romance novel. When I enter the room, she looks up from her book, embarrassed like a kid caught watching an R-rated movie.

“You startled me,” she says, closing her book. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Everything's good. I was just wondering . . . I was wondering if you'd take me shopping?”

I've never seen my mother get into a car so quickly in my life.

When we walk out of Nordstrom two hours later, both of us are smiling like we've won the lottery. The outfit I end up with is, as my mother put it, very
me
: a simple white dress shirt with a blue tie—darker than my dad's cornflower blue, but not by much. Below that, I chose a dark green tartan fabric with thin blue lines running through the plaid. It hangs just above the knee and lands somewhere in the middle of the skirt/kilt continuum. On my feet: a brand-new pair of blue sixteen-hole Doc Martens. The outfit is part punk rock, part Catholic schoolgirl, part prep-school lacrosse guy.

I love it. I absolutely adore it. I want to marry it and make babies with it.

Solo and Bec are late picking me up for the conference.

“I couldn't find Bullet Head,” Solo says.

“You've been there,” Bec says. “And it's Bullet
Hole
.”

Solo throws up his hands. “Well, that's why. I was looking for a sign with a head on it.”

“The sign does have a head on it, you nincompoop. A head with a
bullet hole
in it.”

Solo frowns. “Did you just use the word ‘nincompoop'?”

“I'm reviving the Dickensian insult movement.”

“There is no Dickensian insult movement.”

“Then I'm starting one.”

“Hey, guys,” I say, “I hate to interrupt. But, Bec, could you please let me ride shotgun? I don't want to puke in the Solo-mobile.” My stomach is already churning at the thought of walking into the conference. And, truth be told, the tingling from this morning hasn't really gone away. On top of that,
despite my upped dosage, the buzzing in the back of my head keeps getting louder. In short: I'm a wreck.

Solo reaches across Bec's lap to unlock her door. He fixes her with a triumphant glare. “Be gone, thou scruffy-looking nerf herder.”

Bec gives him a sour look. “That's not even . . . who
are
you?” Carefully, she opens the battered car door.

She's evened out her choppy hair into a smooth buzz cut that actually looks good on her. She's got her jean jacket on over a T-shirt that features a glittery, prancing unicorn; I'm not sure if she's wearing it out of a sense of irony, or if it's her attempt to balance out her new hairdo with something more feminine.

When she gets out of the car, she glances at me, and then does a double take.

“Wow,” she says. “You look . . . extremely hot.”

I blush with the fire of a thousand suns.

The parking lot is packed when we arrive a few minutes past two o'clock, so Solo drops us off in front and says he'll meet us inside. Bec and I turn our faces down against the strong autumn wind and walk side by side toward the entrance.

The convention center is a massive, looming glass structure the size of a football stadium. The closer we get to the front doors, the shallower my breath becomes; I can't stop imagining all the people inside. All those eyes looking at me. The tingling in my hands spreads up my arms. I take deep Doctor Ann breaths—I have to fight this. I need to be at my best today. It's important.

But the breaths don't help. The tingling radiates through my body, and tunnel vision starts to close in; I'm losing control. My feet go numb. I catch my toe on a seam in the concrete and stumble.

Bec catches me before I can fall, grabbing me by the shoulders with surprising strength, holding me steady. She leads me toward a ring of trees off to one side; there's a green metal bench in the center. My heart is pounding in my chest, my vision blurred.

Bec doesn't ask if I'm okay. She doesn't tell me there's nothing to be afraid of. She just guides me to the bench, puts a hand on my back, and says, “Breathe.” She takes my hands in hers and looks into my eyes, but I can't seem to focus on her. The wind picks up and parts the canopy of leaves overhead. For a split second, the sun peeks through, flashing in my eyes, bright and angry. Like a camera flash. Like a sodium lamp.

Like the headlight of a truck.

And all at once I'm there again. I feel their hands holding me down, feel the pressure against my back.

Somewhere in the distance, Bec's voice says, “Stay with me.”

But I can't. I can't stay. I have to go. I withdraw. My face is numb. My face is numb. The world shrinks to a pinprick.

Far away, I feel Bec grip my shoulders. She pulls me into her arms.

I feel her hands on my back, holding me, and I start to thrash, but she only hugs me tighter. I struggle for a moment—but when I know she isn't going to let go, I stop. I feel my body go slack.

She holds me. Not forcing; containing. Stilling.

My heartbeat slows. My breathing becomes more even. My face is pressed against Bec's shoulder. It's wet.

After a long time, she pulls away and looks at me. Her face slowly comes into focus: elfin ears, high cheekbones, strong nose—and those eyes. Those lightsaber-blue eyes. She takes my hand again, brushes the tips of my fingers with her own.

The tingling is gone.

I feel a sensation in my stomach—not the uncomfortable twisting from before, but the fluttering of butterfly wings. Bec's face is strong, set. There's concern in her eyes, but no panic. The butterflies in my stomach rise. I lean closer. My eyes drift down to her mouth, her thin lips set in a straight line. The metal ring in her lower lip twitches.

“Riley, it's too soon.”

“It's okay,” I whisper.

And I lean in.

I'm only an inch away when she stops me with a hand on my chest, and I feel my heart dive into my stomach. Bec sees the expression on my face and shakes her head.

“It's not like that,” she says.

Shame and confusion well up inside me.

“I'm not stopping you because I don't want us to kiss,” she says.

I want to reply, but no words come.

“I'm stopping you because I want it to be like
this.
”

She takes my hand, places it over her heart. Hers is beating fast too, and I can feel her breath quicken at my touch. And then she smiles that crooked half smile, grips my shirt in her
fist, and pulls me into a kiss.

Her lips are firm. The metal of her lip ring feels cold and solid against my skin. She puts her hand on the side of my face, brushing her thumb across my cheek. A swirling dizziness replaces the tingling in my head, then spreads through the rest of me. And then, it's as if a bank of stadium lights comes on behind my eyelids—but it's a good brightness. A warm brightness. And I don't flinch from it.

There's a soft sound, and our lips come apart. Bec leans her forehead against mine.

“I've been wanting to do that for a long time,” she says.

I keep my eyes closed. I don't want that brightness to go away. “I thought you liked the scruffy lumberjack type. Like your drummer.”

Bec laughs. “Don't be stupid. I don't have a type. I have standards.”

I open my eyes and look into hers. “And I meet them?”

“You
are
them.”

I start to reply, but she puts a finger to my lips. “We can talk about all this later. Right now, your public awaits.”

MIKE/MICHELLE AND KANADA ARE WAITING
for us outside the conference hall. Kanada actually lifts me off my feet when she embraces me, and Mike/Michelle follows with a more subdued hug. Solo and Bec wish me good luck, then head in to find seats.

When the door has closed behind them, Mike/Michelle turns to me, her expression serious. “Riley, listen, there's—”

“Don't worry about me,” I interrupt. “I'm okay. I'm ready.”

“I don't doubt you for a moment,” she says. “But you need to know that the room is packed with reporters and photographers.”

“I know,” I say, “I invited them.”

Mike/Michelle frowns. For a moment, I think she's going to be angry—but then she says, “You couldn't possibly have called every news station in the greater Los Angeles area all by yourself.”

I shrug. “Didn't have to. I figured they'd all be checking my blog—so I just posted the time and the address.”

Kanada throws back her head and laughs. “My, my,” she says. “Somebody just out-Mike/Michelled Mike/Michelle.”

I smile. “Sorry for the surprise.”

“Don't apologize,” Mike/Michelle says. “We'll take all the attention we can get.” Her smile falters, and she grips my arm gently. “I'll do my best to keep it civilized in there. But once the Q and A starts, I won't be able to control them.”

I remember the storm of reporters outside the hotel last week—was it only last week? The cameras flashing, the din of raised voices, the press of arms and elbows, the microphones being thrust at me as I tried to push my way through. I feel my heart beat in my throat again.

I look from Kanada to Mike/Michelle, and then I walk to the doors and push them open.

I'm staring into the biggest conference hall I've ever seen in my life. You could park a 747 in here—and yet, a claustrophobic dread settles in on me as five hundred people turn in their seats like attendees at a celebrity wedding. There's a pause as reporters and conference-goers alike try to identify me. Finally, someone yells, “Alix!”

And then the flashes start going off.

Kanada takes me by one arm, Mike/Michelle by the other. Reporters call out questions as we make our way down the aisle—but there are legitimate attendees in the crowd too, shouting encouragement. I spot one conference-goer with dyed-green hair holding up a sign that reads “We Love You, Alix!” Another throws a lei of plastic flowers in my direction as I walk past.

The whole gang from the Q is here—even Morgan, who's still wearing that same green flight jacket. I spot Casey Reese, too, standing just across the aisle. He makes a point of gesturing to his hair, which he's spiked into a fauxhawk, and gives me two thumbs up; I smile at him.

Bec and Solo are seated about five rows from the front. Bec waves, but Solo looks concerned, half standing as though he might plunge into the aisle and start clearing the crowd—but Bec pulls him back into his seat.

There's a stage at the front of the room with a long banquet table and a lectern packed with microphones. I take my place between the two panelists already seated at the table—a tall man in a loud green shirt and an older woman with a wispy gray ponytail. Kanada finds a seat in the front row, and Mike/Michelle takes the podium.

“Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to ‘Building LGBTQ Communities Online.' Today we're going to explore—” But she's interrupted as the first reporters sound off.

“Riley, how do you think your coming-out will affect your father's campaign?”

“Do you feel responsible for the—”

Mike/Michelle pounds a fist on the lectern and it booms through the sound system with a squeal of feedback. “Folks, this is a panel, not a press conference. I would ask you to kindly hold your questions until the end.”

As the panel goes on, I struggle to keep my breathing under control. Every time a flash goes off, I jump a little in my chair; I wish I'd thought to ask Doctor Ann for an extra Xanax.
Mike/Michelle mediates, and I'm grateful that she poses most of the questions to the other two panelists: The man in the neon shirt is a professional lobbyist, and the older woman runs the biggest gay and lesbian newsletter in the United States. I field a few of the questions, trying to answer as best as I can, but I feel like a child next to these two older, more qualified experts. But, eventually, my turn comes.

“How did you approach building your own online community?” Mike/Michelle asks, and looks at me as if I have some kind of expertise to offer.

“Um, it sort of happened by accident,” I say. I'm totally serious, but it gets a big laugh, reminding me vaguely of my “gymnastics scholarship” moment at Dad's fund-raiser. “My doctor told me to start an anonymous blog as part of therapy. And then the Andie Gingham story broke, so mostly it was out of my hands. I guess I just tried to be real, and give the advice I'd want someone to give me.” Mike/Michelle gives me a tender smile, and then the other two panelists cut in with a bunch of jargon about SEO and other things I don't really understand.

With about ten minutes left—I'm watching the clock on my phone, counting down the minutes—Mike/Michelle steers the conversation off-topic. She looks down at her cards, seems to consider, and then sets them aside and looks at me.

“What would you say to someone who claims that nonbinary gender identities aren't real? What do you think of people who say: man or woman, that's all there is, pick one?”

I glance into the audience. A few flashes go off. “I don't know,” I say. “People are complicated. And messy. Seems too convenient that we'd all fit inside some multiple-choice question.”

Finally, Mike/Michelle invites us to make our closing statements. The newsletter woman goes first, then the lobbyist in the neon shirt—and then it's my turn. Hands shaking, I unfold a printout of something I wrote late last night. I shouldn't be so nervous—it's basically a blog post—but the thought of reading it out loud makes my face tingle. As I read, I avoid making eye contact, and I stumble over my words quite a bit—but I think it comes off okay.

“I wish I had some all-encompassing wisdom to give you. Or to give myself. You know? Because I've been through a lot, and it hurts. I want everything I've been through to make sense. I want the pain to have meaning. I want it to change something.” I look out into the crowd and find Bec. Her eyes are wide and serious, and she never takes them off me. “But the truth is, feelings don't change anything. To change something, you have to say things out loud. Do things. Take chances. Take a stand.” I pause, and when I clear my throat, it echoes through the PA. “So, this is the stand I'm taking: I'm not going to hide anymore.”

The room is quiet for a second, and then the crowd starts to applaud. I have to wipe at my eyes with my sleeve.

When Mike/Michelle finally opens the panel to questions from the audience, the room explodes in cacophony. The media, who have managed to keep their silence for the last thirty minutes, all start yelling questions at once. Mike/Michelle pounds on the lectern like a courtroom judge, but they ignore her.

In the midst of all the shouting, one of the doors in the back of the hall opens partway, and a man slips in. He's tall, and wears a blue baseball cap over dark aviator sunglasses. Avoiding
the center aisle, he makes his way down the side of the big room and finds an empty seat at the end of the sixth or seventh row. I look closer and see that there's gold writing on his blue cap; it's the University of Notre Dame logo.

It's my dad.

My heart swells in my chest, and I can't stop tears from leaking down the sides of my face. I wipe them away quickly and smile at him. He nods in reply, then he sinks down in his chair to disguise his height.

I glance around to see if anyone else has noticed his arrival, but if they have, they don't appear to recognize him. Mike/Michelle walks over to my chair and leans down to talk in my ear.

“We should just end it now and escort you out of here. The Q and A is a joke. They're not going to stop yelling.”

I shake my head. “Let me talk to them.”

To my surprise, Mike/Michelle nods and steps aside. I stand up and make my way to the podium.

At first, the noise swells, and a fireworks show of flashes pops across my vision. I hold up my hand to shield my eyes.

“Hey,” I say into the cluster of microphones. “Hey, can everybody quiet down?”

Slowly, the din of shouting ebbs. I glance at Mike/Michelle, and she gestures for me to go on. I turn and look out at the hundreds of faces gathered in the hangar-sized hall. Here and there, a flash goes off. I grip the sides of the lectern. I look down at Morgan and the group of Q members seated at the front of the house. My eyes move to Solo's massive presence a few chairs behind. To Bec, smiling that half-smirk smile, her blue eyes burning up at me from the fifth row. I look at my
father, hunched down in his chair, watching me intently. He lifts his hand so that it's level with his chest, then extends his pinkie and index fingers, making rock 'n' roll devil horns. I smile at him. Then I take a long, deep Doctor Ann breath, and close my eyes.

To my surprise, it's not a black void that appears behind my eyelids, but a familiar, comforting light. I picture a blackboard suspended in it. I dip my brush into the surrounding light and begin to paint, erasing the cold blackness bit by bit, replacing it with warm, bright light. I get all the way to the far edge, until there's only a sliver of black remaining—

And I reach up with my brush and paint it white.