Crap. In reality, I had no clue what I was going to do about college and had almost forgotten about it altogether. I’d planned to go for costume design, and I had a good shot at a few scholarships because of my costume work. Two schools were actively scouting me out, following my social media accounts, dropping hints that my work was good enough for the stage and screen.
But I wasn’t doing that anymore. Costumes. That was part of my old life. I needed to let go.
“Congratulations,” said Aunt Anne Marie.
“Yeah, well,” I mumbled, “applications aren’t due till the fall, so . . .” I trailed off with a shrug.
We muddled through the rest of the meal, and then it was time for Mom to go.
Honestly I wasn’t sure why I felt this unprepared. It wasn’t like I hadn’t said goodbye before. At the end of conventions, my friends and I used to huddle together, arms intertwined as we said, “I love you,” and kissed each other adieu. I’ll miss you. See you at the next one. See you hours later online, posting pictures of our weekend shenanigans, commenting and laughing. Falling into a post-convention funk because a weekend of pretend and living off Pocky, bananas, and soda and having eight of us crammed in a hotel room one of our parents checked us into was over and we were back to real life. Homework. School. Gym class. Tests. But soon enough there’d be another con, a reunion for our group.
This sort of goodbye with Mom was different, maybe because part of me wondered if this was it. If I wouldn’t ever go home.
♱♱♱
Although I wanted to, I didn’t call Mom right after she left. I knew if I did, she’d turn around and refuse to leave without me. I wished I could call Dad, but with him in Iraq that was also impossible.
I could deal with this on my own. I wouldn’t wear boy clothes on boy-days. I definitely wouldn’t go online unless I wanted to Skype with Mom or Dad. That way I wouldn’t be tempted to log into my social media accounts. Quiet as a caterpillar, keeping to my temporary room, that was the right path for me. That was safe. Perhaps I’d take some long walks listening to audiobooks or podcasts or some alternative rock. My aunt and uncle wouldn’t hurt me because I wouldn’t give them anything to hurt me over. They’d only recognize Alexis—girl-me, right now—or they’d see nothing, and I’d just fade into the yellow wallpaper.
They couldn’t see Aleks. I had to harness Aleks in. Boy-me would alienate my aunt and uncle within minutes even if it wasn’t deliberate.
They won’t see me, I reminded myself. I will be invisible. Considering how I looked now, my aunt and uncle could rest easy. that I wouldn’t be bringing home boys or girls or getting into trouble, like the Good Lord wanted. Ugh.
You deserve to be hurt.
But here’s the thing.
People don’t respect you enough to hurt you.
You’re so worthless, no one would bother.
No. The voice might have been right that people didn’t respect me, that I was worthless, but it was also wrong. I was hurt, and I didn’t deserve it.
I hadn’t told my parents what happened—how could I?—but it was almost like Mom knew from the way I spoke, from the way I refused to make eye contact. Almost like Dad could see it through a grainy Skype video. If I told them about the last straw, I’d have to tell them about all the other last straws. You know, the kind where you say, “This is it,” and then a few days later say, “It’s okay” because someone apologized and you felt guilty as hell because how dare you hold a grudge, and it was your fault for being such a cute boy anyway and you were cool with this as Aleks so why can’t you be cool with it now too?
No. I couldn’t burden my parents with all that. I had to do this. The shame of not leaving would’ve been unbearable, more so than the embarrassment of running away.
It could have been worse.
You don’t have the right to be upset.
Imposter.
Liar.
Fake.
A reminder every. single. day.
You’re a liar.
An attention whore.
You’re indecisive.
There’s no gray space for you here.
No gray space anywhere.
You don’t belong.
Fake.
I gritted my teeth and continued to fill my new closet, hanging clothes neatly and in order. Femme stuff on the left, masc on the right, quickly shuffle the costumes in without looking at them. If I didn’t see them, they didn’t exist. Especially that one . . .
A shoe divider rested in the center. At the bottom of it were heavy Tall Men Shoes, with the hidden height extenders constructed in the sneaker itself. At the top were my strappy heels. Not that I wore them often despite how cute and shockingly comfortable they were. Not to school, because then I’d need to change for gym. And in the summer, the heat would make my feet swell so they’d blister and hurt. Like that one time I wore heels on a date because we wouldn’t be walking far, except then we got distracted by a park, and a fountain, and a statue, and when I finally took off my shoes, I’d found pieces of skin stuck to them.
Foolish purchase.
Useless.
Pretty, but useless.
Just like you.
Only subtract the pretty.
Waste of money.
My eyes drifted to the plastic makeup organizer I’d carefully filled with fun things I’d bought on clearance. I didn’t really know how to use a lot of it. No one had taught me. Online tutorials could only do so much when one was too impatient to practice. At least I had them for a day when I’d get the guts to use them. Like my basket of hair supplies, mostly untouched, after the time I spent two hours on my hair to give it that messy-but-I’m-a-badass look and my ex-boyfriend said, “Your hair’s awful. You really need to brush it.” He gave a little smirk, a shrug, and a “sorry but it’s not the 80s” when I told him it was intentional. He was a jerk anyway. The type of guy who’d tell all of his friends when I was on my period like it was their business. Or his. Or anyone’s but mine.
My sides ached. I rubbed the skin on the inside of my hipbone. It was almost that time. I’d bleed soon. And I hoped to hell I’d be Alexis when that happened. Any time that happened when I was Aleks, I’d have uncontrollable rages, fits of self-loathing, despair because I couldn’t just take the damn testosterone and be done with that shit. If I was Alexis, it was something that happened and one day would stop, the end.
I stood on a chair to put my wig heads on the top shelf of the closet, ones with short wigs that I used to wear on boy-days. That just left a few boxes that held my cosplay and my sewing machine. They also contained my chest binders, compression shorts, and packer. I wasn’t any less boy, but I put them with the cosplay stuff because I wasn’t going to put them on again. I’d planned to leave them at home, but Mom made me take them. Be yourself, she told me. Myself was the last thing I needed to be.
“Alexis, I’m heading to bed,” Aunt Anne Marie called from behind the closed door.
“Goodnight,” I said right back.
“God bless.”
I flinched. “Um. Same?”
There was a pause. Was I supposed to open the door? The ground rules didn’t cover things like the proper way to say goodnight in this household. “Your uncle’s working late,” Aunt Anne Marie said. “He’ll be tired when he comes in. You’ll get to meet him tomorrow.”