Now I was positive Uncle Bryan was avoiding me. “Um, okay.”
“Goodnight.” The patter of her footsteps faded away. That was my cue to quiet down for the night. My parents had never given me a curfew, although I tried to be considerate. They worked hard and I felt guilty about the times I must have kept them up with the whir of my sewing machine, the rattle against the table as the needle pierced through layers of fabric.
I had to be even more courteous here. My aunt and uncle were almost strangers. I mean, really, I hadn’t seen my uncle yet. You’d think he would’ve made an effort to welcome me into their home. What if he didn’t want me there? Aunt Anne Marie was so on edge . . . maybe that was why. Maybe she’d gone against his wishes by agreeing to take me in.
I glanced at my phone for the time. I wasn’t tired, not really, and I didn’t want to risk going online either. If I did, I’d slip. Plan on watching Netflix then get on social media instead. I’d have to face them. Countless questions—Did you move?—halfhearted, fake apologies—Sorry, so sorry—that I didn’t want to accept.
Here’s what was really devastating: For a long time I’d thought my cosplay friends were the most accepting people I’d ever met. Not that everyone at conventions was like that. Several times someone had randomly called me a commie, thanks to the features I inherited from my dad’s Russian Jewish family: medium olive-toned skin, black eyes, black hair. But I’d always gravitated toward a diverse group of people. Different colors, faiths, orientations. People who were already marginalized, who never gave anyone grief about where they belonged on the LGBTQ+ spectrum.
Except when they did.
Like when we were trying to get organized for photoshoots. Somebody, usually one of the white cis girls, would start casting us into roles. The token straight guy, the Korean beauty, the ‘oh-no-she-didn’t’ black woman, the-insert-incredibly-offensive-stereotype-here. And if you strayed from your assigned role or, God forbid, embraced intersectionality, people would push back. Come on. Be a team player. This is fantasy, it’s for fun, don’t take yourself so seriously. And are you sure you’re not really just a trans boy?
Without a second thought, I’d crawl back, ready to begin the cycle again, ready to be hurt again.
Maybe that wasn’t so bad. Was it better to have some social life with terrible people than be completely isolated?
You’re doing it again.
You can’t have it both ways.
You deserved to be hurt.
You ran. They stayed.
You deserve to be alone.
“Stop,” I said out loud, like one behavioral psychologist I saw in middle school had suggested. It didn’t really work for me though. Sometimes it made the noise worse. I’d slide my fingers through my hair, grip the back of my skull, and rock forward and backward for hours, trying not to shriek. I stopped seeing that therapist, but that habit was now rooted in my mind. Another thing I needed to stress over.
I hit the lights, trying to not think about the packed boxes of cosplay in my closet, my binder, my compression shorts, my packer. The stuff that made everyone swoon once I was dressed. Girl-me wasn’t hot. Not like boy-me. Girl-me was invisible, which I used to hate and now craved. Invisible meant no one would see me. No one would hurt me because I wasn’t pretty enough to hurt.
I had just settled in bed, not sure if I loved or hated the little nook that the frame was squeezed into, when I first heard it:
“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”
The hell? The voice in my head had never sounded like that before. It always was standoffish and cynical and just plain mean.
I got out of bed and looked around. Nothing. But the voice continued, “It has been seven days since my last confession.”
I knelt on the floor, peering under my bed. A vent was set into the wall, near the floor.
Great. Of course my new room had to be next to the confessional in the adjacent church building. I didn’t want to hear what these strangers had to say, and I really didn’t want anyone to hear what I said or did in my room. It’d go both ways.
And now, I could distinctly recognize my uncle’s voice as he asked, “What did you do?” although I hadn’t heard it in years.
I was about to get up and find some fabric to cover the vent, to muffle the noise, when the voice said, “I committed a theft.”
I froze.
“Have you done this before?”
“No. This was the first time. I didn’t want to. I—I didn’t know what else to do.”
Holy shit. I considered yelling “Thief!” at the vent but knew I never would. If I were Aleks right now I’d have the balls to do something like that. Not while I was Alexis.
“Tell me what happened,” my uncle said gently.
“I didn’t know what to do. I went over the cap on our EBT. A spaghetti dinner at the church once a month isn’t going to cut it. My kids need to eat.”
My sides ached.
“Why didn’t you ask for help?”
“I can’t do that,” the woman said, her voice wavering and rising in pitch. She was crying. “Everyone around here knows I had a career, knows my husband made a good living before he had to go on disability. They saw how I used to spend money. You know, I’ve still got my old Lexus. It’s not worth anything now but people assume. They think I’m gaming the system. Did you know grocery stores have signs everywhere saying I couldn’t even get something hot? Won’t let me buy organic. I’m given dirty looks any time I pick up anything that isn’t a bag of chips.”
“You had a tough choice to make,” my uncle said. “Unfortunately you picked the wrong one.”
Wait. Slow down. Was he berating her for trying to survive? Sure, stealing wasn’t the ideal solution, but she was backed into a corner.
“I don’t know what to do, Father.”
I must have misheard . . .
“Why not get a job?”
“I don’t even know where to start,” she said. “I haven’t worked since the kids were born and everything’s online and I don’t know what half of the jobs are anymore.”
“You can’t not try. That’d be unfair to your kids. Maybe you could work at a grocery store or a coffee shop.”
“That wouldn’t be enough to risk the Medicaid loss. I did the math. We would lose my husband’s medication. My kids wouldn’t be able to see a doctor. It’s so messed up. You can be too rich for Medicaid but too poor for a tax credit for health insurance.”
“You’re positive that would put you in that bracket?” my uncle asked. I couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was shocked or skeptical.
“I checked minimum wage. I even rounded up. I’d need something like my old job to make sure we’d be in the clear.”
My uncle was quiet for a while. “It’s not easy. God is clearly giving you a few trials, tests of faith. You should have come to us for help, but I understand that your intent was selfless. This sin can be absolved.”
“Let me atone, Father.”
As my uncle led her through a series of prayers, my heart practically shattered. I didn’t know this person, but I wanted to give them a hug. Before I could process what I was doing, I was out of my room and heading down the hall to the front door of the rectory.