I’d never heard the term bigender until I was twelve. Honestly, I can’t remember if I’d ever heard it. One day I woke up and, out of nowhere, said, “I’m bigender.” Everything immediately felt right, like I’d had a massive epiphany. Simultaneously, it made me really . . . lonely. I couldn’t even find much use of the term online. Of course, the internet is full of people who identify outside of the male or female boxes. Genderqueer and genderfluid have floated around in the mainstream for a little while, but those terms never fit me. There’s a lot of crossover in those brackets, a lot of beautiful transition and blending, but for as different as I was, everything was black and white. There was no gray space. I’d wake up in the morning and know whether I was a girl or a boy. Rarely, in the middle of the day, I’d change. When that happened, it wasn’t a gradual shift. More like a light switch. Off on, on off. And almost always, that sudden shift felt bad.
But now wasn’t the time to think about that. Now was the time to play “blend in” and avoid rocking the boat so that I’d stay safe. My aunt and uncle, despite their religious views, were safe. Thou shalt not kill. Maybe I could suggest an addendum: Thou shalt not be a douchebag to thy nephew.
“What are the ground rules?” I asked.
Aunt Anne Marie looked delighted that I was talking to her. “We eat dinner together at six unless your uncle is helping a troubled parishioner.”
I wondered if “troubled” meant a depressed person or a sinner. Or were depressed people automatically considered sinners?
“If he’s late, we wait for him . . .”
Ooh, toxic patriarchy! Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!
“. . . unless he tells us ahead of time that we should eat without him, which is the case today. He’s helping out with the summer day camp over at the school.” She nodded toward a building across the way: Saint Martha Elementary. “We’ll eat without him. He’s a very busy man.”
I’m sure he is.
“Also,” Aunt Anne Marie said, “do you have a nice dress?”
Define nice dress. “Um . . . yeah? I think,” I said cautiously as the voice in my head screamed, It’s a trap. “If not, I could sew one, I guess. Why?”
“You’ll need one for Sundays, when we go to church.”
Mom’s eyes widened. “You can’t make Aleks—”
“Mass is nonnegotiable,” my aunt said. “If Alexis is going to stay here, it’s what we do. Can you imagine a priest’s niece not attending?”
Mom grumbled beneath her breath, “Unfortunately I can imagine a lot of things.”
“Do you want us to help or not?”
Mom glanced at me, like somehow she was failing even though she was trying her absolute hardest.
I touched her arm. “It’s just a dress.”
“It’s more than just a dress.”
She was right, but that wasn’t a problem for today. “Mom, really. It’s okay. I can deal.”
At least for the next few months.
Mom hesitated but then sighed. “No making Aleks say grace before meals or any of that.”
“That’d be her choice.”
I flinched. Was the emphasis on “her” intentional, or was I extra sensitive today?
When Mom called my aunt and uncle to bring up the idea of me staying there temporarily, one of the first things she said was, “Alexis is bigender. That means some of the time, they identify as female and Alexis, and some of the time they identify as male and Aleks. They’re also queer. If either of you make them uncomfortable or spout homophobic, nonbinary-phobic nonsense, I’ll rip out your throat.”
Mom could be a little theatrical sometimes. And by sometimes, I mean all the time. I had to inherit it from someone. I’m sure my aunt and uncle weren’t impressed, but I thought it was pretty damn funny. And it certainly couldn’t have sent a clearer message.
Let me give my aunt the benefit of the doubt just for today. Maybe for the next week, since there would have to be an adjustment. A learning curve.
What if it’s longer than a week? I tried to ignore the nagging worry. What if she uses only female pronouns forever?
Fake trans.
Loser.
Liar.
Aunt Anne Marie continued, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Alexis finds that this is the right path for her.”
Sure. I might also find that I enjoyed bashing my head against concrete.
Aunt Anne Marie looked at her watch. “As I said, your uncle will be working late tonight.” Was he really working late or was he deliberately avoiding Mom?
. . . or me.
“Let’s get your things to your room, get you settled, and have a little dinner. Okay?” She forced another big smile. “I’m so happy I’ll finally get to know you.”
“Sounds good,” I said, forcing some pep into my voice.
As we walked to the back of the truck, Mom latched to my side. Quietly, she said, “If you need an escape . . .”
“I’ll let you know immediately. I promise.”
“No heroics—”
I embraced my mother, cutting her off. I turned my face against her neck, trying to remember the smell of her perfume and the way her huge hoop earrings jingled. “Thank you,” I whispered. “For letting me do this.”
“I’d do anything to protect you.”
“I know.”
“Is there anything else I should be doing?”
“No, Mom. It’s not you.” It’s them, I thought. It’s their fault.
His fault.
“Aleks?” Mom asked, worried.
“I’m fine,” I said instinctively. Then, with the bravest face I could muster, I grabbed the first box.
2 Alexis
Saying goodbye was a million times harder than I thought it’d be. Partly because in the middle of unpacking, I had an unexpected gender-switch, which basically felt like the worst mood swing ever.
I took my sweet time unloading all my stuff so Mom could stay just a few more minutes. Mom had insisted I have my sewing machine, my cosplay, and all my containers of fabric. All of them. I knew she suspected I’d miss my old hobby. Even if I did miss it, I wasn’t planning on using my sewing machine again. Just the idea of it made my stomach churn. Sure, if I needed a dress for church, that was one thing. But costumes? That was part of the life I was leaving behind.
My aunt and uncle’s living space in the rectory really was like an apartment. The spare room had a futon that we folded up and tucked against one wall to fit the bed my mom had insisted on bringing. There was a decent-sized closet, enough space for me to store everything. Once all my boxes were all stacked inside, it was almost six and Mom agreed to stay for dinner. Anything to get a little more time with me.
To call the meal awkward was an understatement. The food was good, but you can only compliment someone’s cooking for about ten seconds and then you’re out of things to say. After a few minutes of silent eating, Aunt Anne Marie picked the worst possible topic for small talk. “So Alexis, are you thinking about college?”
“Um . . .”
“Arts school,” Mom jumped in. “We think there’s a good chance for scholarships.”